Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

The Poo Pile

I’ve dated men of leisure. The struggling artist that broods in a moody cloud of cigarette smoke, lounging in a chair as he works through a piece of prose. Dishes piling in the sink, the dirty laundry scattered all around him.

I did not marry this man. Actually, I wed one of the easiest-going men I know. But a man of leisure he is not. He’s simple: when he rests, he rests (I should take lessons). When he works, he works. And then, there is the garden. This, is simply his passion.

Passion is what I had in mind this morning. And not the garden variety. I wouldn’t normally write about something this intimate, but the scene unfolded so humorously, I can’t help but share.

We’re newlyweds, yes. But we’re householders with a nine-year old, as well. Some evenings we just fall into bed and squint at one another through drooping eyelids. This morning’s inspiration I thought it was ingenious. Take Jeb to the bus stop, skip yoga (my hamstrings are sore anyway) and return home for a little time with the Bohemian before he had to go to work. I’m on my staycation – why not mix up the routine?!

So clever I was, covering all my bases. Stave off Mary with a text – I have a date with the Bohemian, don’t bother to come by, I’ll come to your place later and pick up fruit.

With all systems go, my ducks in a row, I’d have the Bohemian to myself for the morning.

And then the phone rang. It was Mary. Thrilled that she’d just gotten the call from the horse ranch. There was at least two truckloads of free horse manure ready for pick up. She’d gladly deliver a load to our place for the garden. Would the Bohemian want any?

Free poop doesn’t come every day. And maybe never is it delivered to your door without charge. Except, it seemed, in this rare instance – when an amazingly generous friend is coupled with an atypical morning slotted for amorous plans. Go figure.

“Should I call him?” she asked.

“Yeah, why don’t you call and see if he wants it,” I tried. “He’s home.”

I must be in love, half-happy that my husband would be getting his dream fertilizer, even if it trumped my own designs.

“I know you sent a text that you had a date,” Mary offered, “but when the ranch calls…”

“No, I know, I know. Thanks so much for offering to bring some by. That’s really generous.”

“No problem. I’ll call him now.”

We hang up. I drive home from the bus stop. By the time I get there, Mary’s already at our place – their fertilizer thrill, a palpable zing in the air, as they coordinate a delivery time.

I try to keep it light. “Our date’s being replaced by a load of horse shit, isn’t it?”

Mary laughs. “No, no. I won’t be back with it for about an hour. You’ve still got some quality time. I’ll go now and come back around eight.”

Even after she leaves I can see it in his eyes. The Bohemian, he’s trying, but the wheels have been set in motion. He hugs me, but I can feel it.

“You’re thinking about shovels, aren’t you?” I say.

“I know, Jess, I’m sorry. I’m thinking about the garden, about the trees…” He’s smiling down at me with the sweetest, most sincere eyes.

I know this man loves me. It’s taken many-a-month to allow that truth to settle in, but this, I do know is true.

I love his passion for his work. His dedication to the garden. His inspiration from the earth. I appreciate his honesty. That the truth is, despite his love for me, a truckload of horse manure is on the way and that’s just downright exciting.

As for me, I couldn’t help feeling a little slighted. Though I did put on my garden pants, and met them both down by the truck at eight. I even offered to help, but the Bohemian was all a-flurry in a blur of pitchfork and shovel. My able-bodied man in action. Unloading a spongy heap of the richest fertilizer one could dream.

A gardener’s fantasy, really.

And I know this will enrich our soil. This gift from Mary will help to feed our family. For this I am truly grateful.

But this was not my morning’s fantasy. No, my little inspiration got the cosmic curveball. I’m laughing about it now.

How my romantic plans got buried by a pile of poo.

poop

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Post Script to Working Title

PSAt 2:39am I wake thinking about my most recent musings on the dreamy life of being a housewife (see Working Title).

I wonder if I’ve simply become shallow. Fallen prey to a Western perspective of infinite resources and entitled abundance which has completely narrowed my view to a series of “I wants.” I fear I may have lost touch with the essence of sheer existence on this planet. Forgetting that I am but a mere mortal clinging to the surface of the earth, lucky to be breathing and having any form of sustenance to support my little life.

So I dig deeper.

What I find beneath the collection of “I wish I had…” (more time at home, more space in the day, less distraction) is an arrow pointing toward, what I think, may be one, fundamental human need. A requirement that arises after the basics – food, water, shelter – have been met. And that is to live a life that is in alignment with what one values. A need to live true. True to our hearts.

Different strokes for different folks, and certain values may vary from person to person. But what I suspect, as I look around at my fellow humans, is that many of us are living a life that is not quite in line with whatever it is that we hold most dear. That through circumstance and our present economic structure, many are forcing themselves to adapt to a life that feels foreign to their basic nature.

