Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Babies in Big Bodies

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved

I’m gifted a one hour window at the end of my day to throw off emails and throw on a pair of shorts.  Make a quick drive down to the beach and get a short walk in.

My mind is craving freedom.  The kind where I can let thoughts move and sift on salt air and sea breeze.  Bare feet can sink in sand.  My eyes can take in a distant horizon and remember what it is that holds me.  Feel the tangible presence of earth and wind and water.

There are others on this quest as well.  As I move along the shore toward the middle span of beach, the smattering of bodies increases.  Lawn chairs, towels, beach blankets and some coolers.  Visitors are here escaping colder January climes.  I walk through a quiet maze of humans scattered in their special little places.

Some lie upon their sides, just gazing at the ocean.  Others read a book.  Some couples curl and cuddle up together.  Grown men wade in shallow waters.  Swimmers tread a little farther out from shore.

How I love to see these people all relaxing!  Like babies in big bodies, we’re just soaking up the simple.  Happy just to be.  Pale skin seeks sunlight.  Ahhh!  Cell phones are put away.  A large man just sits, his legs stretched out before him, doing nothing but looking at the waves.  To see him in such a peaceful, child-like state fills my heart with gladness.

Not far from this beach (just down the road) adults zoom fast in big cars.  They schedule appointments, send text messages and make important calls.  But down here by the water, the grown ups are on hiatus, just sitting in the sun.

Can we do this everyday?

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

The Tone of One Drone

I wake to a stream of light through the window.  A curved bowl hangs, shining, holding golden liquid that streams down in a beam onto my floor.  The moon wanes and rests mid-sky.

I force myself to wake – it must be time to write – then realize it’s only 3:19am.  I can’t go back to sleep.  In the dark of my room, I watch a video of Chinese doctors chanting over a woman with cancer. They show the tumor on an ultrasound screen dissolving in less than three minutes.  They say it’s not a miracle but a tool.  This power of intent.  This feeling in the heart.  To feel that she is well has made it so.

By 4:30am I’m back to sleep and dreaming of poetry.

At 7am I wake to dusky purple light.  It’s been a long time since I’ve slept till sunrise.  I hear the bullfrog at the stream.  He seems to have one simple drone, free of having to decide how to express.

What if there were just one tone that I was given?  I could stick with that, let go of mind, and just move my song to calm and trance.  No doubt and never wonder.

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved - Big Sur Sprit Garden

But I’m human, and I wonder
Would I really like a single key?

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Roots

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved

In Sunday morning light a solitary root stretches long across the sand.  Sun bleached and long-since functioning, it’s still heavy and unmoving.

Tracing the root to the source, I stand beneath a thriving canopy with exposed roots as tall as me.  For years the tides have come and slowly eroded the earth they held.  Salt and splash, lots of time, and now that sturdy system is laid bare.  Surely the smooth and aged wood no longer feeds it, but the tree grows on somehow.  Old-time roots are its foundation.

The thick and twisted tendrils create a natural root cave.  Jeb can climb through the web of wood just like a jungle gym.  No longer steeping in dark loam and worms, these roots now bake in sun.  Fallen leaves meet their surface.

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved

A  white,  jagged specimen of corral nestles tightly in a notch just like an alter.  A reminder of the elements that shaped this situation.  Many, many moon cycles.  Water, sand and wind.

Roots remain, the tree’s still growing.  Folks with lawn chairs come for respite in their shade.  Small feet and hands explore the woven patterns.

A loving mystic once said, “When you are seeking the answer to a question, look to a tree.”