Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Wise Woo Woo

With all this talk of following the whispers (yesterday’s post), there’s a bit of woo woo in the air.  So what if I’m conjuring up meaning more than any rationalist would tolerate?  I’m hitting pause on the logic button and following my threads with the mind of a child and a heart open in curiosity.  Why?  Because it’s more fun!

I live for some goosebumped reality, unfolding like a treasure map. Who knows what’s buried at the X spot, but it can be enjoyable just watching for signs along the way.

It’s been said that magic happens in 3’s.  And this is the third time the Bohemian and I have been up close and personal with our neighborhood owl.  Though, this time the Bohemian was without me, but with his handy point and shoot camera.

Face to face in broad daylight with one wise bird of the night.  Seems magical to me (and pretty darn close).

courtesy of the Bohemian~ all rights reserved
courtesy of the Bohemian~ all rights reserved
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 9 Comments

The Whispers

I follow the whispers.

Those, essentially, inaudible prompts that come from Who-Knows. Some say God. Guidance, Grace. The Higher Self.

Higher, lower, I’m somewhere- driving my car down the road, when the whisper comes urging me to turn right instead of going straight. Take a walk on this beach, not that one.

And because my life is currently in a semi-state of flux (we are moving and looking for a new home), and because I’m kind of like a little scientist experimenting (always seeking proof that intuition’s real), and because I have the time on this particular morning, I turn right on to that dirt road that leads to my favorite beach. The one I’ve deemed my temple.

I haven’t been to church lately. This natural cathedral entails a bit of a trek, which takes more time to get there. Time being something that’s seemed tight as of late. But with an extra forty-five minutes on this day, my soles set foot on the path to sacred sand and sea.

It’s not far into the first stretch of empty beach that I see it glowing in the sunlight. A bottle washed ashore, I guess. Though as it rests near the tide line, the shape seems more round than a bottle. And in the case of any treasure found, once I am upon it, there is a gasp, a skipping heart beat. A smile.

“No way!” I say to no one.

A glass fishing float is in my hands, having lapped up from that mystery place of Who-Knows.

This is a rare find.

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Anywhere from forty to a hundred years old, this glass ball unleashed itself from some Japanese fishing net long ago, beginning a journey that bobbed through the Pacific until rolling up on this shore. Now, held in my hands.

It’s not the first time this temple/beach has gifted me a treasured gem. This place has granted me many a precious Sunrise shell (once, three in one morning). On one October afternoon here, a hefty, golden-hued coin embossed with the goddess Lakshmi washed up at my feet. Heck, this is the beach is where I met my husband. And the same place where he, subsequently, proposed.

In each of those instances, when some offering was bestowed upon me, what was it that had positioned me in that very place and time?

It was the whispers.

I’d been following a nudge. A quiet, but clear suggestion.

I would venture to say that these directives are possibly more reliable than a GPS. Certainly, more fun.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 1 Comment

A Hand In

Over the weekend, WordPress offers up a Daily Prompt urging photographers to post pictures of hands. I remember one I took a few years ago of my father’s hands wrapping wire near the tailgate of his work truck.

It’s the weekend and I’m lazy, so I only imagine posting the photo, never actually doing it. In the meantime, we visit Mary’s garden and she gifts me three big dahlia’s, wet with May rain.

This morning, I’m still thinking about my dad’s hands. The ones that are weathered from the sun, and always bearing some nick or scratch. They look tough but their skin is thin.

There’s something about the juxtaposition of hearty hands wrapping sharp wire and delicate blooms dripping with rain water. I want to put these images together. So different, yet, somehow connected.

I know Mary’s got working hands, callouses and dirt under the nails. But those hands cultivated these bursts of color blooming with petals, silky soft.

My father’s hands tighten barbed wire on splintered fence posts in 105 degree sun. But they also hold pen to paper, scrawling poetry of snow melt over granite and lush green pastures.

Here’s to what we have a hand in.

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