It’s a noun, it’s a verb. It can unlock doors, tone a vibration to your ear, offer respite in an ocean. It’s the square upon which I can tap to express these words. It’s an answer.
In my travels this winter I became interested in the literal keys I came across – the ones of metal with rings.
A Lucky Key
And I took note of the thresholds. Doorways open, as well as closed. Sometimes I was the one unlocking them.
I’ve been dreaming of an exhibit of the keys and doors I come across.
Here’s to the curiosity of doorways and the power of unlocking keys.
photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reservedphoto by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reservedphoto by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reservedphoto by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved
As I work through the telling of one of my own little tales, Rumpelstiltskin arises in the story.
The artwork of Edward Gorey (a name fitting to be the modern illustrator for the Brothers Grimm) surfaces from the far reaches of my memories. I can still envision his rendering of the small and strange, troll-meets-gnome-like character of Rumpelstiltskin. The creature that came to the maiden and showed her how to spin straw into gold.
artwork courtesy of Edward Gorey
Yet there was a price for the secret of alchemy. She had three tries to guess his name or he would take her first-born child as his prize. It seemed he was going to win this wager after all, but his arrogance was his undoing.
It’s the Gorey scene of Stiltskin by the fire that made such an imprint in my childhood. It comes now to my mind’s eye when I sketch out a scene of my own, a time at 23 when I was deep in the forest, alone. In the fairytale the maiden’s servant had followed our gnome into the woods one night, where she saw him dance around the fire celebrating an early victory. He would get the maiden’s child because nobody knew his name was Rumpelstiltskin!
artwork courtesy of Edward Gorey
In my storyline, there is no troll (though I did have to cross a bridge) and no straw to be found. These past few days I’m wondering exactly how this little dude relates. I guess it is the writer’s job to attempt to weave the loose threads.
Right now it’s just filaments of themes: Elements and transmutation. Facing fear. Dreams and desires. The power of knowing a name. The elixir of life and the womb.
Who would have thought that such a small-fry in a jester’s hat could stir such pondering?
bird bath overflow with papaya leaf after downpour ~ photo by Jessica Dofflemyer all rights reserved
I’ve been steeped in the past by looking through old journal entries, trying to piece together details to convey stories. Big Sur just a month ago. British Columbia fifteen years past. Funny how the act of simply reading the words can stir the proverbial pot and thicken the broth. Perhaps the emotions conjured through reading are a gateway through which I transcend time and space. A vehicle with which I can build bridges or burn them down, depending on my desire.
For now I’m just thankful for how long the ink lasts on aged paper. Hoping the mold doesn’t overtake my treasure trove of journals before I cross all those bridges (and digitize those stories somehow).
With the pot simmering and my heart transporting itself through time portals, it’s good to remember true North. Which literally happens to be my physical locale in the island chain. Home is where the heart is. And there’s certainly some love and beauty in the backyard.
the tropical version of a Maxfield Parish painting ~ photo by Jessica Dofflemyer all rights reserved
