Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Did Rumpelstiltskin Hold the Key to the Elixir of Life?

As I work through the telling of one of my own little tales, Rumpelstiltskin arises in the story.

The artwork of Edward Gorey (a name fitting to be the modern illustrator for the Brothers Grimm) surfaces from the far reaches of my memories.  I can still envision his rendering of the small and strange, troll-meets-gnome-like character of Rumpelstiltskin.  The creature that came to the maiden and showed her how to spin straw into gold.

artwork courtesy of Edward Gorey

Yet there was a price for the secret of alchemy.  She had three tries to guess his name or he would take her first-born child as his prize.  It seemed he was going to win this wager after all, but his arrogance was his undoing.

It’s the Gorey scene of Stiltskin by the fire that made such an imprint in my childhood.  It comes now to my mind’s eye when I sketch out a scene of my own, a time at 23 when I was deep in the forest, alone.  In the fairytale the maiden’s servant had followed our gnome into the woods one night, where she saw him dance around the fire celebrating an early victory.  He would get the maiden’s child because nobody knew his name was Rumpelstiltskin!

artwork courtesy of Edward Gorey

In my storyline, there is no troll (though I did have to cross a bridge) and no straw to be found.  These past few days I’m wondering exactly how this little dude relates.  I guess it is the writer’s job to attempt to weave the loose threads.

Right now it’s just filaments of themes:  Elements and transmutation.  Facing fear.  Dreams and desires.  The power of knowing a name.  The elixir of life and the womb.

Who would have thought that such a small-fry in a jester’s hat could stir such pondering?

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Beauty in the Backyard

bird bath overflow with papaya leaf after downpour ~ photo by Jessica Dofflemyer all rights reserved

I’ve been steeped in the past by looking through old journal entries, trying to piece together details to convey stories.  Big Sur just a month ago.  British Columbia fifteen years past.  Funny how the act of simply reading the words can stir the proverbial pot and thicken the broth.  Perhaps the emotions conjured through reading are a gateway through which I transcend time and space.  A vehicle with which I can build bridges or burn them down, depending on my desire.

For now I’m just thankful for how long the ink lasts on aged paper.  Hoping the mold doesn’t overtake my treasure trove of journals before I cross all those bridges (and digitize those stories somehow).

With the pot simmering and my heart transporting itself through time portals, it’s good to remember true North.  Which literally happens to be my physical locale in the island chain.  Home is where the heart is.  And there’s certainly some love and beauty in the backyard.

the tropical version of a Maxfield Parish painting ~ photo by Jessica Dofflemyer all rights reserved

 

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Home

[The following is the 100th post here in the Archives and the third installment in the series “Excerpts from the Coastal Dwelling.”]

By Day 3 and 4 in my feel-good place, I was certainly more in touch with the feel-good.  I’d overcome resistance.  Had grooved and was moved in the Dance Church.  I’d ventured into the Rise Up Singing! class and harmonized a gospel tune with twenty other singers.  I’d had a cleansing cry with my workshop facilitator, confessing I was mending a broken heart.  And of course, my daily soaking rituals were dissolving layers in ways that only hydrotherapy can do.

So by Day 4, I’d quieted down into a soft hum.  I could sit in the meditation hut for 30 minutes of silence without struggle.  Calm seemed to seamlessly transition from the hut’s round purple pillow out the door into my day.  My mind was clear.  My heart open.

As I walked along the seacliff, an old spiritual of which I only knew some of the words, would surface and lilt through my throat to the salt air.

Swing low, sweet chariot
coming for to carry me home
Swing low, sweet chariot
coming for to carry me home

The song somehow soothed me.  And I was truly home.  In the midst of such external beauty, yes, it was my idyllic abode.  Big forest trees, ocean, mossy rocks, succulents and cascading waterfalls to the sea.  Steaming springs that bubbled forth from the earth.  But it was on the inside that I felt that resting place of ease.  Connected with my truest self – my own chariot – I was home.

In this heightened state of openness – porosity, if you will – the landscape seeped through me.  The rich, wet path along the river was, in essence, my very own heart.  The landmarks I’d been making peace with were more than just a backdrop to the love story of the Rocket Scientist and I.

…my love for him is enmeshed in the sound of that river flowing.  He is in the water and the bowing cedar trees.  Our love is grounded in this place.  The trees sing of him, the paths hold the story of our connection, the rocks and lawns tell of the sweetness we found in Love, with each other. This Love is housed in my physical body- my very cells.  The land knows.  It reminds me.

Walking out of the meditation hut on Day 4, I realized that there was no extracting him from the wind in those big trees.  And I did not want to anymore.  The breeze was no longer bittersweet.  What blew through the branches that whispered of him, more deeply held the essence of Love itself.  Love that was shared between a man and a woman but was a reflection of my own heart.  A gateway to a Love more vast than anything that could ever be ‘mine’, yet all that I ever was.

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved

shine your light
you don’t have to let go of that sweet essence
the connection you made
was your own true Beloved
full and rich with open heart
you stumbled forward
arms outstretched
to touch the grace
in wonder

the essence is alive in you
through you
it’s what
was
is
and always will be
yours
Love
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