Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

What the Stars Showed Me

Certainly not resigned, I have taken a pause on Submission.

For those following the Archives, you may recall that I’ve come to lovingly regard the process of sending my writing to various publications as “Submission.”  Turning the noun into a verb helps me surrender to the whole experience – acceptance and rejection alike.

These past weeks, creative juices have been flowing in the direction of packing boxes for my upcoming move, with little time to keep up with the Archives here, let alone submit any work elsewhere.

Ever-keen to take the cue of cosmic winks, however, I’m paying attention when the editor of an anthology requests I submit a piece or two. There are no guarantees one of my works would be chosen but she has urged me to at least make an offering, specifically referencing a short, non-fiction story called “What the Stars Showed Me”.

With minimal time to make revisions or even second guess myself, I’m readying to print, seal and stamp.  In my present flurry, there’s no room to pin hopes or expectations.  Hence the liberating freedom of Submission.

Taking it one step further and throwing all hesitation by the wayside, I’m posting an excerpt from the piece about my night camping near remote hot springs, right here.

“The moment I woke up in my hospital room, I knew I was not going to Kauai. With complete clarity, I decided that I was bound for British Columbia. I had been to BC once before and I knew one man about my age in Victoria. He and I had met in a parking lot at the house of Anne of Green Gables on Prince Edward Island that past summer. We’d spent a few days traveling with friends, exchanged a couple of letters, and he’d offered me a place to stay if I came to town.

Three weeks post-op, I am healing a fresh scar and making my way to Canada. And in this moment, I am deep in the night, freezing my bones in the Olympic rainforest, dreaming of cats while psychedelic forest trippers howl. I cannot stay in my tent. I have to make a move.

Survival instincts determine that I will try the first lower pool, with hopes that it will be empty and the water will warm me. As I walk with my flashlight through the dark, I can still see the glow of lights through the trees at the upper pool. Illustrations from my childhood edition of Rumpelstiltskin taunt me.

It was a gnome-like trickster that helped a maiden spin straw into gold.  In exchange for revealing one of life’s great secrets, he insisted she give him her first-born child if she could not guess his name. Illustrator, Edward Gorey’s spooky sketch showed a scene in the night when the maiden’s servant spied upon Rumpelstiltskin dancing round a fire in ghoulish delight. He was celebrating early victory at having stumped the maiden. That child would be his because no one knew his name was Rumpelstiltskin! The flame and shadows, the trickery, the trollish stature of the creature with the strange name who wanted babies as his prize – the darkness of the tale had made an imprint.  

Now, deep in the shadowed forest, real wild beings hoot in twitching light up on the hillside. As I cross the bridge, my flashlight begins to flicker and fade. There is the smell of sulfur and moist air. I arrive at the first pool with enough light to see that no one is here. The water is shallow with some protruding rocks, but it is quiet and I quickly strip down to immerse myself. The temperature is tepid. Not the steaming hot of the upper pool, but it’s enough to match my body temperature and quell the chill.

Though the water is not deep, I am able to submerge my whole body and find a spot among the rocks where I can stretch out. Using a boulder as a pillow, I rest my head back and look up at the night sky. A sparkling of stars dazzle the thick black backdrop. So many white studded twinkles splay before me – all magic seems possible.  

My ears are perked for sounds from the howlers, but all is now remarkably quiet. Not in an eerie way. There is a genuine calm. It is so still here in the trees I almost wonder if I was dreaming the wild ones, just like the kittens. The warm water envelopes me and I am held by the stillness of the trees and the rock beneath my head. I float in awe at the quiet of the night. See a shooting star and make a wish – the same one that I have wished so many times before. May I please one day have a child.

At some point I drift off into a subtle sleep. I don’t know how long I rest there but it is still thick in the night when a light misting begins and wakes me. A new, more immediate wish comes instantly to mind:  Please, no rain!  And just as soon as the silent plea arises, another shooting star arches through the sky and I pin all hopes upon that celestial body.

As if I am actually orchestrating with the elements, the misting immediately ceases and rain never does appear. I relax in the water, no thoughts of getting pruned, just grateful for the rock beneath my head. I acknowledge the strength of my body that has carried a 35-pound pack to this camp spot only weeks after major surgery. I am thankful for the one ovary that remains within my womb, still housing hope for creation yet to come. I am grateful for the quiet of the forest. I am happy for the comfort of my earthen pool.

Nestled in soft silt and stone, I watch the night slowly turn from black to dusky purple. Nearby roots and trunks reveal new dimensions in early light. The landscape that has held me through the night is now unveiling. Stars fade from my view.

The forest stirs. Animals rustle and the trees arch and stretch in the beginning warmth of morning. Exiting my liquid haven, I now can see it is really not much more than a glorified puddle, even more shallow and small than I had realized. Yet within those simple elements had swirled the golden mystery. Transformation of cold to warmth. Fear to ease. Dark to light. “

Excerpt from “What the Stars Showed Me” by Jessica Dofflemyer

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Exiting the City of Familiar

Maybe it was the talk last night on the 8 limbs of Ashtanga Yoga.  Maybe it’s the fact that I’m leaping into the unknown in multiple areas of my life these days.

For whatever reason, this morning I’m flashing back 10 years ago to my solo sojourn through India and Nepal.

I was twenty-seven with a mini-disc recorder, my camera and a backpack.  I had friends in Delhi but wasn’t sure they’d gotten my email about when I’d be arriving.  I had no itinerary.  No particular destination in mind.  My idea had been to go to India for two months and see what happened.

I remember looking out the window of the plane as we approached the city.  Shacks and tents and railroad tracks came closer and closer into view as we descended.  The realization that our landing was inevitable ran through my body with pulsing electricity.  I would have to disembark.  The chances were slim my friends would be at the airport. I would have to make my way through customs, fumble through a money exchange and find a ride.  There was no turning back.  We were touching down.

