Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Are you there?

Hello? Hello? Are you there? Are you coming home?...

Occasionally I'll have a tapestry of lyrics from the 1980s and earlier running through my head....when I tune in and listen to my own head-radio it's pretty funny sometimes: just what are these lyrics trying to tell me? (This, too, makes a great writing prompt...) 

Laurie Anderson's Oh Superman is one of the most dreadfully depressing songs I have ever loved and I cringe to acknowledge it was close to #1 on my childhood soundtrack, a compilation that still awakens my lost and lonely adolescent self, yet ironically provides a certain self-indulgent Morrissey type misery-comfort I cannot get enough of. So what is Laurie asking of me? Why is Pink Floyd wanting me to wonder "is there anybody out there?"

I suppose there is a natural letdown after a weekend of writing with women. Once again, an entire weekend of writing and sharing stories with my women writing tribe reminds me that no matter how long you've known someone, and no matter how much you think you know them, there is always more, always deeper when you sit and write together. Of course, there is the added depth of being out of the city, relaxing by the fire, overlooking the lake and the quiet. The space to just hang out and be girls with each other. We hang out in our yoga clothes/PJs, drink our coffee and wine, watch the birds, eat our special food...  We talk about our men, our moms, our kids... take off our make-up,  forget about our hair...get growly, let our PMS all hang out—or whatever ails us. No need to hide anything. We do enough of that out there. Of course we let the joy hang out too; we write our dreams, of our happiest days and days to come, we get silly with Haiku and Haibun, we watch things our kids love on YouTube... And with each round of writing, we get closer and closer, to one another, to ourselves, our truth.

 God, I love my writing family. The collective voice that reverberates when we sit and write together is always this: I hear you. I am here. I am listening.

We need this. I need this, I should say. Especially days like today when it's gray. It's Tuesday. It's cold. You know winter is long and coming. Your brain is fuzzy. You sleep too late. Things are slightly out of focus. Writing offers comfort, and writing is a lonely business. It's a struggle to do the daily things. You know this too shall pass. You know the sludge will clear, the sun will spill itself eventually, the communities will soon gather near to write, to eat, to watch sunsets together... You know this is all part of the cycle of life. And yet, on days like this, you can't ignore the wondering...is there anybody out there? Where is everyone?

I wonder, what if, just out of curiosity, as an experiment, what if everyone reading this wrote a line that would create a collective poem that responded to that question: ARE YOU THERE? ARE YOU LISTENING? CAN YOU HEAR ME? I know you are there, I know you are listening, and... how would that echo out? What would a thousand voices echoing I am here sound like in cyber space? In real space?

What if there were so many answers, everything from "yes, Rox, I'm here. Here I am..." to "Yes. Hello..." to dead silence, to "I'm not sure where I am, Rox..." to "who are you and how the hell did I get on your mailing list?" ?

So what would happen if I invited you to scroll down and introduce yourself, say that you are here, listening to me, listening to you, listening to all of it at once? Are you there? Are you listening? What do you hear? Are you coming home?

You could answer by name or not, by song or haiku, by whatever intuitively comes... Can you hear me? Are you there?



But before you do... if you want to write in community with great women tribe, be sure and save your spot asap for the annual Winter Solstice WILD WOMEN WRITING RETREAT, SATURDAY DECEMBER 14, 2014, 10AM-4PM. We'll gather to write and remember our fire and sing our light on the page. Plus all the usual community, warm nourishing potluck joy, silly and sweetness. Register soon. Fills fast. $75

Now, as I was saying... Are you listening? Are you there?