Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Cherry Bombs and Black Magic

“It’s ok, mom, I’m just trying to teach you something new.”

Jeb walks over to wrap his seven-year old arm around my waist, the basketball tucked beneath his other limb.

I put my hand on top of his blonde head, which is now cresting just beneath my sternum.  “I don’t think I fully get the game, hon.  It’s hard when we don’t have the actual lines here.”

We’re on the street with imaginary boundaries, bouncing the ball between us as Jeb attempts to teach me the game of Foursquare.

He’s a good coach, offering enthusiastic exclamations like, “You’re good!  You’re almost better than me!” at even my most simple passes.  He’s convincing in his encouragement and seems to have become 30 while I’ve regressed to age eight.

There are bounce moves with crafty names:  Typewriter, Cherry Bomb and Black Magic.

I try my hand at several but never find my groove.

As we wrap it up and head back down the road, we walk and pass the ball between us.

“Never give up, mom.  It’s fun when you get the hang of it.  I was just thinking that if you learned a new game that maybe when you were with some guys your age, you could have something you could play together.”

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

The Art of Welcome

I didn’t think we’d have company.  It looked like my friend who was flying out the following day would not be able to come by the house for a final dinner farewell.

I got into Sunday morning spring cleaning anyway.  With full days, I choose one cupboard at a time.  On this morning it was beneath the kitchen sink.  Pear-scented, eco dish soap and lavender counter top cleanser got organized with fresh sponges.  I wiped down surfaces with environmentally-friendly insect spray, its scent of peppermint, rosemary and clove, wafting up from under all the pipes.  With the botanicals clearly represented, I shut the cupboard door with a satisfaction in knowing there was order in a space that’s seldom seen.

And who cared if I wouldn’t have dinner guests.  My kitchen cabinets were getting clean.

By 3pm I get a call and the dinner party’s on.  Jeb and I will have company after all.  Too late to start the big pot of soup I had been planning, I get anxious on what to feed everyone on late notice.  What do I have time to make?  How many people are coming?  Will there be enough?

I’m able to laugh at my insecurities as a hostess but can’t quite shake the feeling.  I had called this gathering together and then was having second thoughts.  I make a quick run to the store in town and come home determined to stay relaxed and have fun.  Remember the reason for my initial invitation – to send a friend off with good wishes.

Jeb has made a sign to post on our front door.  As he double checks the spelling of the word welcome, I soak in the letters with fresh perspective.  Well come.  The simple statement of inviting well-being.

Just as the olive tapenade is finished, everyone arrives as if on cue.  Friends file through our doorway with full hands.  A huge bag of fresh cut basil.  A box of food – sushi rolls, a steak, gourmet popcorn, salmon, asparagus, mushrooms.  To think I was afraid there’d be no food!

We feast on raviolis with garden pesto, kale salad with curried beets, roasted vegetables and fish cooked on the grill.  For dessert it’s vanilla ice cream with olive oil and red-clay salt.  Chunks of dark chocolate with cherries and chilis.  We look at one another with affirming eyes and nods.  What a meal!

From nothing, came something…and more.

In the land of the luau I was reminded.

Welcome!

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Benediction

Something comes from nothing.

Like the miracle of Moses parting the Red Sea, Rex unexpectedly offers four days of Jeb time and suddenly I’m a woman in an empty house with open passage.  My to-do’s get checked and crossed.  Mornings are spent in my turquoise kimono with golden sun and extra time for words.  I spend my evenings at the River House with long-time friends and belly laughs.

We make our way into the Village where the sleek restaurant/bar pulses hip, downtempo beats over bodies milling in black.  I see humans hoping for minor blessings.  Servers ready to go home, hopeful for big tips.  The guys at the bar scanning, wondering if they’ll see a new face in this small town.

A local divorcee faces a woman squarely, four knees barely touching.  The hand with his tattooed wedding ring will reach to brush her in a gesture.  He’s eager with the prospect of leaving the past behind.  His hands planting themselves upon her with more certainty as their glasses empty.  Patrons smile approvingly, they know everyone needs love.  We all seek saving graces.

courtesy of Wikipedia

I drive myself home and ponder the inexplicable.   The sun miracle at Fatima.  1917 in Portugal and thousands of people brought to their knees as the earth’s central star danced the sky with multi-colored hues.  Their bodies blazed in penetrating heat.  The multitudes were pressed to the deepest humbling, at the mercy of the cosmos.  They crossed themselves and readied for certain death – this was the end of the world, for sure.  And then, just as suddenly, the afterglow of stillness.

 

 

The sun hung, just like it always had and they were left to mingle amongst each other, reverberating in phenomena they could not fathom.

As I steer myself to my abode, I sing off-key and loud with Julian Velard‘s Bjork cover tune.  My low-lit house greets me, where I’ll leave the dishes in the sink for another day.  It’s time to rest in open spaces.  Slip beneath soft sheets.  There’s no fanfare here.  No walking on water.  But divinity is present.  I feel the miracle of the greatest something in this nothingness.