Writing with Rox Weekly Prompt—Crock Pot Poetry

One of my oldest bff's since junior high stayed with me for about six weeks this summer and insisted on buying a crock pot while she was here because, like me, she doesn't know how to cook.

"What do you mean, no crock pot?" she said, stumped that first week in the kitchen.

"I've got a blender," I offered.  "Oh, and a bread machine from Saver's that sort of works......Since when do Jews do crock pots?!"*

What luxury! Our joyous reunion delivered days of  eternal sunshining, long bike rides, and lake swims which repeatedly returned us ragged and hungry back to the Beach where the heat and nutty goodness of  slow cooked vegetarian stews awaited us. Eventually, sadly, fall days gave way to her departure back to Austin. She did not take the crock pot with her.

I'm fully aware of it beneath the counter next to the rice cooker. It's calling out for use, especially since I've gone back to doing things the hard way since Paula isn't looking. I kept asking her to show me how to use it because we both knew she was going to have to leave some day. "There's nothing to show," she said, "you just turn it on."

"But what do I put in it? How much of everything?" The concept totally baffles me. I am suspicious of things that promise to make something out of nothing by putting everything into something by pushing  a single button.

"Oy, Roc..."she mused, "what are ya, living in a cave?"

Some might say.

Last night I soaked a pound of chick peas (or as Ma would call them "gaaarbanzoes," note the hard Minnesota a and o) and I haven't a clue what to do with them now. It occurred to me I just might maybe use the crock pot, but jeez-oh-dear, where to start?

...

Please send your support in the way of recipes and crock stories* at once! And for fun, turn your recipe into a poem. Play around with line breaks, add words, memories, anything, spice it up, make it up... whatever it takes to get these poor chick peas to finish living out their life's purpose!

...

5 garbanzoes
             husked
                            squeezed
picked from the gardens by  an unknown hand

3 cups
                water             A lemon

parsley
sage
not thyme
no time.....

Hope to write with you soon! Chef Roxy

Writing with Rox Weekly Prompt—It's Alright to Cry

I was lucky to grow up in the "express yourself" decades of the seventies and eighties. Even though being on the receiving end of everyone's free-for-all expression could be painful at times—especially when I wasn't afraid to express myself by wearing leg warmers to school in the heat of LA—I regret none of it.

It was wild wonderful times for parents and children alike. Self help, "I" statements, empowerment, CHOOSE LIFE, call-in advice radio shows (remember Dr Toni Grant?).......everyone was invested in getting better somehow, working on themselves, doing some sort of personal growth. Ma was constantly attending "workshops," "seminars", est, intrigued by crystals and shamans; even dad was driving up to Esalen to find himself, which usually meant he was finding himself in a new relationship, but I give him credit for trying. He once described an encounter group he attended up there as the scariest thing he ever did. Self help was on the rise for us kids too; at the beachfront "open school" I attended in 6-8th grades, we regularly had "feeling sessions," which was essentially group therapy. 

One of the best things to come out of this age of trendy soul searching was FREE TO BE YOU AND ME, which we would listen to over and over again and act out in front of the relatives or stuffed animals or whoever'd care to see us be part of that "land that I see where the children are free..."   

One night we were all sitting around on the big paisley pillows in the living room with the newly pulled up hardwood floors--bye bye stringy white carpeting--and doing our weeknight thing. Ben and I were likely fighting or playing soccer in the hallway or wrestling while Ma and her boyfriend Jay lounged on the gigantic pillows, smoking cigarettes, just hanging out, literally...before video games, cable, etc—a huge round heaping ashtray in the center of the pile of pillows. Then Ma goes over to the record player and turns it up real loud to a song I'd never heard before...A big cuddly football player voice booms out of the big brown speakers..."It's alright to cry... crying gets the sad out of you..." The melody swells with a rich melancholia that my body seems to recognize at once... "Raindrops from your eyes... washing all the mad out of ya..."

