Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 7 Comments

Pressed Fresh

I guess I’m the kind of woman who has the fear that should I ever find myself first one to the finish line of some metaphorical, prize-winning race, I’d trip and fall within feet of the red ribbon.

It comes this way on occasion. Like a little movie with the same, basic plot, just different characters and settings.

Take my wedding, for example. My bridal facial gone awry, leaving me with a large, cold-sore-looking scab on my top lip, two days before my fiancé was to kiss the bride. I had to, literally, ‘face the fact’ that my fairytale day may be accompanied with an unsightly sore. (The tale of my pre-wedding lip and the truth that Photoshop does not retouch real life, is documented here in “Union”).

If my wedding was that proverbial finish line, then I’m happy to say I crossed it with the grace of a ballerina, traipsing on a plush, red carpet. My husband was there, all a grin, ready to twirl us both into the sunset. And that scab? The thing dangled below my nose, threateningly, the night before. But when I woke on the morning of my special day, it had simply disappeared. Not a trace on my face. Danger averted. Anxiety assuaged.

So, one would think I that I have learned from this. But the fears, they still rear.

Take for instance, this past Saturday morning, when I receive an email from a WordPress “story wrangler”, (many thanks, Michelle), notifying me that the Archives “Weeds and Debris” post would be Freshly Pressed. I was honored. Excited.

And it was with (admittedly) bated breath that I monitored my site for signs of fresh pressness. Forty-eight hours passed and nothing. I began to wonder. And then, to doubt. My figurative finish line fading and flapping in a cold wind. My feet becoming clumsy beneath me.

Maybe they changed their minds. Or possibly the WP editors just forgot. I mean, they’ve got a lot of posts to keep track of.

I could see this all unfurling inside my mind. The familiar nervousness that I’d come so close to something cool, but wouldn’t really get it. Just a tease. Almost, but not quite.

But who was writing this movie anyway? Wasn’t For the Archives the little writing world of my creation? I was following the Threads of my choosing. Snapping photos of the moments that spoke to me. Chronicling the details of my inspiration. I was the author of this gig, right? Why not let the plot gift a little accolade?

As I questioned, wondered, waited – one thing became clear. Award or not, my time with the Archives would remain, regardless.

I could log on, see my stats all flat-lined. No Freshly Pressed badge as a widget. But I would still be loving the lifeline this forum brings me. The joy of 4am, a cup of coffee and the quiet of my house while I type. Each day I am pressed fresh, through the discipline of this exercise. To show up to the creative process. To try to offer something of myself.

With this affirmation clear, it was easy to let go. And as we know, this is often the wisest path.

Because within about a half an hour of doing so, my email Inbox began to percolate and I knew the time had come. Those WP story wranglers had rustled up my post. They’d suggested dusting off my welcome mat. And, indeed, For the Archives had some house guests.

freshly_pressedSo, mahalo – thank you – to each of you that Liked, Commented, or are now Following For the Archives. I’m honored that you took the time, and I’m grateful to WordPress for offering us the platform to share our ideas and creativity in such a far-reaching community.

I won’t call this a finish line. I started this blog two and a half years and nearly 600 posts ago. The journey here has been anything but linear. I do not know where it leads or when it ‘ends’, but I’m very much enjoying the process of discovering.

Thank you!

 

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 64 Comments

Weeds and Debris

It’s understood that invasive species are bad for our island’s flora, and the debris afloat at sea is at epidemic proportions. Weeds and trash are no one’s friend.

But what if I were an alien from another planet? What if I had no concept of friend or foe, good or bad? What if on my morning beach walk there was no story attached to any thing I encountered, not even a name.

With my E.T.-version of a camera, perhaps I’d pause to take photos of things that earthlings may dismiss.

Weeds and debris, framed within the neutral ground of simple curiosity,

And as I like to play with metaphors, I invite you to consider the overgrowth and refuse within ourselves. We all have a shadow side. What’s our story about it? Is it possible for us to view our ‘darkness’ with an unbiased eye?

If so, what new perspectives might emerge by simply looking?

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Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Transmission

It was just one of those kind of mornings.

Waking a bit groggy and sullen. No particular reason, though in hindsight she realized that the size of the moon had its influence on her personal body of water. Hormones surging. That a dose of evening primrose oil would have softened her edge.

But she wasn’t thinking self-care or solutions as she readied herself to drive her husband to the neighbor’s farm. She was only feeling agitation in the kitchen as a case was built for how the day was simply going wrong.

No clean spoons. They were out of milk. The bathroom sink was clogging. Even the tune her husband quietly whistled seemed mocking. An insult to her injury, the notes emanating from his happy throat she used to chastise herself for being anything but cheery.

It was a downward spiral. A world perceived through a lens of negativity. She could feel her husband patiently provide a wider berth, which only served to annoy her further. There were whispers from the far recesses of her mind, cautioning that she was in a state void of reason. Yet, she felt unable to reverse the pessimistic pull.

Once enclosed within the confines of the truck cab, they drove quietly, her moodiness magnified, though her husband smiled, unaffected. She knew she should speak little in her self-imposed state, but logic left her by the second curve in the road.

It was something outlandish. Maybe it was the way he tied the lace of his boot that suddenly signaled to her an immediate need to discuss all things relationship. Who cared that they were five minutes from their destination. That he was readying for a morning of chain saw work in the jungle. They needed a heart-to-heart now. Her eyes filled with emotional tears.  They were the moonbeam version of which, only a woman knows. She knew it too, but could not stop herself.

Her spouse was kind but clear. They couldn’t talk about it now. Later, yes. But now, no.

And with that, they approached that big hill. The one on which she always shifted their automatic into second gear, so as to make the climbing easier. Swirling in emotion, her hand reached for the gear shift. The wheels began the incline, her hand moved the gear, the truck came to an immediate halt as the heavy sound of unhappy metal churned from beneath the hood.

She heard the word “Damn!” come from her mouth.

The truck was stopped. Her husband, still calm beside her. They stayed there paused on the sloping hill.

How had her hand mistaken reverse for second gear?

Stalled, the truck still idling, all debris of melancholy, dirty spoons, clogged drains and workboot shoelaces disappeared.

“Did I just break my car?”

“I don’t think so.” He sat there without a trace of judgement as she silently scolded herself for being so careless.

Slowly, she put the truck in drive, testing. The vehicle began moving forward up the hill, as normal. Carefully, she accelerated, listening for any sound of mechanical malfunction.  All seemed fine, but she was still uncertain.

“I mean, what damage can be done by putting your car in reverse while it’s driving? I can’t believe I did that. I’m afraid I may have just ruined it.”

She heard him with the slightest smile. “Well, just don’t do it that often.”

photo courtesy of Brilliant Michael
photo courtesy of Brilliant Michael