Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

The Absurdly Beautiful Appointment

mother bodies arc
forming thresholds
that cannot
hold
the immensity
of life
and death

we are but vessels
through which
the deepest pain
and greatest joy
seep and surge

a woman deep
in labored birthing
is asked to call upon the Gods
plea for help in delivering
her baby
though every name
of every saint
she knows is uttered
as she bears down
she merely slips
into a darkness
filled with
nothing

and there is another
the newest mother
her gift
of angelic perfection
swaddled in pink
less than seven pounds
with sweetly wrinkled
fingertips
fresh from the watery womb
now here
in the air
she needs everything
but her house
has a father that stays out late
spits insults in the kitchen
and a mother
who leaks tears
as she is nursing

oh, and there are, too
those written words
that call
from the other side
of grievous pain
one mother’s loss
of her son
not yet four
she is being asked
to hold the burn of searing flames
to the deepest place
within her heart
and still walk
among the living

“seals may bite”
is the sign
at the trailhead
warning of an
“extremely protective mother”
almost extinct
completely defenseless
monk seals
mother and child
loll in low tide
at the far end
of the quiet beach
the small baby
close
one flipper
resting gently
on its mother’s belly
basking
in the sun

in another place
it is night
and he is illuminated
by firelight
and the inspiration
of seven years
culminating to this moment
of making wishes
in whispers
close to his mother’s face
heart’s desires
carried on hopeful breaths
scented sweet with jelly beans
and all things
possible
he gasps
“I wish that the sky would rain hot dogs
that you would live forever
and never die”

we are mothers
living portals
standing passages
for
all
to sieve through
life
death
everything
nothing
and yes
even
the profoundly undefined

it’s everyday
as our hearts curve
around
our absurdly beautiful appointment
we pass you
on the street
filled with an endeavor
that cannot be given
real words
though we hold our lists
buying broccoli
at the corner store
and saying
‘thank you’
when given
change

 

courtesy of glyn nelson
courtesy of glyn nelson
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Dwelling with The Mothers of the World

Over the weekend was a pivotal parental let-go.

I guided eight and a half-year old Jeb through a solo sojourn. His first real walk alone. A milestone, not unlike that pinnacle moment years ago, when he released my finger and began a precarious and tubby toddle away from me.

“Yeah, just walk with me to that mango tree and then you can turn around,” he suggests.

He’s got his back pack on and our rubber slippers are flip-flopping, ankle-deep in grass, along our country road. Jeb’s going to his dad’s house which is about a third of a mile away from where we live. It’s his first unaccompanied trek.

“Ok, this is good,” he says as we approach the big tree. It’s a hug and a kiss and a modern, motherly reminder from me to “text me when you get there, ok?”

As the words come from my mouth, I recognize that parental predecessors have never had this technological assurance. But this back up doesn’t make the space between farewell and my cell phone display screen any less tenuous.

“Ok, love you…” he says as he waves and walks on, beaming in this moment of flight and freedom.

We move in opposite directions, then catch each other both looking back over our shoulders at one another. More waves are exchanged, then we move further on. Another backward glance and we’re both smiling to see each other peeking back again.

This goes on, repeatedly, as we make our way in opposite directions.

A few steps further away, look back, smile, wave. A few more steps away.

Finally, there is a curve in the road that we both know will permanently put us out of sight of one another. He is distant but I can hear him.

“Ok, mom, bye!”

And just like that, a shared, final gesture of parting and he rounds out and away from my view.

I know Jeb’s Dad is waiting to receive him on the other side. He, too, has been given the request to text me as soon as Jeb makes it there (no cell reception at his house, only text messages can come through). It’s not that I’m worried, just wanting confirmation.

So two hours later and three of my sent messages (something along the lines of “please help a mother rest assured that our boy made it alright”) I’ve settled into the deepest let go. The one countless mothers have done long before cell phones. Trusting that no news is good news. Rationalizing that if Jeb wouldn’t have made it, his father would have contacted me by now, wondering where he was. That they must be having so much fun, they just forgot.

Not extremely anxious, just not completely settled, I get to sit in the company of the Mothers of the World. Surrender to the space of no guarantees. Dwell within the uncertainty that links us across the ages.

No matter how many technological tools offer instant answers, there will never be a definitive promise. A mother will always be required to release her child back into the world.

And in the case of this mother (as in, me), she didn’t get that little reassurance until sunset, when her cell phone sounded and the words, “I’m ok” came across her screen.

Mother’s intuition knew this all along. She just got to let go and rely on it.

photo courtesy of llamnunds
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Watching for Owls

“Watch for owls.”

I’m pulling out of the driveway on to the moonlit gravel road. Leaning forward in my seat, I look through the windshield, driving slowly, my headlights on bright to illumine the fence posts that line this stretch.

We’ve driven less than 100 yards and Jeb is officially asleep. It’s nearly 2 hours past his bedtime, but that’s what you get to do – even on a school night – when it’s your birthday.

The Bohemian is in the passenger seat at my side, his eyes quietly scanning the outlying fields. This is a one lane road. No street lights. No sounds but for the hum of my motor and the stones that get kicked up by my wheels.

I’ve driven down this road in the dark many nights, often getting the gift of a sighting. Powerful and silent, the white glow of owl wings swishing through my headlights. Once I paused just short of a night-time sentry perched upon the fence, allowing my lights to observe it, its head turning 180 degrees to peer inside my window.

On this track, we can only see as far as my headlights will reach. Beyond that is dark, only lit by stars and moon.

“You should write a poem about looking for owls on this road,” says the Bohemian.

“Mmm. I like that idea. I need a post for the Archives tomorrow,” I say.

He smiles in the dark. “Well that’s going to be about Jeb’s birthday party.”

“Maybe both.”

courtesy of Vic Nic

full of kabobs and chocolate cake
our hair still smokey
from a starlight fire
there are three
driving quietly
down the dark
one lane road

with a gallon of honey
and a sleeping boy
in the back seat
this man and I
we watch for owls

eight years ago
I was alone
when the water broke
and the labor began
bringing life into my arms
to grow
in time
and measure
“How tall am I? I think I’m at your chin!”

tonight we can only see
as far as the light will reach
just beyond its cast
shadowed fields
and dampened grass
soak in shooting stars
realms
too delicate and wild
to be revealed
for now
this man and I
we watch for owls

and he thinks I am a poet
that could possibly tell you
about the magic
of seeking signs
with dim light in darkness

about the beauty of the quiet road
a birthday
my sleeping son
the feeling of an open hand
resting on my knee

I lean closer
to the window
look up
for flutters
in the light