Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Love Harvest

Just when finances are feeling tight, the gods (goddesses, angels, et al) smile down on my worrisome human head.

A Sunday with Mary bestows abundant gifts.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

There are the tender roselles, freshly picked, for making vibrant, sweet red tea. A pile of sun-kissed tangerines from the valley below. Kale, arugula, basil, green beans.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

The chard’s so large it grows up to my thighs. Enamored, I take a macro lens to the stalk and veins. I’m a palm reader, tracing the lines that zig and zag through chlorophyl valleys, holding life keys of photosynthesized destiny. I am in love with this Nature art.

And still there’s more!

The honey pour. There remains a batch of thick, golden nectar harvested from the hive on Beltane. Mary pours the 5 gallon jug through the funnel into my one gallon glass jar. We marvel at the beauty of the honey bee. Wax poetic on the gift of spreading the ambrosia of flower essence on our toast. How many people in the world have seen a 5 gallon jug of honey? It takes muscle to wrestle this treasure.

If I were to tell the whole truth, I’d admit that the last time we poured this honey, I was jumping over the fire in ritualistic prayer. Holding Beltane visions for the Fall. Deep in my heart were scenes set on an Italian coastline, my hands warming by some stone hearth in October seaside mist. A thick rug beneath my feet, the Swiss Traveler by my side. Infinite possibilities stretching out as deep and ancient as the Ligurian sea.

This autumn I’m still here at home. And after all these riches are loaded in the car, we gather around the backyard fire and eat an Italian meal. Manigotti and homemade bread. My feet warm by the flames. Occasional sparks fly toward my toes. The moon – almost full – is rising above the heads of these close friends, my family.

I am far from Cinque Terra. The Swiss Traveler is on another journey. But the terra firma beneath me is fertile, yielding love disguised as honey, chard and citrus.

Tonight in firelight there is not disappointment. Only curiosity. Contemplation of the essence of all things.

What’s at the heart? What really shapes these objects: flicking sparks, moonlit shadows, the sticky nectar I lick into my bloodstream?

It’s all love I’m harvesting. And it’s filling up the passenger seat of my car.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Beltane Honey

It’s time for the honey pour.

Five gallons of golden sweetness is rolled out of storage, the funnel set in place, and the thick, rich nectar begins to fall.

This is the stuff of local flowers.  Our friends down the street have an apiary.  The tropical flora here is plentiful and these bees are inspired.  This five gallons is a small portion of the fruit of their labor.

Jeb holds the funnel while Mary pours.  But I know what he’s waiting for.  And when she’s done gifting me with a gallon of flower power, he lifts the dripping funnel to his mouth and lets the sticky sweet roll down his chin.

“This was harvested May 1st,” Mary says.

“Ahh!”  I say.  “Beltane honey.”

“That’s right.”

courtesy of the The Center for Oneness

Jeb’s the epitome of summer.  Barefoot and bare-chested on a sunset lawn, licking honey fingers, one by one.

I flash back on the Beltane fire we had right in this backyard.  How we jumped across the flames and made our wishes.  How at evening’s end I had a moment alone with embers, bridging time and space.

On a night that marked the mid-point between Spring and Summer, I could sense the future feel of Fall.  I knew I was sowing seeds that would be harvested in Autumn.  At what hearth would I be standing come that time?   Would those wishes pressed to starlight, fanned by Beltane flames of promise, have come real?

Right now, we’re deep in July.  The Dahlia’s in the garden are full bloom.  The basil grows thick.  We make popsicles from purple lilikoi in the freezer.

At sunset we gather kindling for the fire.  Lick the smooth, glass edges of a gallon jar of honey.

courtesy of alsjhc
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Bridging Fire

As the morning light comes on before 6am these days, I’m finding myself scrambling to keep up with time.  Yesterday I may have walked leisurely on a plush red carpet, but that was Sunday.

Monday morning I’m back on the highway, my day scheduled until nightfall.

Still I remind myself to breathe.  Come here as a gesture, if nothing else.  That this life is still mine.  This half an hour before breakfast can be my place for words, thoughts and feelings.

I can quickly type out a moment from last night’s Beltane fire.  No amorous running through the woods or sightings of the May Queen (unless she was peeking from the nearby garden).  Just time with friends around a back yard fire, built by Jeb with our neighbor.  We each fanned the flames in our own style.  Added twigs under the stars.

I calmed my nerves to open and let Jeb jump across the blaze, not once but probably at least ten times.  His belly full of post-Easter jelly beans, he was wild with the passion.  Excited but intent, leaping with plenty of clearance.

After a series of jumps he came to me to whisper all of his wishes.  His warm, moist words heaving dreams inside my ear, coating my cheek with sugar-sweet, seven-year old desires.

They fell from his mouth in delighted sighs:  “I wish that I could be a ninja…that the world was made of candy…that I could speak Japanese…I wish that the sky would rain hot dogs…and I wish that you would live forever and never die.”

As the evening came to an end, the fire was left to burn alone.  Before heading home, I wandered to the embers.  Let the warmth of the coals fill my hands.  Looked up at the stars.  A wind chime in the hibiscus sounded individual notes with deep resonance, as the slightest breeze played a slow and deliberate song to the night.

I thought ahead to Fall, when I would be living the harvest time.  Days reaping the intentions of what this season sows.  I could imagine my hands warming by an autumn fire in a different place and time.  For a moment I was the bridge, glowing red-orange heating my palms.  Two fires in two times, two places.  And me, the in-between.

I may not know exactly where I’ll be.  But come Fall, I know there will be a moment, as I stand before flames, the weather colder, the days shorter.  And I’ll remember the wind chime’s song on the first night of May on a tropical island.  There at that future fire, I will consider all that has transpired.  Reflect on what was sown.  Know more of what has grown.  I hope to live that moment.

These rituals rely on future.  My human way, can’t help it.  Pretending that I will live forever.