Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 4 Comments

Mudslide

Not that I was really injured, just a little stunned.

The clackety contact of kneecaps to concrete, not much cushion between my frame of skeleton and tissue and the slime of a silty mud slick. There I was, a forty-year old woman, legs, hip, elbows and hands (no face, thankfully) bowed down (taken down) in the dark of the muddy driveway near my car.

I’d survived umpteen schleps of boxes up wet stairs that afternoon. The Bohemian had navigated a rusty ladder, balanced a rain gutter with one hand and my incessant “be careful’s” below. It was evening and we were done with our moving chores for the day.

Seeking deeper meaning, some of the Woo Woo ilk may inquire, “What were you thinking about when you fell?” (well, ok, my husband actually asked me this – he’s sort of a Woo-Woo-with-a-toolbox kind of guy).

What was I thinking?

I knew it was slippery at the driver’s door of my car and I was thinking, “walk slowly and carefully,” which I was. But then, just like that, I was kissing concrete. Well, not exactly. My hands saved my cheeks. But I was down and quite surprised to find myself as such.

No blood, no cuts, not even a bruise. All is well. The moving has resumed and I’m back to climbing stairs, though I have paused to ponder with the Woo Woo’s.

I’ve sought symbols, deeper metaphors, some real meaning to my fall, and the take-away from my little muddy slide doesn’t seem too mystical.

One can try to be careful. Prepare for potential danger. But sometimes, slips just happen.

photograph courtesy of Steven Snodgrass
photograph courtesy of Steven Snodgrass

 

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Tracking Confirmations

What is it that lives in the ephemeral corridor between waking and sleep? The source of guiding whispers that stir me from dreams of flying whales, softly landing me back into my bed with helpful hints.

Does this source – whatever it may be – impart mystical knowledge? The secret meaning of life  unveiled as I awake from my dreams?

No, it is most usually something earthly and common. Typically, quite random. And in the instance of my most recent, rousing transmission, I left my dreamtime cetacean friends and woke to this communication:

“Check the bottom left hand drawer of your desk and you’ll find the postal tracking receipt for your passport.”

I took great pains to mail my passport renewal with a return receipt and required signature. I recall the transaction at the post office ending with paper clips, post it notes and some well-laid filing plan. Though, for all of my efforts, I apparently over-organized myself to the point of not being able to find where I put my documentation.

Hence, weeks later, my passport had still not arrived and I was left with no tracking number or paperwork to show I’d ever mailed it.

Until the waking whisper.

Hours later, I’m at my desk and I remember the mundane murmurs that had come that morning through the passage between dreams and my pillow.

Why not? I reach down to the lower left hand drawer and open it.

And just exactly where it had been suggested, my dated paperwork, details on sticky notes, and the postal receipt with a tracking number are there, all paper clipped together.

usps receiptWhat’s more, later that afternoon, I open my post office box to find my new passport inside. No more tracking necessary.

So, what is the source of this information that is passed to my brain in the haze of early waking? Are these dreamtime gods?

Angels? My subconscious, that somehow knows all?

I may never know the answer to this question.

Whoever/whatever it is that offers these lucid inklings, I like their style. The delivery of something practical with a little mystical flair. Dreamy and soft, mysterious transmissions gifting me treasured secrets.

Pearls of wisdom. Like the location of my postal tracking receipt. Now that’s some info I can use.

 

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 5 Comments

Chicken or the Egg

I should not be here. I should be sleeping in bed.

And though, the truth is, I am, technically, in bed, I am not yet resting. I am typing, instead. Watching my mind mull over which comes first, the chicken or the egg.File:Hatching

It was last Saturday evening, when the Bohemian, Jeb and I, found ourselves at Mary’s house for an outdoor dinner party. The winds were up and Jeb and the Bohemian had launched a kite out in the field at sunset.

The weather was certainly not what would be deemed “cold”. In fact the Oregonians that were present, made laughing comments about the islanders that were bundling up against the gusts. They could laugh all they liked, I was feeling under-dressed in jeans, boots and a sweater. I borrowed a scarf from Mary. Put on my jean jacket.

Still, around 6pm, I could feel something coming on. Every whip of the wind agitated me to the core. I began to feel uncomfortable in my skin. It was something like cat hair beginning to itch at the back of my throat. Everything in me just wanted to go home to bed.

It’s taken nearly forty years to know my body’s signals. This one I knew. I was on the edge of getting sick. And, unfortunately, half of the dinner party had not yet arrived, and had called to say they were about an hour delayed. This was going to be a long night.

I came to the Bohemian as he straightened the string on the fallen kite, ready to launch it again.

“You know, I feel funny. Like I think I’m on the verge of getting sick.”

“Really?”

He got the last tangle out, then backed up as I took the kite in my hands.

“Yeah. I mean, if I were to be honest, I’d just like to go home, take a warm shower and get in bed. But I feel like I should stay here for the dinner.”

As my words swirled with the wind, I was acutely aware.

You know, sometimes, we are not aware.   We just push ourselves beyond what our physical bodies would like, but we don’t even know we’re doing it. Then, all of a sudden, there we are in the aftermath, sick in bed, as if it had come out of nowhere.

This was different. As I held the kite in my hand and the Bohemian pulled back, lifting it into the wind, I was quite conscious that I was at a crossroads.

Pulling in one direction was the prompting from every cell of my body, that it needed to be out of the elements and resting. Tugging the other way was my mind, rationalizing that I needed to stay at the party and fulfill my social obligation. That I could rise above and actually enjoy myself, if I just got over this inclination of needing/wanting to go home.

The kite airborne, the Bohemian staked the string, and joined me in a small shelter from the wind. I chose to stay at the party, but sensed I was taking a risk that would only reveal the consequences in time.

The rest of the invitees eventually arrived. We had great food and I made some deep connections with old friends. It felt good that I had stayed.

So, it was about 3am, back in the comfort of home, when I rose from bed with a terrible sore throat. It hurt to swallow, my head full and sore behind my eyebrows. I knew this feeling. And as I searched the medicine drawer in the dark for some throat spray, I felt a mix of I-told-you-so and disappointment.

Righteous and vindicated, in some twisted way, that I had indeed sensed I was getting sick at the party. Disappointed that I had not followed my instincts.

And then, this lingering question. If our thoughts shape our reality, did thinking that I was getting sick, actually make it so?

Was there a moment that night with the kite, the wind and my fear, when I simply wrote the story that I was getting sick? Did I believe my tale so completely that it happened?

Or was I “truly” getting sick and had the intuition?

Which came first? The sickness or the story?

And if I would have come home that night, honoring body over mind, would I have averted a sore throat?

For three days now, I’ve been powering through. Working, mothering, wifing (is that a verb?) all the while ingesting noni, turmeric, ginger, Echinacea, garlic and miso soup. I haven’t been able to shake this little bug. So, today, I am in bed (albeit, typing) with a new story: health in body and mind.

I haven’t pondered the age-old question of the chicken and the egg in quite a while. Has it ever been scientifically answered?

In my little metaphor of sickness and story, would the chicken be the sickness and the story be the egg?

I’m curious to hear the thoughts of any readers out there, as at this point, I think my egg is scrambled.

Here’s to health (and guiding intuition)!