Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 2 Comments

The Pitfalls of Dancing in Exits

I saw the Grateful Dead in concert for the first time in San Diego in 1993.  I was twenty years old and eager to experience the mythical convergence of fringe-dwellers gathering for music, love and freedom.

courtesy of Pennylane gifts

I ceremoniously sewed a skirt by hand for the occasion and that night, adorned myself with beads.  I packed my Guatemalan bag – the one with the embroidered hummingbird – and included my pocket-sized Tao Te Ching.  Perhaps I’d have a culminating moment when it would be fitting to reach for ancient, inspiring words.  I readied for an experience.  Preparing to become changed through this unique musical experience I had only heard about.

Veteran Deadheads would nod knowingly when they heard this was my first show.  Tales would unravel about the transcendent moments had with Jerry Garcia‘s guitar solo or Mickey Hart‘s drums.  Typically, my most intimate moments with the Divine had been alone in nature.  But I was faithful to the power of music and it seemed the proof was in the masses that had been following this band for nearly three decades.

I’d been touched by the music simply through the speakers of my car stereo.  There was just something about Phil Lesh‘s bass line in Shakedown Street that got me.

As much as I appreciated the music, I was also looking forward to joining the flock of freaks, a group of people I perceived as being all-accepting and encouraging of others to be themselves.  A diverse community where everyone was accepted and self-expression – no matter how different – was the norm.

In the dark of the night, the parking lot outside of the coliseum was a carnival of characters.  College students drank beers and old-time hippies congregated in hand-painted buses.  The vehicles created aisles that buzzed with bodies.  Some wandered for the miracle of a ticket to the show.  Others hustled goods – with everything from baskets of ‘goo balls’,  to various substances, to handmade dresses.  The rush of thousands of people gearing up for the main event was overwhelming.  I knew I had wanted a taste of anarchy and freedom, I just didn’t know it would feel so wild.

I was dedicated to staying open to the chaos and finding my own rhythm in the madness.  Once inside the venue, with the show fully underway, I found myself in one of the exit openings on a small ramp.  Concert-goers were standing in any open space, watching the show or dancing in their own spaces.  I had found my place that seemed just right for testing out my own kind of abandon.  I was earnest in my desire to transcend self-consciousness.  To reach down inside and let my true nature emerge.  To dance as if no one was watching.  If I couldn’t do it here with all of these flowering eccentrics, where could I?

The music boomed through massive speakers, vibrating through the concrete building and pulsing our bodies.  Arms twirled, floor-length skirts swirled and I silently coached myself to just let go.  Find oneness with the music.  Close my eyes.  Move.

Slowly I found my place.  I was smiling.  Dancing.  In a world where my body and music had met in harmony.  I felt the freedom in releasing just to be – whatever wanted to move in the moment – it was allowed.  I was dancing, freely.  It felt good.  And then…

In an instant, the quickened flash of good-trip-gone-wrong collided into my feel-good world.  Literally.  A stumbling and disoriented young man came Dead-headlong, directly into me.

In hindsight, what I can ascertain is that our Hard-Time Friend was having a hard time.  Stuck in the circular labyrinth of bodies on the interior of the concert hall, he was just looking for a way out.  A light in the tunnel.  My little exit-portal-turned-dancing-haven was his beacon and when he came upon it, he thrust himself towards it with everything he had.

There I am, in my green and red paisley skirt, eyes closed, letting go.  And everything Hard-Time Friend has is barreling down the exit ramp straight into my sweet little world.  I didn’t see him coming in time.  And there was a full collision.  He slammed right into me, landing on top of me and we skidded down, just a ways, on the cement ramp.  My head had hit the pavement but not too hard.  The back of my shirt was slightly torn.

We both lay there for a few seconds, stunned.  Hard-Time Friend’s trip had just turned trippier.  He was mortified.  Mumbling apologies profusely.  I was shocked.  He made sure I was OK, but quickly moved on, in no condition to connect or really offer much to the situation.  Other faces nearby checked in, gave smiles when I stood and then it was back to music.

I was determined to still enjoy the concert, trying to shake the visceral event that had just occurred.  My mind couldn’t help but shame myself for thinking that I could really let go.  The message that had just slammed into my being was that I was silly to think I was safe.  You can’t ever just be free.

