Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Lamp Lighting

We can see it from the cemetery. This house that we think may be our next home.

As an albatross flies, it’s about a mile and a half away from us. We stand beside hundred-year-old lava rock grave stone markers, in a simple cemetery just down the street from where we currently reside. Between us and the peeking A-line rooftop of our dream house, lie grassy meadows, one steep valley, and several property lines with fences. Of the house, we can see nothing but windows.

“I don’t know…if we could walk straight from here, it would probably take 15 minutes to get there. It’s not far.”

I’m assessing distance while the Bohemian nods, his arm around my shoulder.

“I’d like to see a light inside. You know, something that warms it up,” he says.

It is sunset and the light is fading. The distant house windows are dark, reflecting nothing distinguishable from this range.

“How about those old-style lamps? You know the ones that were at the front of houses on the posts?”

“Didn’t those burn on kerosene?”

“Yeah, maybe…” The Bohemian laughs.

We are living between our dreams and the practical, trying to dance this balance between the two.

The practical facts of our current situation are as such:

  • The rental agreement on our current sublet ends in four weeks, on the first of November.
  • We believe that we may be able to actually settle for the long-term(ish) in the house peeking at us from across the fields. However, that scenario is contingent on several factors completely out of our control, which will not reveal themselves until November. Should all bode well, we still would not be able to begin dwelling in the dream house until December or January.
  • Hence, we are in a 2 month limbo, looking for something temporary, while wishing on a hoped-for-but-not-guaranteed abode.

At this juncture, I will add that Craigslist currently shows 12 long-term rental listings, only two of which, are on our side of the island, with one of those listings asking $3000/month for a two bedroom, utilities not included.

It feels good to look out over green pastures at the only roofline in sight, imagining ourselves lighting up that house with warm, golden hues from the inside. As the sky fades into grays and lavenders, we stand at the cemetery taking in the view. As we do, the dark shape of an owl glides low above the meadow just before us.

It is special there in the quiet. The silent swoop of an owl. The setting sun with clouds outlined in pink. The scent of plumeria lifted to the breeze. The old-time spirits of the cemetery, deep in the ground, marked by crumbling, moss-covered markers.

As we turn to leave, I think about the souls that rest there. How each human lived a life, however short or long. That they each got their chance to move about the earth and live a lifetime. Five senses, looking, listening, touching, tasting, smelling. And dreaming…they all got a chance to dream. Hopefully, they got to live their dreams.

The Bohemian and I walk side by side, step out of the cemetery gate and back on to the quiet, two-lane road. I hear the flip-flop sound of our summer sandals as we move.

This is our chance to walk upon the earth. For how long, we do not know. We get to be here. To sense it all. Maybe even lean into a sixth sense and follow it across the fields. Together, we can dance between the classifieds and that distant roofline with dark windows.

Dream about lighting lamps.

photo courtesy of Joseph Thorton
photo courtesy of Joseph Thorton
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 8 Comments

Distilling the Essence

Yesterday marked two years ago that I met the Bohemian. I was walking the beach at sunset and there he was. I could say ‘how could I have known he would become my husband?’ but the truth is, from the moment I saw him, there was something stirred deep within me.

In the months following that fateful day, my heart opened wide, I grappled with fear, I surrendered to Love (with minor, random freak-outs), and when he asked me to marry him, I said ‘Yes.’

Before the Bohemian, I had been living as a single woman, raising Jeb from the age of nine months, essentially on my own, but for the supportive ‘tribe’ of a handful of friends that offered love and presence. For nearly seven years, I was solitary on a small, remote island, only dipping my toes in the pond of romance with a few long-distance relationships.

Mostly, it was me, Jeb, work and school, with sporadic moments of magic. On occasion I would catch a glimpse: Jeb sitting on the porch rail strumming his six-year old hand on ukulele strings. The rare treat of me on a solo morning swim, both the sun and moon in the blue above.

I wanted to capture these moments in a jar and save them. Uncork the bottle and inhale the essence of all-things-love-and-life as a remedy to remember. Keep that panacea close for whenever I was lonely, or exhausted, or simply numbed in the bread aisle of the grocery store.

That year before the Bohemian was a turning point. I had dared to dream that I could find a mate, fostering two remote relationships with promise (one in India, the other Switzerland). In both instances, I broke through scar tissue from the past and poured my heart and soul into nurturing hope in love. And in both cases, when reality stepped in, up close and personal (like dishes in the sink, or a fussy six-year old), they both stepped out.

And thank goodness. Because little did I know, the Bohemian awaited just ahead. But that would be later.

At the time, I took my heartache and my longing for that pure, poignant essence of life and bet it all on bottling it in writing. If I could record my moments, day by day, maybe I’d find some thread of something meaningful. Maybe I would feel more alive. Maybe it would help me remember that that. That something special, which is present even when I’m price comparing sourdough and whole wheat, baguette or sliced.

Despite the doubt that no one cared to hear commentary about my son discovering the existence of coupons, or how I stayed home to study spelling words instead of going out to the hip restaurant with friends, I wrote about it anyway. It was the process of moving through my fear to express myself that was as important as the pieces that were produced.

