Yes, I’ve been wandering the transparent places. This morning it’s lost and found with Rumi.
Not that I fully understand.
But my arms are outstretched, taking hold…
Lovers think they’re looking for each other, but there’s only one search: wandering this world is wandering that, both inside one transparent sky. In here there is no dogma and no heresy.
The miracle of Jesus is himself, not what he said or did about the future. Forget the future. I’d worship someone who could do that.
On the way you may want to look back, or not, but if you can say There’s nothing ahead, there will be nothing there.
Stretch your arms and take hold the cloth of your clothes with both hands. The cure for pain is in the pain. Good and bad are mixed. If you don’t have both, you don’t belong with us.
When one of us gets lost, is not here, he must be inside us. There’s no place like that anywhere in the world.
So the wee hours of yesterday were spent crafting words that swirled in the updraft of blossoming hearts and golden love.
This morning, I’m all mom.
For some unknown reason, Jeb wakes at 5:23am and never goes back to sleep. Though he knows this is my writing hour, he can’t help but interject his seven year old self as I type. There’s that dream he had last night with Harry Potter and the lightening bolt.
Or, “Just real fast mom,” he opens his palm full of 50 dimes, “do you have a five dollar bill to trade me.”
Counting coins before 6am (there’s a lot of jangling coming from his room) would be unnerving except that it’s buying me some time here at the keyboard.
The post that was brewing will most likely not be birthed here, as my living offspring – though being respectfully patient – will soon need breakfast.
Yes, the thread I was following, which I thought to share with you, was something on the topic of privacy. Ironically, this morning, here in the Archives, Jeb’s peripheral presence does not quite allow me the typical private space I rely on to express myself.
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
It’s 6:20am now and the sun is rising to shine light on all things tender. Yesterday’s post, “Love with the Capital L” still stirs in me with all its vulnerability. There is no one on my small island with whom I have revealed this sacred sharing. What compels me to post a piece on the world-wide web announcing an affair with a character deemed the Bohemian Lover?
Perhaps all of this loving, sweet magic has gone to my head, simply clouding my discretion. Maybe.
If so, my current mood says, “so be it.” There seems to be gold in the sharing. Something rich in being this raw in uncharted territory. Maybe these words are survival instincts. Tossing breadcrumbs in my wake, hoping that if this trail leads to overwhelming places, I’ll have some lifeline to lead me back.
Oh how I wish there was the time to really articulate these thoughts, but breakfast calls. I am a woman putting lunch snacks in Tupperware, crafting poetry in my head over dirty dishes and sifting in the memory of strong arms around my waist as my son asks me “how do you spell ‘wizard’?”
These morning words from me, simply breadcrumbs, while I follow the thread.
Just when finances are feeling tight, the gods (goddesses, angels, et al) smile down on my worrisome human head.
A Sunday with Mary bestows abundant gifts.
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
There are the tender roselles, freshly picked, for making vibrant, sweet red tea. A pile of sun-kissed tangerines from the valley below. Kale, arugula, basil, green beans.
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
The chard’s so large it grows up to my thighs. Enamored, I take a macro lens to the stalk and veins. I’m a palm reader, tracing the lines that zig and zag through chlorophyl valleys, holding life keys of photosynthesized destiny. I am in love with this Nature art.
And still there’s more!
The honey pour. There remains a batch of thick, golden nectar harvested from the hive on Beltane. Mary pours the 5 gallon jug through the funnel into my one gallon glass jar. We marvel at the beauty of the honey bee. Wax poetic on the gift of spreading the ambrosia of flower essence on our toast. How many people in the world have seen a 5 gallon jug of honey? It takes muscle to wrestle this treasure.
If I were to tell the whole truth, I’d admit that the last time we poured this honey, I was jumping over the fire in ritualistic prayer. Holding Beltane visions for the Fall. Deep in my heart were scenes set on an Italian coastline, my hands warming by some stone hearth in October seaside mist. A thick rug beneath my feet, the Swiss Traveler by my side. Infinite possibilities stretching out as deep and ancient as the Ligurian sea.
This autumn I’m still here at home. And after all these riches are loaded in the car, we gather around the backyard fire and eat an Italian meal. Manigotti and homemade bread. My feet warm by the flames. Occasional sparks fly toward my toes. The moon – almost full – is rising above the heads of these close friends, my family.
I am far from Cinque Terra. The Swiss Traveler is on another journey. But the terra firma beneath me is fertile, yielding love disguised as honey, chard and citrus.
Tonight in firelight there is not disappointment. Only curiosity. Contemplation of the essence of all things.
What’s at the heart? What really shapes these objects: flicking sparks, moonlit shadows, the sticky nectar I lick into my bloodstream?
It’s all love I’m harvesting. And it’s filling up the passenger seat of my car.
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