Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Present Nectar

I’ve been reaching far into the archives of hardbound journals with these latest posts.  Revisiting the years before I was a mother (but always longing for the day) when I was just discovering the world, new friends and my heart.

Days unfold here, now.  I still live on an island.  I spend the day with my dream child conceived with just one ovary.  As postcard snapshots from my past filter in the background, I try to remember to fully soak this present in.

The crunch of gold-orange corral under bare feet in tropic water.
The Joker card that Jeb found in the exposed roots of an Ironwood tree.
The Shama bird at sunset for its bird bath by our window.
One coconut, two straws underneath the Java plum.

On our night walk down our street, we meet a neighbor – the Honeyman – who lets Jeb hold the leash of his yellow labrador.  We keep the headlamp off and use our night vision past the Plumeria trees.

“Wanna see the honey house?”

Beneath rainbow colored prayer flags, state of the art equipment extracts nectar from the comb.  Vats of golden sweetness are pumped and bottled in this house.  The Honeyman bestows us with the latest batch and two homegrown avocados.  The labrador laps Jeb’s smiling face.

Walking back down our little road for home, two different tones of crickets sound beneath the stars.  Jeb walks beside me, headlamp still pocketed.

“I have my eyes closed.  I can’t see where I’m going.  I’m just using my senses.”

I try to seal the feel of seven-year old fingers as they reach out and brush my arm.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Beauty in the Backyard

bird bath overflow with papaya leaf after downpour ~ photo by Jessica Dofflemyer all rights reserved

I’ve been steeped in the past by looking through old journal entries, trying to piece together details to convey stories.  Big Sur just a month ago.  British Columbia fifteen years past.  Funny how the act of simply reading the words can stir the proverbial pot and thicken the broth.  Perhaps the emotions conjured through reading are a gateway through which I transcend time and space.  A vehicle with which I can build bridges or burn them down, depending on my desire.

For now I’m just thankful for how long the ink lasts on aged paper.  Hoping the mold doesn’t overtake my treasure trove of journals before I cross all those bridges (and digitize those stories somehow).

With the pot simmering and my heart transporting itself through time portals, it’s good to remember true North.  Which literally happens to be my physical locale in the island chain.  Home is where the heart is.  And there’s certainly some love and beauty in the backyard.

the tropical version of a Maxfield Parish painting ~ photo by Jessica Dofflemyer all rights reserved

 

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

The First Day of 2011

I wake in the dark to an empty house, well-rested.  Brew coffee and write.

As the first shadows begin to appear in the early morning sun rise, I make my way to my car and drive to one of the most beautiful beaches I know.  My steps are the first imprints of 2011 on these golden sands, wandering slowly under a pinking sky.

Often during this time of year the waves are so big you cannot walk to the end of the beach.  This morning the winter swell is moderate, the tide low.

photo courtesy of Pepe Conley

I have an all-access pass to the place that is my temple.  Not a soul in sight.

At the fresh-water spring that flows through rock and thick green moss, I strip down and stand in the tall fall.  Look out at the vast ocean that stretches north into nothing but horizon.  Salt and sea mist rise and cool water anoints my crown.  Good morning!

In the afternoon Jeb and I load up my car with good friends and a big bowl of Thai squash soup.  The scent of garlic and curry wafts through the vehicle as we make our way to the Taro Patch where a community potluck is being held.  Hawaiian chanting, African drumming, songwriters and a didgeridoo.  Two couples get up and renew vows before the 400+ crowd in ‘sacred union’ ceremony.  There is interpretive dance that I think has something to do with a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

All of Kauai’s woo woo crew are here in a potpourri of bright batiks, Hawaiian prints, Burning Man accessories, fedoras and board shorts.  We are an eclectic family all perspiring together in the muggy grass.  But we’re happy by the riverside, in the sacred space of this place at the base of Kalalea – Anahola’s distinctive mountain.

Children run about safely unattended.  Jeb keeps scaling jagged lava rock and I can’t decide if I should pluck him down or just stop watching.  Elijah and John Dumas are on the stage singing about the freedom of living your dreams.  They’ve altered the standard “Happy New Year” so that we all may transcend time and space, by simply saying “Happy New Now.”  It’s New Year’s Day on Kauai.

The event culminates with a “Goddess Chant” but I’m confused to see all the women at the back of the stage and a man with the mic in the front singing about opening our hearts.  We gather our things and exit before I have a chance to see them come front and center.

Back home with friends, we eat a simple dinner of garden pesto and pasta.  Crisp bread and red wine.  For dessert, maple wafers and tangerines by the fire, while a friend from Tahiti tells tales of diving with dolphins in his thick French accent.  Jeb demonstrates how to make a blade of grass whistle in your hands.

From Kauai, I’m wishing you a beautiful new year and a most excellent ‘Now’!