Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Resist Nothing

While cutting my way through tangled undergrowth, aided by a borrowed machete, and guided by intuition (along with random tea bag fortunes), solace is found in the smallest semblances of lifelines.

Referencing yesterday’s losing-all-composure post, I will say I was in need of a re-group after staving off a kitchen meltdown, only to flood the Archives with the emotional waters of vulnerability. Ask me on a good day and I’ll tell you that’s what the artist’s path is all about. Ask me when I’m feeling raw and you get the fisherman that’s reeling in (this metaphor explored more fully weeks ago).

This morning I’m working with the symbolism in lifelines and compass points. When I’ve gushed, seeped, flooded…cast that line waaaaay out there…what is it that pulls me back to center?

Yesterday it was a little kickback on the grass with Jeb after school. Watering my plants by the front door. I folded all the weekend laundry and even put it away. Small favors bestowed upon me, Jeb eats all his vegetables at dinner. His math test comes back with a 99%. Homework is completed without a hitch.

And after he falls asleep, I spend the evening in a little self-care. Comb conditioner through my hair. Fill a tub with hot water and Hawaiian salt to soak my feet. Rub my heels with Calendula salve. Soak my arms in Sandlewood oil.

When in doubt, start where you are. And there’s no where you occupy more than your own body. Once in a while, it’s good to have True North verified. My compass point pinged at salt, salve and a little TLC.

Oh yeah, and some reading material while my feet were soaking. The manual for the sophisticated Canon camera – another loan from the Bohemian. Far from my little hand-held point and shoot, this camera has a full-size bag just to store all its parts. A telephoto lens. More dials and symbols than I have ever seen.

Over the weekend he spent an hour pulling every battery pack and memory card into the light. Wiping down and cleaning every inch of the camera bag before zipping it up tight and presenting me with the chance to learn. I mean, this thing is the real deal. It’s like a camera camera.

So I study up. Read the Quick-Start Guide, the first two chapters and the Glossary of Terms. Wrap my salve-soaked feet in socks. Think about the safeguard setting of Auto-Focus. Consider experimentation with that telephoto lens.

Somewhere in there I heard the voice of Eckhart Tolle. I’ve been driving around with the audio book version of the “Power of Now”. Another attempt at some kind of lifeline.

He describes an experience just before he was enlightened. He felt like he was falling into a void of indescribable darkness. From somewhere inside he heard a prompting that said, “Resist nothing.” He surrendered. Experienced supreme bliss. Changed his life forever.

Motherhood, love, a new camera. I can feel intimidated by it all. Resistance looming at the threshold. Lifelines and compasses probably only offer token signs of safety. I have a hunch that “safe” is an illusion.

Resist nothing.

Ok. So what’s here in this ever-present powerful Now?

This morning’s breakfast and a school lunch to be made for Jeb.

The gift of a high-powered tool with fresh lenses, offering me a new way of seeing.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

Heart Guidance

This morning, Jeb wakes before 6am to answer twenty-two questions for Reading Mastery.

I’m here working on my Writing Mastery. I think both of us have our heads in our hands.

It’s been a two-day writing pause for me to live without commentary. The days swirl with the honey in my morning coffee. A collage of details sealed by emotion that seeps between the images.

The Bohemian emerging from centipede infested crawl spaces, shirtless and smiling, as he coils dead electrical wires in the rafters.

The splitter he presents me for the hose (I’d said I wanted one). Now I can water the plants at my door. He gifts toothpaste (the same brand) for my back stock in the bathroom.

Rose water. Coconut milk. Melting chocolate from the cacao pod. The gift from my neighbor of a gold garnet ring that fits my finger perfectly. How I remind myself to put it on my right hand.

Filling sandbags to hold a 10 meter kite, seaside. Blustering gusts lifting strong while the carabiner holds and white waves crash.

His Chinese astrology book in Czech confirms my greatest fears. I am the steady ox, plodding (and likely dreaming of all things stable). He is the horse with the mane in the wind. The book says he is a kaleidoscope, bringing light wherever he goes. This I already know. And the horse, it needs to be free.

Later, I’m still digesting this truth with my lunchtime burrito. The tears rise from nowhere as we sit together at the table. I may wear my heart on my sleeve but this I cannot risk to show right now. It must be the salsa. If he notices, he does not let on. Offers to make us tea.

Over dishes the words have passed the fill line and slosh in my throat with a flood I can’t hold back. It spills out, “I have to tell you something and get it off my chest.”