I'm not sure who went first, but almost immediately we were all sitting in that huge heap of huge pillows crying our eyes out. Sobbing. Gushing. At one point Ma looked over at me and said, "it's alright to cry, honey," which made me cry even harder. Even my brother was crying because... why not? It's just what you did. It got the sad out of ya. It made you feel better. It was raindrops from your eyes and that was cool.   

                 How hard or long this went on or how deeply it ran, I cannot recall. I can recall the little hills of kleenex that fortressed around us, around our pillow mountain. I can recall Ma getting up a few times to set the needle back in place so we could hear the song again and I can recall the longing and relief my body experienced to hear it sung just one more time. 

               I can recall the calm afterwards, how we drifted quietly in our own little islands, eventually downstream back into the flow of life. 

I like to believe that in that age of self-help all the tears we shed that night were begging to come out, freed at just the right time. There was a lot going on for us and given the okay to release the depth of our feelings must have been a huge relief. I have mixed feelings about them being coaxed out by Hollywood, but that was the times, our life at that time. Our tears were supported, allowed, even invited by the times. It didn't even matter if Ma had the entire thing planned and was trying it out on us to see if it worked. 

I think it did. I'm not sure if I've ever cried that hard again.

When was the last time you had a good cry?

AND...    AND...AND...AND...AND...AND...AND...AND...

If it's been a while and you're feeling a little dried out, please consider crying into my bowl of tears here at the Beach at my upcoming WRITING GRIEF RETREAT on November 3 for a day of healing, community, and letting go. It was a powerful and loving retreat last year and promises to be the same this year. I have a few spots left!

... raindrops from your eyes...    Hope to write (and maybe cry!) with you soon!

Writing with Rox Weekly Prompt—"Here's 50 Cents and You Two F*ckers Can Take the Bus Home!"

A few weeks ago during Word Jam, we were writing about funny childhood stories and as usual I found myself writing the story about the time Ma got so frustrated with twelve-year-old me and my best friend Lisa, manic on Fun Dip and trouble in the back of the tan Volvo Wagon, that she slammed on the brakes a few blocks from the Santa Monica Pier and started yelling. She'd had it. "Here's 50 cents and you two fuckers can take the bus home!"

This well known and beloved line stands out not only around here at the Beach, but among childhood friends and family, Ma included. It's become so well known around here that it's often recited in unison, like church or some such. I've written about and told this story so many times that the truth of it is beginning to dim...was it two quarters or fifty cents? Did we actually get out of the car and take the bus home (which was not uncommon) or did we shut up and drive on? Did we catch the quarters when she threw them? 

As I was writing this story, yet again, likely for the hundredth time (I think every one of my students or healing groups had heard this story in some version over the twenty plus years that I've been doing this), it occurred to me that I had the perfect title for my memoir: Here's 50 Cents and You Two Fuckers Can Take the Bus Home!  which more or less encapsulates the story of me and Ma. Of course if you know Ma, whether in person or on the page, you know this also encapsulates exactly what makes Ma both so lovable and unlovable. The memoir is about my utter devotion to this dichotomy.

Folks, I've been struggling with "what is this memoir about?" as long as I've been writing. Seriously. And all of us who write memoir have the same struggle: what is this really about? It's hard to know, especially when it's your story you're writing, your life you're living, for Land Sakes! Because your story is about you.."all about" you, n'est pas? 

So how do I finally know this so clearly? Raw writing. Intuitive writing. Once again the power of raw writing, especially in community, is a never ending, always giving gift. Infinite! I've written this story so many times raw that it's recurring theme and consequent recurring response among readers, etc,  finally added up. I had no choice but to listen to myself. Listen closely. Listen again.

What's the title of your memoir? Your life story? What's the first thing that comes to mind? Even if you are not writing one or never wish to, what would the title be? It's sort of like "what's the soundtrack to your life?",  a question my dad loved so much he used to ask it of callers on his outgoing answering machine message back in the mid nineties. So, what's the title? Titles? The happy version? The corny version? The comedic or the melodramatic one? 

You'll be amazed at what you can learn from a title.

Please share (you can't copyright titles, remember?)!    Hope to write with you soon!