Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Witness

I’m standing at my front door step talking with a visiting friend, when suddenly they appear.

Shapes move through the coconut fronds, revealing two figures walking down the driveway towards us.  It takes an effort to access my front door from the road.  These two strangers have to be determined.  I already know their mission.  I’ve gone through this before.

I’m dedicated to being kind, even though I am annoyed at the invasion.  Coupled with my irritation at what seems like a lack of respect of privacy, is the conditioning I have from growing up in rural land.  Where ‘no trespassing’ signs were posted clearly and those that ignored them did so at their own risk.

The man and woman reach us at the doorstep.  They hand me their church’s invitation.  A fair-complexioned Jesus sits in the illustration surrounded by lime green.

I’m ready with my kind but firm request.

“I appreciate what you’re doing but I don’t want people coming to my house that I don’t know.  I’ve actually left a message at the church with my address requesting that no one come by.”

They are quiet and nodding.  I continue.

“There have been times when two men have suddenly appeared at my doorstep – I don’t know them – and I’m home alone.  It just doesn’t feel comfortable.  I don’t want stranger’s coming by my house.  So can you please tell the church to make a note not to come to this address?”

Their reaction seems slightly surprised.  Which is odd to me as I’m sure they’ve encountered resistance much more severe than mine.  But she pulls a pen out of her purse and then fumbles for paper to write on.  I offer her my lime-colored brochure.

“You can keep that.  You may still want to come to the service.”

I hang on to the paper and think about my growing recycling pile.

After writing down my address she says, “Now when we receive a request not to come by, we will make a note and won’t come to the house for about a year.  And then after that time, we’ll have someone come back to see if you may have changed your mind.”

Hmmm.

“Actually, I would like my request today to be honored indefinitely.  I don’t want anyone to come back in a year.”

There is a bit of awkward shuffling, nodding.  I thank them for understanding and wish them a nice rest of their day.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the story of Christ and the unconditional love and forgiveness associated.  I find that thread absolutely inspiring (why, I could even employ those teachings in this very moment I am describing).  I can also understand when someone is so touched, that they want to share this good feeling with others.

What I don’t understand, and what I really don’t appreciate, is the way in which some people try to share it.  How can a message of  love feel so forceful and filled with disrespect?  (I won’t even go into the history books on this point).

Sometimes we humans disrespect each other out of ignorance and it takes the other person to set us straight on what is needed.  But what puzzles me about these neighborhood walkers is that even when a person says ‘no thank you’, they don’t seem to want to accept that.  There is still a push, which feels disrespectful, and frankly, seems to counter the message they are trying to impart.

Now, if I want to take the high road, which, yes, I aspire to do, then I could see this front-step exchange as a gift.  An opportunity presented (from God perhaps!) to state my feelings and my needs clearly.  Not from a place of anger or fear, but from strength.  Simple, pure and true.

So, as the man and woman wandered back up the driveway, my friend looked over at me.

“You were so nice!  That was amazing.  I can’t believe how clear you were.”

I laughed.  “Yes, well, I was just wanting to be honest.  I’m glad you were here to see it.  I had a witness.”

She smiles wide.  “Yeah, you had three!”

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Inside the Outside

I’ve seen him many times over the years.  The man who lives outside.

I used to see him at remote beach locations where he would wander out from the trees, mostly naked but for a wrap that covered one shoulder and his legs.  There was an era when his clothes were made from coconut fiber that he had sown into a kind of male sari.

If I had to guess an age, I’d say he’s in his twenties, though he seems rather timeless.  A bushy golden beard.  Tanned skin from the sun.  He hardly speaks.  He seems to live on air and spring water.  I’ve seen him clutch a coconut that he found on a wild beachside tree.  One time my friend said that he showed her the wild honeycomb he’d discovered and harvested up on a cliffside.

Long gaps of time will pass between sightings of the man who lives outside.  He stands apart from the hippies hitchhiking on the highway or the campers on food stamps, drinking beers at the beach parks.  He is a loner.  A unique mystery.  He reminds me of an Indian sadhu, though unusual in this tropical setting.

I haven’t seen him in at least a year.

And then yesterday, I was driving home.  The pressure of a work deadline was tightening in my chest as my mind turned at the end of a full day. Strategies spun as to how I would squeeze in two more hours of work before picking up Jeb, making dinner, getting homework done and getting him in the shower before bed time.  Anxiety was building in my body, unnoticed.  African Tulip trees bowed, roadside, as I passed, but I did not see.

But there was no way I could not see him.  He was barefoot – as usual – running on the highway’s edge.  With the one-shouldered wrap of a monk, he had tucked a single piece of Buddhist red cotton across his body.  His jog was spry and buoyant.  He was not running from anything.  He was moving in a free and easy gait.  He was the joy of movement embodied.

Nearly naked, barefoot, bright red, alive.  Free.  Traveling so light, he had nothing.

And there was me.  Passing by at 60 miles per hour, exhaust in my wake.  I was gifted one glimpse of an apparition.  One sighting of a being, here, but not of this world.  As I took in one last look in my rear view mirror, I wondered how he sees this place.  How he lives his days.  What secrets has he been shown?

A blazing, red-running signpost pulled me out of tunnel vision.  Reminded of the unseen magic, ever-present.  There are many ways to live this life.  Many ways to see this world.

He was my messenger at highway speed.  This man who lives outside.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Vader Breath

“You can’t engage in this practice every day and not change.”

This comes from my Ashtanga yoga instructor who is welcoming me back to the shala like a prodigal daughter – open arms and smiling with encouragement after my two-year hiatus.

It’s day four and I’m in the getting-my-behind-kicked phase of my practice.  My arms ache and I’m continuously humbled into modified postures due to my lack of strength.  One of the yogis has scattered jasmine flowers around my mat, the fragrance wafting up every time I do a forward fold.  “Welcome back.”

courtesy of Wikipedia

Our practice space is in the center of town – what’s called the “Parish Hall” and it is shared by the community as a gathering spot for everything from hula and Zumba classes to AA meetings.  In the mornings from 7:30 – 9:30am, it’s filled with bodies fogging the windows with powerful ujjayi breathing.

Yoga infiltrates life beyond the two-hour practice time, as well. Yesterday after a trip to the auto shop (and an hour-long wait with a squirmy and hungry Jeb) I set out to find new shoes for his growing feet.  By the fifth store I was feeling impatient, losing momentum.  It wasn’t perfect, but I did find some deep breaths come a bit more easily in the size 2 aisle of Vans slip ons.

This morning at breakfast Jeb says, “You know, it’s hard to imitate Darth Vader‘s voice because he’s always doing that breathing.”

“Yeah, well, do you remember when I used to bring you to yoga sometimes? You were five then and I’d set you up with Legos while I practiced?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember how everyone in the room was doing that deep breathing sound?”

“Yeah.”

“Kind of sounds like Darth Vader, huh?”

“Hey, it does!”

“Maybe Darth Vader is a yogi.”

“Do you think they got that breathing from Darth Vader?”

“Hmm…I don’t know about that.  I’m pretty sure the ujjayi breath came before Vader.”

I know I’ve got a little of that shadow Vader-side in me.  Maybe he’s got something to teach.

For now, I’m showing up on my mat.  Practicing.  Watching my breath and being open to change.