Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Of Whistles and Folds and Saints

Two years ago, it was paper airplanes, ginger tea, and butterflies in my stomach. I was falling in love fast with the man making precise origami folds at my kitchen table, while whistling “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

Over the course of a month, I’d been quietly spending time with the Bohemian. In the rare free moments I had away from seven-year old, Jeb, I wandered in the bamboo and swam in the ocean, with this free-spirited soul who had a foreign name and the warmest hugs. Each time he exited my door, leaving his cornucopia offering of guavas, avocados, and lilikois, I braced myself to never see him again. I’d been broken before. I readied myself for the inevitable goodbye by weaving it into our hellos. Hence, I told no one of the Bohemian, especially Jeb.

Until the paper airplanes (see “In the Fold”).

I don’t know what changed. Jeb and I were fresh from Halloween costume shopping, the ritual I’d done with him, alone, for years. He had his wand and glasses, all set for Harry Potter magic. We were home and and I was at the kitchen sink, readying for dinner. Oh, how I wanted to see the kind face of the Bohemian again. And oh, how I feared that the love that was blossoming in my heart would swiftly destroy me in its eventual leaving.

Surges of raw tenderness coursed through my every heartbeat, pumping fresh feeling to the limbs that sliced cheese for Jeb’s snack, took the trash to the curb. I was under the influence, but couldn’t say it. A woman in love, who was petrified. But just brave enough (or foolishly wild from the love drug) to chance it.

Looking back, the only thing that changed was my willingness to risk. I had already surrendered to my own demise. I was prepared to suffer the consequences of my heart’s undoing. But I had been standing guard when it came to Jeb. Introducing my son to the Bohemian meant the gates were opening. And that was definitely scary.

So I kept it all quite casual, of course. Rinsing dishes there at the sink. Talking on the phone with the Bohemian.

Yes, we got a costume. No, I’m not sure what I’ll be for Halloween. Yes, it is a beautiful afternoon. No, we don’t have any more plans for today.

“Hey, would you like to come over for dinner at our house tonight?”

No matter how relaxed I tried to make it sound, we both knew it was more than a dinner invitation.

“Sure. Why not?”

Yeah. Why not?

Why not take a risk?

I had done my mama bear duty. Ascertained that this man was certainly of good will and kind heart. Jeb liked having friends over for dinner. And that was what it would be.

Only a fly on the wall could tell you if it was obvious I was riding out the loopty-loops of turbulence with every paper airplane launched from the Bohemian’s hand that night, post-dinner. Jeb was enamored with his aerodynamic precision. I was in awe of his playfulness.

So when the saints came marching in, via the sweet wind of the Bohemian’s smiling mouth, I thought for sure annihilation was my fate. How could I want something so much and survive the loss if I didn’t get it? Because it was clear. I wanted this.

I wanted the spice of ginger steaming from three hot mugs. I wanted the magic of paper creases fueling flight. I wanted Jeb’s fascinated voice to forever ring, “How did you do that?”

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I wanted to grab that whistling man and my wide-eyed son, wrap my arms around them both and say, “I love this. I want this. I need this.”

I wanted to not be afraid of letting myself feel that wanting. To want it all, completely. Then be strong enough to let it go.

I’m sure the fly on the wall saw it all in me. The fear, the awe, the love. There was some kind of courage there, too. All three of us were brave in our openness. A family in formation, paper airplanes in the living room. Test pilots, creasing, lifting, crashing, landing, creasing and lifting again.

For those that read the Archives, you’ll know I married that Bohemian. Jeb is now nearly ten. We are a family, still lifting and launching (sometimes crashing) and learning everyday.

I took a risk for what I felt I wanted, deeply. And sometimes I still get scared.

That’s when I let myself be buoyed. Held by folds and whistles and saints. Love.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 5 Comments

Fresh Air

It’s true I’ve been thinking about the book. My first, and newly published one. An offering of a year’s chronicles of prose, poetry and photography through a time when I was raising my son on my own, trying to find inspiration as a woman, mother and artist.

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Now that it’s out in the world – those words all collected and compact – the stories simmer, potent, in one spot. They steam in the ether. Find their way to me and swirl around.

Releasing them as as a book is the revisiting of an era. A time, that now, is just a helium ballon left over from last week’s party. Where once it pressed against a bedroom ceiling, filled full to be freed into the yonder, it now barely brushes the floor, hovering and wrinkled. This ballon has served its purpose. New celebrations await, with fresh party favors to be had.

So this weekend was the insertion of the needle into the lingering balloon (and when they’re in this state, sometimes it’s no easy pop, more like a strong insertion). The remaining, stale air from that party-of-the-past came falling out in a final deflation.

Not to say my book is  a dead balloon. Actually, it’s been more like a hot-air balloon ride lifting me to new perspectives. And that’s the beauty (and challenge) of setting stories free. In my experience, part of the power of telling the tale is letting it go. Once words hit air, they drift from our safe-keeping. Stories shared with others take on new forms, released from our control.

It is in the early dark of my house this morning, when all of this is considered. I’m going through my little ritual. The sun is not yet risen. As usual, my son and husband are still sleeping. Moodah the dog, follows me, room by room, with clicking toenails on the wood floor. I am burning incense, listening to the airy hum of the propane flame against my stovetop espresso maker. And then, all goes silent.

Funny, just last night I wondered how much longer our propane tank would last. We’re subletting this current home, so I’m still learning about the inner workings of our practical infrastructure. I know we have two tanks under the house, with the convenient rigging of a system that allows you to flip a switch to the back-up tank when you run out.

