Taking Hold of the Cloth

Yes, I’ve been wandering the transparent places.  This morning it’s lost and found with Rumi.

Not that I fully understand.

But my arms are outstretched, taking hold…

Lovers think they’re looking for each other,
but there’s only one search: wandering
this world is wandering that, both inside one
transparent sky. In here
there is no dogma and no heresy.

The miracle of Jesus is himself, not what he said or did
about the future. Forget the future.
I’d worship someone who could do that.

On the way you may want to look back, or not,
but if you can say There’s nothing ahead,
there will be nothing there.

Stretch your arms and take hold the cloth of your clothes
with both hands. The cure for pain is in the pain.
Good and bad are mixed. If you don’t have both,
you don’t belong with us.

When one of us gets lost, is not here, he must be inside us.
There’s no place like that anywhere in the world.

“There’s Nothing Ahead”Rumi

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

 

 

 

Night Walk with the Poet 1996

Words from past journals seem to be the transport through which I am moving through time.  I skim pages through a time-space continuum.  As I craft a piece (known hereto as “The Submission“) from an era when I was 23, I find new insights, discover little gems.

In 1996 life’s proverbial road gave me one of those sharp arrowed signs, so abrupt I almost missed the turn.  My trajectory was swiftly skewed with an unexpected surgery that removed an ovary from my womb and deeply scared my heart.

Until that detour, I’d been gearing for flight to Hawaii.  In a sudden shift, I was shuffling at a snail’s pace in suburbia.

Healing stitches at my childhood home, I sorted old boxes.  Took slow walks at the doctor’s suggestion.  Wrote letters to the Poet in Massachusetts.  Full of sweetness and incredible artistry, the Poet was the kind of guy that would send me typewriter pages of exquisite verse enclosed in a hand-painted envelope he’d crafted himself.  Sometimes wildflowers or butterfly wings would fall out of the folds.

Having just left a year of living in the woods of Vermont, I was out of my element on old turf.  I was adjusting to both neighborhood living and my body’s molasses pace.  I took solace in the presence of the Poet, even when he was 3000 miles away.

October 24, 1996

leaving cardboard boxes
taped and labeled
hefty black trash bags
strings drawn and taut

I stepped into the night air
black and blue and California cool
the sky had her jewels
(though lots were moving men)
and I searched to find the crescent

instantly I thought of you
so we walked together
you and I

through manicured lawns of suburbia
my pace was slow
we took our time
and the breeze rustled the tree leaves
cul de sacs led to no where
they rounded out our time
but we were in no hurry
watching headlights speeding by
(and above)

alone in my old neighborhood
surrounded in cemented sidewalks
with love
and love
and love