Looking back on this initiation to the Grateful Dead – my first time experience – I find it humorous and fitting.  I’ve spent decades dreaming the ideal and then testing reality to see if I can live it.  Of course I’d collide with the dense matter of the third dimensional world as I tried to transcend into realms of music and ether.  I might as well have been a Wright Brother on a trial flight.  These experiments can end in crash and burn.  It’s par for the course.

What I didn’t know then, but I think I understand now, is that there is no shame in trying.  It wasn’t that I was wrong in that exit portal trying to find a haven for my dance. It was the location that was less than ideal.  I was just naive.  These days, should I be seeking to commune with the Divine, I would not choose a thoroughfare of concrete slab.  I may even keep my eyes open in the midst of 30,000 strangers.  Not because I’m jaded, but because I’ve learned (a little) discernment.

So when is it safe to let loose and truly dance?  Enlightened ones may say the opportunity is in every moment.  Though that doesn’t mean I necessarily need to boogie down the aisles of Foodland on my next grocery shop.  Freedom comes in many forms.  Sometimes the most graceful moves are made within.

But I gotta say, I’ll never forget Phish‘s rendition of “Antelope” under the stars on a summer Vermont hillside.  And there’s nothing like a little Michael Jackson in the living room with Jeb to set me free.

It’s always good to stretch beyond your comfort, take a little risk.  But get your coordinates lined up.  Make sure you’re inner compass is aligned with this earthly plane.  Choose your dance space wisely.  Avoid lingering in the exits.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

The Dark Side Meets Mother Love

“Mom, who do you like more, Boba Fett or Jango Fett?”

I’ll admit I’m Star Wars illiterate.  I remember the first movie in the theatre when I was about seven (Jeb’s age now) and I could keep the main characters straight:  Luke Skywalker, Princess Lea, Darth Vader.  I followed Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi but then my attention turned towards things more earthly.

Jeb’s current focus is the two-for-one-dream-come-true combo of Legos and Star Wars.  Not only can he build intricate models of starships, these Lego sets come with little figures representing specific Star Wars characters.  Jeb and his friends now spend time trading “Lego Guys.”

Boba Fett

So much for The Dudes (the subject of a past post).  It appears Jeb has launched beyond the earth plane, swapping the circa 1950’s “Indians” and soldiers for beings of more galactic origins.

I inquire.  “They are both ‘Fetts’.  Does that mean they are related?”

“Yeah.  Jango Fett is Boba Fett’s dad.”

I reach for a figure.  “Is this Jango Fett?”

“No!” he sounds incredulous.  “That’s Boba Fett.”

“Do you have Jango Fett?”

“No.  He’s very rare.”

“So are the Fetts on the Dark Side?”

“Yes.”

“What do you like about them?”

“They have powers and can do things that the Jedis can’t do.  And they have jet packs.”

From what I can gather, Jeb has seen Star Wars movies with his dad and information about these cosmic lineages are also shared among the boys on the playground.  He and I have never watched a Star Wars movie.  At this point, I have given up the ideal protection bubble I would like to have around him, shielding him from all things weapon-related.  Tiny Lego figures in sets for six-year olds, hold miniature guns.  Ugh!

Jeb finishes his breakfast and moves to clear his dishes.  I’m making the bed.  Morning time is coming on outside and the birds sing with the roosters.

Jeb hums a favorite tune at the sink.  It’s the theme in Star Wars, often used as the camera pans from space and zooms into the ship.  It’s that dramatic orchestration that falls heavy  with the black footsteps of Darth Vader:  “dah, dah, dah-dah, dah-dah-dah, dah, dah, dah”.

Jeb gives the dark and foreboding tune a new twist, adding words to the rhythm.

“I-I-I-I love my ma-ma-mom-y!”

I can tell he’s in that in between world.  Not even fully conscious that he’s singing, just rinsing dishes and singing low to himself.  He’s in the land between earth and space.  He lives in that middle realm:  talking prowess with the boys and still cuddling at home with mom.  It’s a precious, tender balance.  I brace for the day the scales will eventually tip and he’ll propel out into orbit forever.

