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.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Phonetic Fun

I’m currently in ID limbo, the letters of my name spread out like Scrabble tiles in multiple locations. Who I am depends on who you ask.

Ask the bank and they’ll tell you I’m Jessica Dofflemyer. Ask my email account and it would say I’m now Jessica Spichalova. Ask Facebook and they’ll say I’m both (yes, FB let’s you have two names).

Being that I have a modest body of creative work produced by Jessica Dofflemyer, it seems I shouldn’t shake this moniker entirely. Yet, my heart wants to take my newly wedded husband’s name.

For nearly forty years I’ve tripped over the awkwardness of “Dofflemyer”. Teachers reading it aloud at roll call with twisted tongues. The many years of spelling each letter out to an infinite number of phone representatives. The small chatty comments the name elicits.

“Oh, that’s different. Where’s that from?”

“Hmm…never heard that one before.”

“Wow, that’s a long one!”

As a young girl I dreamt of shedding it through marriage – someone with an easy name of Smith or Jones. No need, ever again, to spell it out.

Alas, I finally have my chance at 39. Marriage and a name change. But oh, it’s not so simple.

Marrying a Czech man, I’ve chosen to honor tradition, take my husband’s name, then add the customary “ova” at the end. He’s Spichal, therefore I am “Spichalova”.

Dofflemyer to Spichalova? Clearly, I’ve traded one big, strange name for another. Though I must say, I do think Spichalova is quite beautiful. If only I could say it in the correct Czech pronunciation (due time, due time).

Spichalova

I know how these cumbersome names go. One has to be prepared to spell them out to strangers. Often over crackling phone lines. As I settle into this new title, it’s all about phonetics.

In the beginning was the word, and the word was good. Maybe it all starts with a vibration that is carried into the ether through sound. These labels we put on things, the names we give ourselves, they have a tone.

Over the years, I’ve mixed woo-woo and the practical, hybridizing official NATO telephony and making it my own.

You know what I’m talking about. A as in Alfa, B as in Bravo, C as in Charlie.

To begin spelling Dofflemyer, I know it’s D like Delta, but I much prefer Diamond. F like Foxtrot, okay. But I like Flower better.

Shouldn’t the words associated with our names ring of all things with which we resonate? Good vibrations, right?

X for X-ray? Practically speaking, a sound word choice, but frankly, if I had an X in my name I don’t think I’d want to radiate that into the cosmos with every spelling.

So now I’m sounding out Spichalova.

The Bohemian and I take a night-time car ride and play with letters.

“So S like Sun?”

“Yeah, I like that. Sierra’s the official word, I think. I like that too.”

“And P?”

“P like…purple.”

“Power is the first word that came to my mind. Too much?”

“Yeah, that is kind of strong.”

“I like Purple. Let’s just keep going. We can come back. So, S like Sun (or Sierra), P like Purple – hey, I just thought of Papaya.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“Ok, it’s a work in progress…moving on. How about I?”

“Hmmm…Ice?”

“Too cold. Probably couldn’t be heard very well, either. Could sound like nice or rice.”

“How about Island?”

“Yeah! I like that. Or Infinite! How’s that? Well, probably too many syllables. It’s bulky. Look how long the name is. Gotta get through the spelling pretty quickly. What’s the standard? India, I think.”

“Well, I like that too.”

And so we Scrabble our way through Spichalova, though to be honest, I don’t remember every match we found.

With something like this, one needs to be prepared. Have these matches memorized. You never know when you’ll be asked to spell it out. And there’s nothing like enumerating every letter and suddenly forgetting “L like…” In the pressure of the moment you may draw a blank. Sound like you don’t know how to spell your own name. Or worse, end up with the default “Lima” (no disrespect to Lima) until you remember Love. Ah, right, L like Love.

Would the world hum just a little differently if everyone was spelling their names out with the words of their grand ultimates? Would life ring a little more true if a Julie Andrews’ list of “Favorite Things” was conjured every time we shared our name?

And what is my name, anyway?  I guess I’m not choosing just one.  Still spelling them both out into the world.