I realize that for an unemployed person, hopeful for any opportunity for work, my trite piece on the desire to be a housewife may sound luxurious. But on further introspection, what I see behind my words is a longing to live my life the way that feels most natural, most in line with everything I cherish.

For me, those precious things are home, garden, family, art.

It may be easy to say that these yearnings are like wanting to have the cake a la mode and eat it too. That one should just be happy that they have a job, a roof over their head, food on the table. Yes, I am very grateful for these things. There have been times in my life when some of those were not so easily attainable.

But what would the world look like if we set our sights a little higher? If the basics were established for everyone and we could move on to living life that expressed each of our unique talents and gifts? Everyone of us has something great to contribute to the whole. I believe our hearts’ desires are the compass points, there to help us find our way in gifting that.

Maybe my Working Title piece was a bit of a laugh on myself that, perhaps, my greatest desire is to inhabit the simple (sometimes unfairly ranked) existence of a “housewife”. Albeit an artistic one.

I guess this post script is here to chronicle my deeper ponderings on the question of whether I’m caught with the case of the ‘want mores’ or if there’s something deeper tugging at my spirit.

I’ll continue to reflect on these deep thoughts.

But before things get too philosophical, I’ll offer up my next Archive post, The Poo Pile: the superficial musings on the crappy side of being married to a farmer.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Working Title

This year I tried what’s been coined a “staycation.” Instead of taking a holiday with family in California, I just stayed home.

When you live in a vacation destination, this seems like an obvious choice. But, frankly, I’ve never vacationed on Kauai before. Sixteen years of living on this island and I’ve always been working.

I’m on my fourth day of ‘off-time’, getting most of the day to myself while Jeb’s at school and the Bohemian tends to the trees.

So how many white sand beaches have I lounged upon? Have I taken jungle hikes leading through wild coconuts to cascading falls? Where has my island-style vacay taken me?

Home. Right where I want to be, actually.

Home is the zone that houses me, but never fully gets the attention it deserves, because I’m constantly leaving it, in order to work to pay for it. Therefore, I don’t really get to be in it.

This little pause in my work schedule has me in my domicile, happily sorting through cupboards, cleaning out the refrigerator, and organizing my desk. It doesn’t hurt that we’ve had a week of rain, removing any guilt that I should be outside enjoying a sunny day. No, instead I’m in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and making a steamy stew.

These household tasks (cooking, cleaning) I handle throughout the year (ok, refrigerator I lag on and the Bohemian picks up the slack). But typically, these chores are done while juggling a work schedule (and a multitude of other random, simultaneous details).

Oh, the pleasure of space found in a whole day to do what needs to be done. No weight of timing, a schedule, or outside obligations looming. An entire day to let the soup stew. An afternoon to move with ease between washing dishes, folding laundry, writing a poem and sorting the junk drawer.

And when Jeb comes home from school, he’s got my full attention. I’ve had all day to take care of my business. I’m ready to dive into third-grade fractions. Hear the details of his latest reading assignment, run through some flashcards. Heck, I’ve even got energy to go into the front yard with him and shoot some arrows with his new bow.

I’ve read about how in the 1950’s and 60’s American modern conveniences (and a booming economy) allowed a mother in middle class families to hold down the fort at home. It drove some to sheer boredom, others to pharmaceuticals. I’d like to think that some were quite content. In 2013, it seems a luxury for any family to have one parent not out in the work force.

Maybe I’m simply entertaining some artsy fantasy. This idea of taking care of my home, making food, raising my son, working in the garden – writing – everyday. The truth is, I already do all of these things – it’s just that they are in addition to a full-time job. I’m multi-tasked to the point of wondering if any of these activities ever get my full attention.

Maybe I’m only dreaming that a life dedicated solely to household tasks and art would fulfill me. But I realize it’s a vision I’ve had since I was a seven-year old girl ‘playing house.’ What was I doing in my make-believe world as I pretended to be an adult?

I was sweeping the floor. Dressing my doll. Spending time with the tomatoes. And punching the keys on my typewriter, making up stories about mermaids. Writing poems in my journal.

photo courtesy of Nancy Andrews - www.thisoldhouse.com
photo courtesy of Nancy Andrews – http://www.thisoldhouse.com

Did I know then what I wanted to do when I grew up?

Would I allow myself to wish for it now? Even after all of those Women’s Studies courses in college?

Can I dare to dream to be an artistic housewife? Neither starving, nor subservient.

Maybe.

Perhaps I could really live the dream – if only it had a better working title.