Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Fanning Flames

In my California mornings, I reinvigorate the fire.

In early light, the sun not yet crested above the surrounding hills, I bundle in layers and follow my breath to the fire pit. The coals from last night’s big Oak round have burned down to a few pulsing cinders.

With cold hands, I gather the small sticks, a toss of Oak leaves, and begin to fan the flames. Sometimes Jeb is with me and we can huddle around the smokey pile, feeding and blowing in delicate attention. Other times he’ll wander off to stand among the dogs that wrestle on the frosted grass, leaving me to stoke alone.

I can pull my hair back with one hand and bend in close to breathe long and full into the orangey-red embers. I’ve been building fires most of my life and there is always a satisfaction felt when my own exhalation makes flame. My breath to fire, wood crackling to catch, a small blaze building.

This warmth gathers us. Family members from three to sixty-three, wander out in the morning with steaming mugs in their hands, big coats and sleepy eyes. The fire wakes us. Even once the sun has cast slants upon the melting lawn, the fire will still hold a steady flame. Spirals of smoke will dance in light throughout the day.

We realized last night that the fire has been burning without pause for three days. A heartbeat pumping, our family’s outdoor hearth is only an ‘h’ away from the love-life source that keeps us living.

We laugh at how I’ve taken to keep it burning in the morning. I love the unending cycle of stoking coals to flame.

“Well, whaddya think? Let’s keep it burning til 2012!” we say as we sit and warm our hands.

We smile in the cold as the knees on our jeans get toasted. My father’s quiet tone
drifts in the swirling smoke, our eyes fixated on the flames.

“…there’s something about a fire…”

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Magic Carpet

Throughout history humans have desired to elevate their gravity-weighted frames. Transport themselves across spaces. Be like birds.

Long before airplanes and hot air balloons, the magic carpet provided a comfy seat in which legendary nomads could glide the skies.

art by Viktor Vasnetsov

What was that essence of the rug that made it able to defy the laws of physics? Was it about the intricate weave in which the artisan painstakingly looped for days, weeks, years? Was there a power in the patterned story told by thousands of threads? Did that tale give life to an otherwise inanimate object? Give a force so great, through a tradition so long-held, that it simply carried those adventurers via magical flight?

I definitely believe in magic. Though in my case, my grandmother’s carpet traveled thousands of miles through the traditional route – I think…

Boxed, taped and stamped with Delivery Confirmation, it drove as cargo via the US Postal Service to a dock in California where it was to be put on a boat to sail to my little island. With the assistance of modern technology, it was supposed to be able to be tracked along its journey via the internet, trailing each outpost where it stopped, until it finally moved out to sea.

Somewhere in transit it fell off the radar. No tracking information was available and the carpet seemed to have simply vanished. Maybe it was as rebellious as some of my family members. Perhaps it just gave Big Brother the slip. Weeks and weeks went by with no trace of its whereabouts.

And then yesterday it materialized. It now graces the space by my writing desk.

Since my grandmother has passed, the story of this carpet I found in her basement eludes me. There’s something about this rug that compels me to want to know its story. An energy that swirls from within its intricate design that beckons me to know more. Radiating through spun yarn are threads of woven history, unknown. Like the DNA that spirals in my very being, there is ancestral knowledge that lives and breathes through me, yet I know not its story.

Without any known past, I suppose the tale begins now. How this rug traveled over 3000 miles across the sea to me. How it slipped from any cyber-trappings that tried to track its trajectory. And now, how its presence completes the space where I write with welcomed perfection. I guess the story starts here.

That every time I look at this rug I feel happiness. That every time I step upon its softness I sense beauty.

The journey begins here.  And so far, I love this ride.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Happy Schlep

It’s night and we’re poolside at the five-star resort hotel.  Jeb and I are visiting friends who have come to stay on the island for the week.  Two dads set up tables with room service fare while a mom and I share a glass of wine.

The kids jump from the pool to the hot tub, giggling, splashing and doing that don’t-run-by-the-pool slick trot.

Kauai skies open, just like they do, and soon huge drops are falling in heavy downpour.  Four adults herd kids, grab plates, and round-up towels making our way to a covered patio.

I realize my backpack and purse are still out in the elements on a lounge chair.  I grab a towel, cover my head and make a dash toward the chairs.  One of the dads is jogging back in my direction, hands full.

“I got your bag.”

I’m still not sure why this was so surprising.  Honestly, I guess I didn’t fully believe him.  There had been a loose sweatshirt, a crumpled t-shirt…surely he hadn’t seen all of my gear and gotten it along with his own family’s stuff.

I continue to the chairs certain I’ll find more of my own things to retrieve.  But no, all is gone.  And when I come out of the rain to the shelter of the patio, the soggy sweatshirt and rumpled t-shirt are right there along with my purse and my backpack.

From around the corner one dad appears with a stack of dry towels still warm from the dryer.  The rain falls heavily on the roof above us.  “I found a secret passageway back to the room that’s dry.”

We towel off then make our way down the carpeted back hallway of the hotel.  Kids bounce ahead in sweatshirts and pajamas.  The two dads follow casually, loaded down with backpacks and tote bags.  The mom and I trail behind.  Me with my gear, she holds a bottle of wine.

I take in the image of two dads walking ahead, carrying bags among the kids.  I sense the chaotic comfort of tribe – family.

I look to my friend with her wine bottle.  “I like this image of the dads happily schlepping gear.  I don’t know why it seems special.  I guess it’s because I’m used to doing it by myself.”

She glances their way as a look of recognition washes across her face.  Like seeing the familiar for the first time.  “Ahhh.”

I smile at her.  “I mean, he got my purse.”