As soon as the words meet air I want to take them back. This tidal wave of truth may be the final undoing. I am amazed to see my fear. I must be crazed and dysfunctional. A living wreckage feigning womanhood. Attempting to love but merely grasping as I scrape scraps into the compost bowl.

I never do this. Say I need to tell you something, then say “never mind”. But I was such a coward, “never mind” is exactly what I said.

It’s absurd I’m telling you, my cyber-audience. These things so tender. I know not what I’m doing.

He lets me make the U-turn. Water boils. He wraps the tea bag around the handle of the mug in simple practicality.  It’s things like this about him that I adore. We read the fortune.

“Let your heart guide you.”

My heart is breaking in my chest before he’s even said goodbye. I know I’m living the loss before it even happens. I know this is ridiculous and wrong. But it swells so real in me, the fear. The beauty of these moments I love so much are tainted bittersweet.

How can I express to the horse that’s running free the burden of worry I carry? I feel yoked, yet I want to cast off all harnesses and run without inhibition into these present moments.

Laugh with full abandon over who’s better at chopping ginger. Smile wide at how he disregards the dishwasher, hand washing every plate. Watch, together, with unrestricted love as the basil grows in the garden.

The fear and sadness – sourced from who-knows-where – flood my chest and throat and want to break free. But the last thing I want to do is pool in a murky surge of weak and heavy muck at his feet. I just want to enjoy a cup of tea with this kind and beautiful man.

“Let your heart guide you.”

I breathe deep. Smile and vow to deal with all this feeling later when I’m alone. I affirm and nod to him with a “nice” in response to my heart-guiding fortune.

He looks at me and grins. “So what’s this on your chest?”

I wish I could say I was brave enough to be completely real. I wish I could say that I told him before I told the Archives. I do not understand how I can write these words here but could not say them in my kitchen.

But I couldn’t and I didn’t. And now I’m leaving breadcrumbs here with you.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Forest and the Trees

This morning I see the count.

There are 11 posts here in the Archives related to The Bohemian. And it appears as though this morning will mark a twelfth.

Friends who subscribe to my daily posts see me on the street and smile. “Been reading the Archives…” they say with that tone that lifts and trails into all things hopeful, hearts and roses.

Oh, God.

One girlfriend gives her assessment plainly when I see her in line at the bank. “You’re so in love.”

I squirm beneath fluorescent lights and such a defining statement. Lose all eloquence and grip my deposit slip. Stammer something vague about how I’m just having an experience, staying in the moment, “who knows…”, et al.

She looks at me squarely and says, “Call it what you will. I read the Archives.”

Mmmm. The wordsmith in me tries to summarize something even I don’t understand. Language falls short. “Ok,” I smile, “you can say I’m smitten.”

Her eyes twinkle. “Smitten is a good word. Alright then. Whatever it is, I’m happy for you.”

Is this part of the artist’s experience when they share their work? The inner, private realms so vulnerably revealed?

One Archive reader says, “Everyone loves a good love story.”

Is that what’s being crafted here? Do readers see the forest of my trees? Or are they simply finding their own stories in the words that I present?

I’m never going to tell you everything. But I’m compelled to tell you more than what is comfortable, at times. Show you more than what the Censor thinks I should. And with that comes a risk of baring some things tender. Places even I don’t understand.

I’ve often said I’m following a thread. Showing up to the WordPress screen and chronicling the everyday. For these 11 Bohemian posts, I’ve guessed the words were breadcrumbs. Some way to insure my safety if Love lured me into uncharted territory.

I’d say I’m officially bushwhacking now (he even loaned me the machete). At this point, my feeble attempts at marking the place from which I’ve come may just be gestures offering a false sense of security.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

I’m not sure I want to back track anyway.

What’s the worst that could happen? I could find myself in foreign land, alone.

But even there, I could map the new place with words. Keep feeling. Sharing. Trust the unknown.

And if I am trying to orient myself on this trailblazing adventure, I’ll take note of my surroundings.

Where am I now? Well, it appears as though 11 posts are enough to officially give The Bohemian his own Archive Category and Tag, making this thread even easier to follow. I notice this comes about the same time that I’ve given him one half of a drawer at my house, inside of which are kept two sarongs, a t-shirt, battery tester and sketchbook.

If we want to play with metaphors, we can say I have a compass in my back pocket. But lately I’ve been wanting to see how far I can get by using my own sense of direction.

These words are my scattered breadcrumbs. I’m walking further in…