For now, I’ll take the Dark Side’s theme song and smile that some love has slipped between the notes.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 5 Comments

The Scent of my Kelty Tent

It’s a wonder I have anything from my past.  Photographs, keepsakes.  I moved around so much in my twenties (and went through numerous purges of personal possessions) there isn’t much in the material that has remained.

There is one solid constant that has served me for nearly twenty years.  It’s seen snow and beaches, sunrises and sunsets.  It’s been with me through thunder and wind storms.  It’s seen me in safe and sound, and petrified to the core.  It was the first stepping stone toward adventure that lead me to this very point in time.  It’s my little Kelty tent for two.  And yesterday, I pulled it down and opened it.

Jeb had a friend over and the two of them wanted to make a ‘hide out’.  “Please, mom, can we set up the tent!”

I bought this tent back in 1994.  I was twenty, about to turn twenty-one, and I had decided that I would spend the summer traveling the West coast, exploring Oregon and Washington’s Olympic Peninsula.  It was critical in my mind that I undertake this journey alone.  I wanted to see if I could face my fears.  Test my theory that with good intent and openness, deep truths and spiritual connection could be attained.

Step one.  The tent.  Before I ever started out, I had to overcome my doubt that I would be adept enough to set up my own tent.  I was afraid I’d find myself in a downpour in a Washington rainforest, unable to remember how to prop up my shelter.  I remember iterating this point clearly to the salesman at the sporting goods shop.  He assured me that the tent we were looking at was very simple to erect.  He did give me a demonstration.  I was still unsure.  All reservations about my pending adventure were directed to the tent.

Knowing I had no control over the circumstances that may occur on my summer trip, I focused my energies on being prepared.  Standing in the living room at my mom’s house, I would practice setting up the tent as quickly as I could, imagining inclement weather, darkness, or other crises.  How fast could I create my shelter?

Of course, the tent was very simple to put up and that summer I got plenty of practice.  It saw a parking lot with 90,000 Grateful Dead fans in Eugene.  A beach-front bluff in coastal Oregon.  That tent and I spent time in thick, mossy forests on Washington’s peninsula – quiet and lush with morning butterflies.  The tent-for-two aspect proved handy when I softened on my strictly solo travel plan and spent a week with the Swiss Traveler I met in Seattle.  For those few days I had a kind and gentle companion with whom to meander up to Orcas Island, wandering forests and sand together before he flew back home.

That summer marked a fork in my life road, and by the Fall it was apparent I had set foot on a path less traveled.  Not a decision made with my mind, but rather a knowingness felt with all of my instincts – a guidance that had been so sharply honed that summer in my travels.

I packed up my tent and continued to quest.  Eventually, I drove all the way to New England from California, camping along the way.  That Kelty tent served as my touchstone in every state.  Later, I’d spend another summer living in my little pop-up.  I camped in the Vermont woods at night while working at a local bagel shop by day.  The Swiss Traveler even returned for two more weeks of wilderness and tent-life living.

Nearly twenty years later, I’m in my front yard on Kauai with my seven-year old son, opening the original bag that houses my little tent.  The bag is brittle and tearing, held together with patches of old duct tape.  Jeb and I unzip the bag and unroll its contents.  The scent of the synthetic material wafts to my nose, so familiar.  All of these years and the smell of my tent has not changed.  With it comes a flood of memories.  All of the places where these four corners have been staked.  Nearly two decades of feelings experienced within these flimsy walls.

Woven in this scent is adventure.  The courage to embark on something new.  The bravery to try.  The willingness to love.  The desire to find some truth.  The need to forge ahead towards something different.  A yearning to have the journey matter.  And one solid thread holds at the core of all the information carried with this whiff of Kelty tent.  Youth.  My own.  And all of it’s precious, earnest seeking.

Now I have my own son.  And we set it up together, easy as one, two, three.  No matter that the bungees have lost their elasticity (I will not indulge in parallels or metaphors at this juncture).  The rain fly will still hold.

By day’s end, a tropical rain has passed and soaked the tent.  Jeb and his friend have wrestled inside it, leaving it twisted and misshapen.  But this reliable old tent is still standing solid.  Now a place of refuge for my offspring.

It stands as a reminder of that spirit of adventure.  That trust.  That haven.  I’m still on the quest.  And all that’s held within the scent of my Kelty tent, still lives inside me.

photo Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved