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 · 6 Comments

Among the Seven Billion

If you’ve flipped on a light switch in the comfort of your home, and are sitting before a computer screen with the ability to read these words, you are among the lucky. Relative to the majority of humanity, you are in the top-tier of the fortunate.

This morning I’ve got statistics rolling around in my head, mulling over everything.

Facts like these:

Almost half the world – over 3 billion people – live on less than $1000 a year. (Think about this in relation to your own monthly income).

80% of humanity lives on less than $3700 a year.

Of the 2.2 billion children in the world, 1 billion live in poverty.

2.6 billion people on this planet lack basic sanitation.

1.1 billion have inadequate access to water.

As I sit here, connected to the internet, sipping my organic coffee and conjuring words to share on the laptop that costs nearly as much as the annual lifeblood of over half the planet, I feel paralyzed. These numbers dig into me with a post-blissfully-ignorant-reality-bite.

Of course, one response could be gratitude. Count the blessings I’ve (somehow) luckily landed, that gives me more than the basics to live. Though I’ve had what I thought to be lean times – times when I struggled to make the rent or buy food – I’ve always had clean water, shelter, a war-free zone in which to live, and the ability to read and write.

As an artist, creatively expressing myself, I’m left to question what work matters. In light of these statistics, what reflections of my small struggles or triumphs mean a thing, when half of the world’s children are living in squalor?

In this information age, this world accounting is readily available for anyone that cares to learn. But there was a time when the knowledge wasn’t so instantly available. People lived and reflected upon the world within their physical view. Artists drew upon the influences of their immediate surroundings.

In the time of Georgia O’Keefe, did she question whether to bother painting bones and blooms, when so many on the planet were starving? And if the knowledge would have second-guessed her to the point of stopping, then the world would not have had Calla Lilies on Red.

I’m far from the artistry of O’Keefe. Not even close to that beauty that I am so glad was shared. No, I’m just a privileged American woman who takes the extravagances of her life for granted. A human consuming more than my fair share. An artist that wants to express herself in a way that serves the betterment of all, but is not sure how.

I’m a person, who, this morning, just can’t do more than try to fathom the number one billion. Try to perceive myself among the seven. Someone with the luxury to berate my blessings while wondering what to do.

courtesy of www.postersofsantafe.com
courtesy of http://www.postersofsantafe.com
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

The Beauty of Sealed Lips

Yesterday was dentistry.

And though the procedure was essentially painless, by the end, nearly my entire lower jaw was numb. I stepped out of the office with my lower lip as an amorphous, limp jellyfish, merely draped over my teeth. It wasn’t so bad that I was drooling on myself (though I may not have known if I was), my mouth was just simply out of my control and utterly foreign.

“You look fine! You can’t tell at all!” were the words of the friendly receptionist, floating behind me as I exited the building.

It wasn’t my vanity I was contending with, as much as just the odd sensation of a different kind of face. Words passed through my lips awkwardly. My smile was unfamiliar and strained. Sipping water from a glass posed a challenge.

With all of this abnormality, there seemed only one reprieve: silence. The sweet haven of simply recoiling. If I couldn’t control it, then it seemed best to still it.

So I kept my mouth softly closed and watched the world with my eyes. I relaxed my tingling jaw and gave it no job. I listened.

In doing so, I realized how much energy it takes to yak. You know, babble on. Prattle. Chatter, blather, gab. Chew the fat. Verbalize.

This morning my lips are back to normal, but they’re still remembering their speaking hiatus. They don’t want to add anything to this pre-sunrise quiet, where only the distant roosters make proclamations, knowing nothing of novocaine.

It’s not that I’m holding my tongue. I’m just letting it relax.

photo courtesy of Abir Anwar
photo courtesy of Abir Anwar