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Cold Feet

The new boots are right here next to me.  Kind of like the headless horseman, they stand erect, tall, but empty – waiting for feet and legs to take them for a walk.

Poised here by my writing desk, they exude the scent of leather, fresh and pristine.  What other scents will soon mingle with these boots?  The stale smell of an airplane’s interior?  The damp undergrowth of an ancient forest?  The salt and stone of a seaside village?

This is not my first pair.  The original boots I ordered arrived by mail two weeks ago and when I slipped them on, my feet were swimming.  What does it mean when the dream boots that took six years in coming are finally on your feet and they don’t fit?  They were meant to carry me through visions of grandeur.  Were my imaginings rooted in shoes too big to fill?  My heels are narrow and the wiggle room inside those boots were a set up for floppy hikes and blister city.

Alas, I conceded.  Let them go.  They had to be returned.

There is a happy ending, though.  Or, hopefully, a happy beginning.

I ordered a smaller size.

Perhaps I needed an exercise in holding out for exactly what I wanted.  Making sure I had a perfect fit – solid, secure, grounded and ready for action.  My alternate, smaller versions arrived in good time and when I tried them on, they hugged my feet in promised support.  A fine balance of good sizing with just enough room for future stretch and give.

So this morning, it’s not yet sunrise.  75 degrees and 83% humidity.  I’ve slipped my bare island feet into my boots and zipped them to my knees.  I can sit with the twittering of song birds and the random wake-up calls of roosters.  Ask these kicks, “What’s our first adventure?”

I hold an element of hesitancy, not wanting to mar their pristine state.  I know that once I walk into the world with these, I am committed.  Stepping beyond my front door to touch down on real-life soil, makes them mine.  There is no more return.

Maybe I’m not quite ready (though opportunities for wear are limited in this May, tropical clime).  Perhaps I need to keep them in.  Just slip them on at dawn and dream a bit.  Ask them where they’d like to wander.

Zipped up tight, I can imagine earthy realms where we could travel.  Safe within my mind, scenarios are left to the place where I still can edit.  Fast forward, rewind, delete.  Maybe I’m not quite ready to set foot completely on the real path – muddy, rocky, leading to the unknown.

This morning these boots feel snug and full of promise.  They’ll wait patiently for me to live the script.  Ready when I am, to set foot outside.

Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved
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I Still Have a Penchant for Fancy Forks

At the ‘Writing from the Heart’ workshop I recently attended, we were given 20 minutes and a prompt.

One of them was “Dinner at our house was…”  Here’s what came out.

Dinner at our house was…

at the big round table
in the small dining room
golden colored, thick wood
housed within yellow, textured wallpaper

flatware silver
napkins paper
place mats thick and rubber

maybe we ate something like meatloaf
the red ketchup juicer in the middle
a little pile of Shaklee vitamins
in the corner of our place setting

Mom preferred the nonfat milk
a serving of thin, watery, bluish white
filling glasses that rarely emptied

somehow one fork – different from the rest
had made its way into our silverware drawer
with intricate designs embellished on the metal
Deemed “the fancy fork”
my brother, sister and I would call dibs
“I get the fancy fork!”

Dad – I don’t recall him much at mealtime
there are flashes of a coffee table set for one
late night and we are in pajamas
mom serving him in front of the television
us heading on towards bed

And Mom,
when did she eat?
always moving in the kitchen

These were the early years
before 11
in the old house tucked inside the orange grove
before divorce
before we moved to town

By high school, in the suburbs
Mom would say,
“Let’s eat together, it’s important”
but by then there were friends to see
we’d been snacking after school
cheese quesadillas
cinnamon toast crunch cereal
bowls of ice cream with Magic Shell

Mom working
three teenagers at home
just ignoring the crock pot with a chicken
set to warm

courtesy Kevin Dooley
Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 5 Comments

Unfold Your Own Myth

I walked into to the office of a client yesterday and on the desk where I usually sit was The Essential Rumi, wrapped in a bright orange ribbon.  Tucked beneath the bow were two golden puakinikini flowers, joined at the stem, and a card that read “To a Beautiful Mother.”

That night Jeb has a bad dream while clouds thunder and jolts of electricity splinter the sky.  I let him crawl into bed with me, to drift back to sleep and sprawl his legs all over. 1:30am and storming, I was up for hours.

This morning I grab slipping darkness, it’s nearly six o’clock as Jeb still sleeps.  My writing hour will quickly seep to sunshine.

Not much time to dip into the well of my own and stir.  I turn towards a master.  Flip to one random page and see what Rumi has to say.

Unfold Your Own Myth

Who gets up early to discover the moment light begins?
Who finds us here circling, bewildered, like atoms?
Who comes to a spring thirsty
and sees the moon reflected in it?
Who, like Jacob blind with grief and age,
smells the shirt of his lost son
and can see again?
Who lets a bucket down and brings up
a flowing prophet?  Or like Moses goes for fire
and finds what burns inside the sunrise?

Jesus slips into a house to escape enemies,
and opens a door to the other world.
Solomon cuts open a fish, and there’s a gold ring.
Omar storms in to kill the prophet
and leaves with blessings.
Chase a deer and end up everywhere!
An oyster opens his mouth to swallow one drop.
Now there’s a pearl.
A vagrant wanders empty ruins.  
Suddenly he’s wealthy.

But don’t be satisfied with stories, how things
have gone with others.  Unfold
your own myth, without complicated explanation,
so everyone will understand the passage,
We have opened you.

Start walking toward Shams.  Your legs will get heavy
and tired.  Then comes a moment
of feeling the wings you’ve grown,
lifting.

~Rumi
translated by Coleman Barks and John Moyne

courtesy of wikipedia