The Bohemian continues to amaze me with his determination, as he opens up space on our back hillside. He takes out scattered invasive trees, making room for two large Banyans to stretch their limbs. Nothing will go to waste.
He’s holding a vision for terraced gardens and meandering paths back there. Anything cut is “organized” and stacked into strategic piles, as he shapes future growing beds.
In the clearing, he’s discovered multiple saplings seeking light. Two citrus trees, two mangos, an avocado tree, and many sprouting coconuts. He even found a fruiting pineapple. Our guess? Past inhabitants of our house must have chucked fruit remains off the deck, over the hillside, and into the trees. A few strong ones survived and persevered. Seeds and pits took hold.
The Bohemian’s opening it up. Offering some room to grow, letting in the light.
A plant of many names (Air Plant, Life Plant, Miracle Leaf), it has found a home in areas of Hawaiian jungle, and was propagated by me in a pot in my back yard. I’ve also heard it called “Mother Plant,” a name stemming from its easy ability to reproduce itself through multitudes of miniature plantlets that form on its leaves.
In my book, For the Archives, Volume 1: Love and Motherhood, the above photo accompanied the final vignette titled, “Taking a Pause with Peanut Butter Breath.” It chronicles an ordinary moment steeped in the bittersweet of deep Mother love.
In honor of Mother’s Day (May 11), I’m posting the “Peanut Butter Breath” post below.
I’m also highlighting the Mother Plant as my note card of the week, available at my Love Letters Press Etsy shop.
Here’s to Mother Earth, first and foremost. And to all the Mothers of the world, in their myriad of names and ways. Thanks, Mom.
October 28, 2011
Taking a Pause with Peanut Butter Breath
Dinner’s done, dishes washed, laundry folded, bed sheets changed.
Jeb’s completed his assigned 15 minutes of silent reading. It’s twenty minutes til bedtime and we still have drills and study for tomorrow’s geography, spelling and math tests.
He’s taking a pause, stretched out on my big bed.
He looks at me and pats beside him, “Mom, just come here for a minute.”
Seeing the hesitation on my face, he says with more earnestness, “Come on, I need this.”
Skeptics may suspect he’s trying to wriggle out of the multiple choice questions about his map of Nebraska. I don’t care. He’s thirty days shy of eight, and Jeb’s not going to be asking to cuddle up with me forever. Maybe I need this too.
I settle in at his side and he wraps his arms around me, throwing one long leg over mine.
We’ve been curling up like this since that first day when he moved from my womb to rest his wet cheek on my heart. All the days and nights. Each time our bodies found this comfort spot between us, familiar and grooved.
Except that his shape just keeps changing. The plump toes that used to graze my belly button, now stretch out towards my ankles. And that koala-bear body I could scoop up with one arm to adhere upon my hip, is sixty-five pounds and gaining. Nowadays, if Jeb falls asleep in the car, I have to wake him and walk him up the stairs.
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
He gave up on me fifteen pounds back, but these days even the big guys in his life repeat the mantras.
“You’re getting too big now!”
“You’re heavy, I can’t lift you up anymore!”
“Whoa, you’re getting strong…be careful when you wrestle!”
But tonight, there is no rough house. Tonight Jeb asked for pause with me. He’s sidled up in my arms and as I embrace his frame I am amazed to find him delicate. He seems so small. Long, thin arms are hinged toothpicks. His fingers that trace my forehead, feathers. It feels as if I squeeze him too tightly he could break.
His eyes keenly scan my skin, noticing freckles and a scratch on my shoulder.
I feel the shape and weight of him within my arms. I soak in the delicacy of his boyish precipice. I am entwined in his limbs, these appendages that grew within me, cell by cell. This will all soon disappear.
In this, I am alone. He will never know.
Because I smile the mother’s smile. The one that holds the bittersweet. That we love with all our hearts. Body. Soul. Give to let it grow. One day the children will not need us. And this is what we want.
“Can you choke when you’re learning to swallow vitamins?”
His random question is close to my face. His breath, warm and without boundaries, exhaling peanut butter and honey sandwich across my cheeks. For a moment, I think to turn away, but catch myself. Then breathe it in a little deeper.
Creating these cards makes me smile. Sharing them with you brings me happiness. Knowing that you may pass them on to someone you love, well, that’s just a beautiful thing.
All cards are hand-made, with care, on recycled paper.
A few days ago, the lid was lifted from the cowry-decorated letter box, filled with my collection of favorite letters from special people. For days, I’ve been passing by the air mail envelope sitting on top, author not revealed.
This morning, I slide it out and flip to read the sender. It’s only her first name in the upper left hand corner, as my life-long friend was backpacking through Costa Rica and had no return address to offer.
Eleven, hand-written pages, front and back, torn out from a travel-sized spiral notebook. I read the words 17 years later, her careful cursive penmanship, ever-familiar. She’s at some vegetarian cafe, traveling for weeks on a budget, sweating in the humidity and hammocks. The frozen yogurt in the nearby cooler is tempting her as she writes.
She is mourning the separation from one of her greatest loves (he is not the one she will eventually marry). She is listening to Rickie Lee Jones on a Walkman and writing to me of her eight mile hike through the jungle with a “monkey researcher,” which landed her in a desolate locale, surviving on plain pasta and dry bread for days.
Her words stay in the lines, but edits are added with small inserts, sometimes accompanied by smiley faces. She adds random hearts by a phrase, underscores and capitalizes special points. Her signature sketches itself outside the lines, moving diagonally across the bottom of the last page.
Wrapped up in this air-mail package, is an essence. I can almost smell the palm fronds steaming in the Costa Rican sun. Her hearts and smiley faces, hand drawn, long before emoticons existed. In this letter, I feel my friend – even as I read it now, nearly two decades later.
These days, I’m an active participant in cyber communications. I appreciate the multitude of boons it offers. But I do miss the era when I was a much more avid letter-writer, sharing mail with good friends.
Letter-writing entails taking a pause. Stopping long enough to put pen to paper and share. It’s no text message on the go. No email sent from your smart phone. It’s a true gift of time and reflection.
And when you receive that letter, it’s not a glance to a screen. You stop. You sit down. You open it. Inhale the scent of paper mixed with ink and postal carrier bags. You read words written that have no official font name. You soak in the story that was penned just for you.
I have folders of archived digital communications on my laptop. Filed away are some great words exchanged, some real email gems. But they’re lost in the hard drive. Ethereal in nature, untouchable. Filed by subject in orderly lines, homogeneous and easily forgettable.
But those letters wrapped up in that red ribbon, now those I can hold. I can literally feel their heart and soul, inside jokes, broken hearts, and wishes all burning to come true. Those letters are infused with moments intentionally carved by human hands, recording what was real and bursting. Hand delivered at the post, using spare change to buy the stamps.
For the Archives 