To my amazement and surprise, my friends were there to greet me, guiding me to an auto rickshaw and taking me to a place to sleep for the night.  It was wonderful to travel with them for a few days as we made our way out of Delhi and into the foothills of the Himalayas.  Our paths diverged in the hill station of Mussoorie, and I traveled on alone to Rishikesh and eventually into Nepal.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

These days, I face fears that don’t require a passport.  No foreign languages or exotic scents.  But it’s unknown territory all the same.

Looking back at these photographs I’m reminded of the courage (with a bit of blissful ignorance) that carried me along an epic adventure.  Through cobra snakes and midnight car rides with strangers, illnesses and pit toilets, there was always some sort of safety net.  Some miracle of circumstance that guided me and provided exactly what was needed in each moment.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

We’re all travelers of sorts, and sometimes we book trips to new lands.  When we look outside the window of our plane and see the ground getting closer, we know we’ve reached a destination.  The only way out is through that exit door.  We don’t know what will be discovered in foreign territory.  But it is invigorating to step outside our City of Familiar and take a walk amidst the new.

Here’s to the adventure…

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

The Boots

About six years ago, my good friend gifted me a fantastic pair of boots. Solid in dark brown leather, they zipped up to my ankles, keeping my feet dry in the wettest time of year on Kauai and warm during my annual winter trip to California.  These were Doc Martens, the brand of the long-standing European shoe manufacturer known for a signature look and their substantial footwear.

courtesy of Doc Marten's

The thing that was unique about these boots was that they didn’t look like Doc Martens.  The round toe and high, thick rubber sole so commonly associated with their style had been replaced by a streamlined shoe that looked more like a moccasin than industrial footwear.  Where typical Docs could easily handle the weight of a 200 pound man all day in the warehouse, this version looked more like they were ready to go skipping through Sherwood Forest with a quiver of arrows.  Still solid in their design, they just looked softer.  They were perfect,  except for the fact that they were ankle boots.

Really, they’re an ideal height for tropical living and the few weeks a year that this climate supports them being worn at all.  But it’s the knee-high version (which I discovered did exist) that would be ideal for riding side-saddle through ancient trees or scaling mountain paths in search of the Holy Grail (or at least some good writing material).

There’s just something about a pair of boots that go all way up to your knees.  You’re covered, snug, secure.  Footsteps feel even more grounded.  You’re wearing boots.  Now anything is possible on this path.

The last time I had a pair of knee highs was when I was seven years old.  They were in style then (just as they have reappeared in fashion as of late) and I loved them so much I would tuck my jeans inside so as to showcase them in all their vinyl glory.  I still can recall coming out of Yamaha piano lessons with my mom.  It was night and we were walking back to the car in the parking lot and I was wearing boots.  In that moment, I felt like anything was possible – I felt strong – my feet were solid on the ground.  I felt my little seven-year old self touch some kind of power that was beyond seven years.  Of course it wasn’t sourced in my Payless Shoe Store boots.  But they were reminding me with every step about something within.  Something that I was just in the early stages of sensing.

Since I was gifted those ankle boots six years ago, together, we have seen some miles.  We’ve danced on sticky bar room floors, climbed to mountain vistas and walked city streets.  I know I’ve fallen in love at least twice in those things.  Recently the sole began to give way and separate from the leather.  I’ve thought about the old-school shoe repair guy in Lihue where I could find out if they could be fixed.  But I’ve never let go of the idea of the knee-high version.  Thirty years after that parking lot moment in my boots, isn’t it time I got a new pair?

It was about six months ago that I decided to make my investment.  Fueled by this vision of myself wandering through Europe, I could vividly see my steps meandering in these boots.  I thought that if I bought the boots, the vision would be fueled.  Step one (pardon the pun) towards bringing my fantasy into the physical.  I thought it would be simple to go online and buy them but the search was futile.  Over the course of a few weeks, I would periodically resume my search, finding many stores that offered them but not in my size.

Even the Doc Marten company did not have the boot available.  The only place I could find the style and size was at their European location, which meant a huge cost in shipping that I just couldn’t bear to pay.  It seemed my knee-high boot dream would remain an elusive symbol,  the time not yet right to set foot on my travel path.  I resolved that if those boots ever did materialize, it would be a harbinger of coming one remote step closer to packing my bags and stepping on a plane.

I hadn’t thought about the boots in a while.  It was late afternoon on Easter Sunday and Jeb and I were digesting our meal, spending a little mellow time at home.  As I checked my emails an advertisement for boots came on the sidebar (they know their target audience, to be sure).  Just for fun, I checked again, fully expecting they would only have the typical odd sizes not fitted to my feet.  I found myself on Doc Marten’s website and within seconds there were the boots in UK5, Euro38, US7.  Those were my boots (and they came with free shipping).

courtesy of Doc Marten's

Ignoring all reason that these were not a seasonably wise purchase for my current locale (especially with summer coming on) I persevered and input my shipping information – these boots were 30 years in coming!  I could see us disembarking from the plane onto foreign soil as I typed.  All points had brought us to this moment and within two days, Doc Marten said they would be shipped right to my doorstep.  I’d figure out my archery practice later, this was the simple beginning…

With the ‘purchase’ button clicked and the confirmation email in my inbox, the rest is up to fate.  There is still the possibility they may not be all I’ve hoped for.  There’s that chance they just won’t fit.  Either way, most likely, you dear reader, will hear all about it.  Until then, my boots and I are walking through rocky seaside villages and pausing to lean against thick-barked tree trunks.  If only in my mind.