And all along, I held this understanding that none of it was important, really. Not important like global warming, Syrian refugees, or domination of the world’s food supply by GMO experimenters. Those things mattered.

I only had my little world of bite-size chunks. But I figured that I needed to start with what was before me, before expanding to larger realms. So I worked with what I had. And what I had was Lego guys and a little loneliness. Heartbreak and sorting the junk drawer.

From that place, For the Archives began. That was three years and over 700 posts ago.

Today I work in the distillery. Taking yet another leap of faith that any of this matters (and yet, again, knowing it does not – not, really). I have collected some highlights from that first year of blogging. Made a book and it is currently in process of being published, expected to be available at the end of this month. (In fact, as I type this, the proof for my cover comes through and I’ll admit, I get a little teary when I see it, alive and real and surprisingly beautiful).

And, no, this little collection is not significant. Not like a mission to Mars, not impacting like the work of Joan Didion. But it is mine, and so, in that way, it matters. Just like everyone’s expression matters. And the world needs each of us to express our deepest gift of creativity and truth.

So in my process of sharing the distilled essence of these moments of the everyday, I’m hopeful that each reader may relate to their own mundane and see some magic.

Infuse their own bottle of remembering. Inhale deeply. Share it, too.

photo courtesy of Paul Nelson
photo courtesy of Paul Nelson
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Over Your Head

I can’t write about it. Not yet. And I don’t think I’m copping out. It’s just not time. Incubation is still required.

But I’m not going to write a piece about what I’m not writing about. Explaining to you that there are some things I haven’t told you, though I may tell you in the future, just not now.

That’s annoying.

So while these little gems of non-disclosure percolate, I reflect upon Donald Crowhurst, the man who dared to sail around the world in 1968, though he had only marginal sea experience to back his huge ocean dream. His story is fascinatingly chronicled in the documentary film, Deep Water, which outlines his seafaring tale as well as the severe consequences of his deceit.

Like any fibber, he had good reason for lying. With a wife and four children depending on his success, he had staked everything on the race. Locked in an agreement with the investor of his boat, if he dropped out of the expedition along the way, he’d face bankruptcy. But, when early on in his voyage, his boat began taking on water, he knew that to continue towards rougher seas would mean certain death.

Crowhurst idled in the dilemma of a lifetime, caught between two choices. And then the prospect of an untruth offered a third option. Take a shortcut, fake the log books, and wait until the other sailors came full circle. His idea was to follow up behind them as they all made their way home. He’d linger towards the back, not be the winner. Avoid the fanfare or log book scrutiny, but at least save face and his finances.

He had good reason for faking. And his plan seemed sound, albeit, deceptive. Perhaps the best way out of a dire situation.

Robin Knox-Johnston, the sailor who had held the lead in the race, made it home to a hero’s welcome. After his return, all eyes were on the final few en route for home. Of those, sailor Bernard Moitessier, had become so enraptured with his experience at sea, that instead of turning for home, he opted to try to sail around the world a second time (eventually anchoring in Tahiti).

Ultimately, this left Crowhurst and Nigel Tetley as the last two sailors to return. As long as Crowhurst could quietly bring up the rear, his secret was safe. But in a tragic turn of events, Tetley was rescued from his sinking boat, leaving Crowhurst as the last sailor in the race.

The press grabbed the story with vigor, weaving the tale of the triumphant underdog, as preparations for his homecoming were made. No doubt Crowhurst’s log books would be scrutinized. His lie, sure to be revealed. His public shame, inevitable.

As his anticipated arrival neared, Crowhurst suddenly broke all communication. Ten days of silence passed, and then his boat was found abandoned, his body, never recovered.

Reflecting on this affecting documentary, one can see that there were multiple ‘crossroads’ at which Crowhurst had the choice for truth or lie. Though there were solid cases to be made in favor of the lies, it seemed each untruth only got him deeper into trouble, until eventually, he saw only one way out.

Sometimes it is so utterly frightening to be exposed. Baring the truth can feel like sheer annihilation. In these moments, the cover up can seem so clever. Safe. But its very essence – deceit – has a shadow side of sting, and can’t be trusted.

It takes courage to tell the truth. And strength to endure reaction to it.

When I think of Crowhurst, I feel sad to imagine his isolated struggle. How his wife and four children lost a husband and father. What would have happened if he sailed into harbor and just confessed? Would the humiliation have been worth enduring, if he at least was reunited with the ones he loved? Given the chance to live? Perhaps realizing a new dream?

I cannot conceive of what happens to the human mind and spirit when alone at sea for hundreds of days. I don’t know what I would have done in his position. In the infinity of that watery depth, Crowhurst made his choices.

This thing, the one that I’m not yet telling you…it’s no life or death deal. It’s not even all that important. And it will come out eventually, in perfect time.

Maybe the subject of truth doesn’t even matter. Perhaps it’s the process of telling it that means the most. A willingness to face the fear of all the repercussions that may follow in our honesty.

There will be consequences either way, truth or lie.

Seems the best course is staying true.  But it doesn’t mean it’s easy.

courtesy of elisaboba
courtesy of elisaboba