Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

15 Seconds of Grace

photograph by Jessica Dofflemyer

It’s day four in my feel-good place and everyone is coming unraveled.  Grown ups climb trees, businessmen dance unconditionally and poets recite rhymes of blooming roses.

I speak with the Ambassador in the Big Sur sunshine.  This is a man who appreciates metaphors and has the endearing habit of telling people what he loves about them.

He’s been here for over a decade.  I cast my eyes to the curving coastline and ask him, “Do you ever take this place for granted?”

“I don’t think I do…”  He pauses taking in our surroundings then points up in the mountains behind us.

“My house is up there and I start the mornings with this little ritual.  I’ve got this coffee maker, you know the kind that stops and lets you take the pot out before it’s completely done brewing?  So I’ll have gotten out of bed and I’ll be standing there at the coffee maker in my kitchen…in my house in the morning – it’s kinda cold – so I’m shivering a little.  And then when it’s ready, I’ll quickly get my first mug of coffee and hop back into bed.  It’s warm under the covers.  And I have this view…and I’m looking out my window, holding my warm cup of coffee…and I’ll just be filled with this gratitude.”

I smile at the Ambassador through watery eyes.  The days here have softened me to a liquid pool of tender feeling.  Simple words swell my heart to overflow like a fountain.

“Every morning, there in my bed I’m just washed with this feeling.  It’s like 15 seconds of grace.”

“Every morning?”

“Every morning.”

Perhaps it is the grace he speaks of that overtakes me.  I am like a gushing river that will flood its banks if my throat opens to make a sound.  I can only look down and breathe as tears slide down my face.

“I can see that you are really touched by what I’m saying.”

I nod and speak quietly, “I really love this place.”

“Come here.”  He gestures me to standing and wraps his big arms around my frame.  My face presses against the stitching of his t-shirt on which is embroidered the name of our locale.  It’s as though the land itself is hugging me, the Ambassador embracing me on its behalf.

For a moment I am enveloped.  Enfolded by deep valleys.  Held by old trees.  Soothed by cold springs.  Surrounded by succulents.    Grace.  Heart.  Home.

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Return

I’m back from my reprieve where the profound was abundant with less than subtle cues.

For about three days on the Big Sur coast I began to feel like a watery-eyed mystic, tearing up and overflowing like a blissful fountain at the slightest glance of a flower.  Ahhh…to have space to crack open, break down and let life touch deeply.

Though I was unplugged, I took plenty of notes.  I’ll be gathering the napkin and paper bag tid bits,  the notepads scrawls and journal entries and compiling them into some sort of chronicling that can be shared.

More filaments gathered for weaving.  Continuing to follow the thread…

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer

photograph by Jessica Dofflemyer

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer

Snakes, Owls and Waking Dreams

Along the spine of Dry Creek road, soft foothills have watched me grow for a lifetime.  At least once a year I return to this place to see my family and let Jeb roam the creekbed where I once swam in summer.

Occasionally this place of my family roots makes its way into the landscape of my dreams.  About a week ago I dreamt that I was walking along Dry Creek with Jeb at my side.  Though the area rarely sees a sprinkling of snow dust, in my dream the ground was thick in a blanket of snow.  We approached a curve in the road, the place where the asphalt cuts through a small hill.  To the left a sacred fire was burning low in the soft whiteness.  Smoke billowed up to an alter of a few animals.  It was understood this was a ceremony conducted by a Native, a shaman, a medicine man, though no one was in sight.

This afternoon I’m back on Dry Creek, Jeb and I driving along the road – no snow – just golden hills with winter green grass beginning to peek from beneath tufts of brown.  Suddenly I notice the shape of a snake in the road, unusual for this cold time of year when snakes usually hibernate.  Intrigued, I pull over and Jeb and I begin to walk the road.  As we approach, I realize I am traveling the path of my dream.  Jeb by my side, the exact spot, right at the curve.

Here we see the long shape of a gopher snake, clearly deceased, with the story of its demise marked along its back.  Jeb’s first sighting of a snake in real life, this close.

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer

Later, I enjoy sharing my snapshots of the snake with family, all of them agreeing it is odd to see one this late in the year.  I ponder the symbols:  dreams of snow, a sacred ceremony connected to the land, a curve in the road, a snake out of season, shedding of skin…

Long after dark Jeb and I are once again driving back the way we had come.  We wonder if a hawk or other bird may have come along and taken our snake friend for a meal.  With our headlights blazing, we slow at the curve in the road and discover the long thin body glowing in our brights – the snake is still there.  Leaning forward towards the windshield, we gaze then pass it slowly.  As if on cue, the bright white underbelly of an owl swoops just above our car in the dark sky.  It hovers in flight, flapping wild wings alongside us in some kind of mystical, night time omen.

photo courtesy of Dry Crik Journal

What any of it means, I do not know.  A cluster of wildlife sightings all in one bend in the road – dreaming and waking.

What would the Natives say?  The zoologist?  The poet?

Jeb says, “Cool!”

I’d say the same.