This was pointed out to both the Bohemian and I by the homeowner in our walk-through session before moving in. And I’ll admit it, I only halfway paid attention. Why? Because the Bohemian was squatted there, looking more closely at the mechanisms, and I just decided to let him.

The truth is, in life before the Bohemian, I was taking note of every detail and executing each necessity of home for Jeb and I. There was no husband, no man with which to defer. And there were plenty of broken down hot water heaters, faulty washing machines, and leaking pipes. I hauled propane tanks aplenty. This was an era. One that has since passed. And it is the one of which my book offers a snapshot. The one that’s been expelling the last bits of long-past, party air.

So this morning, I ponder my situation. I definitely want coffee. It is just too stereotypical-helpless-wife to wake the Bohemian and ask for a reminder on how to switch the tanks. I dig around my inner resources for gumption. It’s not too far away. Grab a flashlight and head outside.

The tanks are underneath the house, though no rats are encountered, no cobwebs even. The switch is in plain flashlight view. I make the flip with surprising ease, go inside and fire up the stove. Simple. Just that easy.

Well, then. I’ve still got it (resourcefulness and self-sufficiency, that is).

So, let there be flame, anew! Let there be fresh stories. More parties. Surprising gifts.

An upgrade, perhaps. From a single, helium floater to a hot-air balloon ride, revealing fantastic views.

photo courtesy of dfbphotos
photo courtesy of dfbphotos
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Levitation and Pearls, Love and Motherhood

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Something happened in that room, in the white house, tucked inside the orange grove. There was a low table, shaped to look like a giant pumpkin, where my seven-year old body sat. My toes were deep in olive-green shag carpet, as exotic zoo animals looked on from my bedroom wallpaper. There, I punched away at the manual typewriter before me – caps lock, engaged – writing the story of the miniature mermaid caught in a jar. The title: “A SINGLE PEARL.”

There was no delete key. I knew not of white-out. No, it was a full-on, forward-motion, metal-and-ink, telling of the evil man who trapped a mermaid, and her inevitable and clever escape. Words found their way from my imagination to silver keys that clanked black ink on textured paper. Enraptured by the rapid impressions of letters to page, I was unswerving in my mission with the Muse.

The experience, so visceral, that I can still recall the unusual sensation of hovering above my chair, as if I were levitating. A tingling lightness coursed through my being as I typed. Each tapped key punctuating the perfection of that moment. All was aligned and right. And though the sense of floating out of my pumpkin table chair was a little ‘other-worldly’, it felt refreshingly familiar and quite real. This. This was it. This was good stuff.

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Even though my mom was busy with three children under the age of eight, she took notice of my writing and gifted me a legal-sized accounting book as a journal. My entries began in 1982, with sporadic spells of prolific chronicling and expansive gaps of silence. By 1995 I was 21 and writing with much more frequency, eventually signing off on the last page of my beloved journal, gifted to me thirteen years prior.

Today, I have storage bins full of the hardbound journals that followed over the next fifteen years. Long before the internet, it was just me with pen and paper. My journals were my touchstones. They were often collaged with random photos on the cover, filled with sketches, sometimes holding pages pressed with wildflowers or feathers. These books were markers of an era. My archives.

By my late thirties, I’d warmed to computers and made friends with technology. I especially saw the value of the internet as it connected me to a world that was so distant from the remote Hawaiian island where I lived. Based on the premise that if you do something for 40 days in a row it creates a habit, I decided to commit myself to writing in the public sphere on a blog I titled “For the Archives.”

I was a single mother, raising a six-year old boy on my own, facing the challenges of rent, groceries, work, loneliness, and downright overwhelm. In the midst of it all, I was trying to remember, that one day, I may look back and wish I’d had more appreciation for all the messiness of life with love and motherhood.

Still, I wondered if it was worth my while to write, publicly, about the experience of sorting through my junk drawer. What I concluded was that if a junk drawer was what I had to work with, I might as well try to glean some beauty, seek some metaphors, and share it. So I wrote about ordinary details, then tried to see them in new light. After 40 days of posting, I didn’t want to stop.

That was over three years ago. Since then, nearly 750 posts have been written to the Archives. My son is close to turning ten. Now, I even have a husband.

The truth is, despite the challenges of that first year of blogging on the Archives, it was a precious time. I’m grateful it’s recorded. From broken hot water heaters, to heartbreak, to Lego action figures, I followed some kind of thread. As I felt my way through the unknown, looking closely at the most mundane helped me to find sparks of the profound.

I’ve combed the Archives from that first year and created a collection of prose, poetry and photography that chronicle my experiences during that time, as a woman, a mother, and an artist. Volume 1: Love and Motherhood, is the first in a series that is now available in the Kindle store on Amazon. If you’ve enjoyed reading the Archives, this compilation distills some of the best of that initial year.

I look back in time at my seven-year old self in my bedroom at the pumpkin table, hovering above green shag. I wonder at that feeling, sparked by the experience of imagination moving into letters, forming into words, and then tapping on to a page. What did I know then?

And what do I know now?

That I love a good story. That I want to remember the magic that weaves through all the daily details. That I wish for all our greatest dreams to come true.

We all have our pearls. This book is one of mine.

I hope you enjoy!

For those without a Kindle, you can still read the book by downloading a free Amazon app that lets you read on your Mac or PC, your phone, your tablet, or even your web-browser.

Here’s the link: http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html?ie=UTF8&docId=1000493771