Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

The Art of Using What You Have

2014-04-02_bench distantThis isn’t poetry or fine photography. But it’s art all the same, though it’s not mine.

This did start with pencil and paper. The Bohemian and I by lamp light, sketching out our garden plot. I was thinking of a resting place by our would-be vegetables. Somewhere to take a load off. And then I remembered that we were yet to figure out what to do with the downed Ironwood tree.

We’d taken all of the branches that could easily be cut with a chainsaw, and chopped them up into firewood. But the largest part of the trunk was huge, and too big to be put in a chipper for mulch.

Any chance we could use it to make a bench?

Inspired, chainsaw in hand, the Bohemian went to work, slicing the trunk in half and creating these beautiful, solid benches.

I don’t know exactly why, but simply gazing upon them makes me happy. Sitting on them is just plain dreamy.

I love functional art!

2014-04-02_bench close

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Furl

 

Often, we fix our gaze on the vibrant display of wide-open, full-bloom.
But I also love the furl.

The beauty found in the delicate creases that come with a flower unfolding.

This one, a hibiscus, given to me by my son, Jeb, on a morning walk.

2014-04-01_hibiscus stem

2014-04-01_hibiscus petal

 

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

I (Heart) My Husband

He sweats for eight hours, caring for hundreds of trees and making medicine from their fruit. When he’s done, he comes home and shovels. Turns hard ground to make way for a family garden.

When a ten-year old asks him to pause and play soccer, he’ll spear the spade in the loose soil and give a hearty game. Run the field. Make and block goals. Laugh.

I’ve seen middle-aged ladies in mini-vans with bumper stickers that read, “I love my husband.” A pronouncement so conventional and ordinary, I’ve wondered why anyone would glue it to the body of their vehicle and drive about.images

But now I’m married. And at 40, I’m officially ‘middle-aged.’ I may not have a mini-van, but there he is. Washing dishes at the sink. Replacing rusty screws on my license plate. Whistling some soothing tune through his lips, all the while. So often he opts for “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

And here I am. This wife who’s ready to find her decal and proclaim her gratitude to the world. Never having thought that ordinary could feel so rare.