What I saw ( and what saw me )walking this early afternoon on a most unusually warm autumn afternoon in Minneapolis just off Lyndale

Two turtles
A white tailed deer, looking at me
A Gartner snake swirl and stop in the dry leaves
 a Robin
Inside the onyx eye of the Gartner snake, glossy, murky, but a portal
A man dressed in bright orange shirt, watching me watch the snake, then kneeling beside me to watch beside me
Other humans watching the water closely
A school of teeny tiny fish near the sunny surface, en mase, a giant fist
One of those teeny black fish jumping out with all the arc and grace of a dolphin, one one millionth it's size
The manifestation of footsteps
Two upward climbing black spotted woodpeckers, bearing no resemblance to woody
A lone baby duck, mid lake, encased in its on water ring. Rippling out and out and out until it became a wave
Many sleeping ducks
The white tailed deer running along the fence
A red dragon fly
Mid aged women wearing work out gear and new tennis shoes
A businessman on a bench in the sun, texting, smiling, earphones on
A baby Robin
Back to that baby duck, perhaps  the  most moving thing of all and how that baby ring was so perfectly circular in the middle of the lake, a perfection we cannot replicate but at times try so hard that we miss it when it shows itself so purely and vulnerable asking nothing of us, not even ever
My other younger self missing all of this, too afraid to make eye contact with the unknown
My thirty year old self running quickly through all this, too fast to see this
All of this seeing me
My love
My soft edges
And yours
A duck waddle onto the dock. Hop off the dock, waddle toward me, smile, quack and waddle away back to the dock upon which he hopped before jumping back into the water
Really seeing a duck waddle for the first time
A man with a professional looking camera
Stillness
Endless gifts given when we stop and be, not so much as waiting, but receiving
My gratitude
The endlessly clear rooted path my breath both carves and follows before me, behind and beneath me
And how the breath is root and tunnel and the portal to all things
The endearment of my striving thoughts
My truth
An airplane that I mistake for an egrit
A group of autistic kids crossing the wooden bridge over water, passing me mid bridge
A gnat in my peripheral vision, too close
The wings of something large
And two bluebirds

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Way of the Peaceful Writer

"The inability to keep up, combined with the inability to slow down, and feeling inadequate either way -- that's the Millennium, baby."

And speaking of time and where I've been, does this resonate as much with you as it does with me? But more on the brilliant Michael Ventura in a moment.

When I was about 15, my best friend Kenny lent me his new copy of Dan Millman's Way of the Peaceful Warrior, which, as promised, did change my life, perhaps the first masked self-help book I ever read, declaring itself on the front cover to be "a book that changes lives." Glancing Millman's webpage today makes this point glaringly obvious. 

Then again, as I write this, I realize that's what most memoirs are: self-help in disguise. Heck, most everything written ever could be viewed as such—for better or for worse; isn't everyone vying for a spot to change someone's life? To be seen and heard and taken seriously enough to have a meaningful impact on another?

Now, 30 years later, comes along the movie, that also guarantees to "change lives," which I refused to see until recently, well knowing it would only change my life for the worse. Well. Let's just say it wasn't as good as the book (duh), but it didn't entirely suck either, likely because it had one of my old heartthrobs in it (no, not Scott Mechlowicz). 

I don't remember much about the Hollywood interpretation of this magnificent book, and in all fairness, it's hard to translate one's inner journey to the screen without putting your typical Hollywood, movie-goer (adrenaline, drama, thrill-seeking) to sleep. But, what does stand out is the scene where Nick Nolte (older guru type) points out to Scott Mechlowicz (young Dan, egomaniacal, thrill seeking, hot young college type) that there is "a lot going on" all the time if you choose to wake up and notice it. Apparently, young Dan is disgruntled with his young life, complains that he is bored, ("There's nothing going on!") which is a spiritual assault to his older, wiser new Buddha friend. 

The camera (ah, the camera!) then goes into slo, slo, triple slo-mo and pans across the perfect Berkley campus landscape, pausing to zoom right in and illustrate all the "goings ons," both internal and external: Students necking. A ladybug crawling on a leaf. A man studying a text book. The clouds. Friends laughing. Jovial hacky-sacing. A long, flat, cloud striped sky. The shining sun. Someone in deep thought. A Golden Retriever mid-air, catching a frisbee. A furrowed brow. A screaming toddler. Blood pumping through veins. Motorcycle reving.

There's a lot going on. All the time.

Of course this led me to write about the inchworm that Jude spotted (those youthful eyes!) on the way home from the bus stop a couple weeks ago, inviting us to stoop down and squat ourselves on the summer sidewalk and do nothing but devote ourselves fully and entirely to watching this keylime green half-inch inchworm expand and contract across the concrete en serious route to the lawn. Of course this led immediately to a craving to blow bubbles, those huge ones that roll down big green hills in their own time, an excuse to stop and watch, give myself fully to the pace of sanity.   

I gave as much time as I had, never enough, to the whole debacle of wanting to slow down, caught between the sweet allure of slowing down, mindfulness, not being bullied into rushing and the reality of the pace outside my window. All of this led me back to one of my favorite articles of all time, wherein lies one of the best quotes I ever read that sums all of it up—everything there ever was or is about anything—perfectly so why bother writing any of it? 

And it is this, what Michael Ventura says so much more eloquently in his article "Millenial Nudity": 

 "'Am I going too fast for you?'" is now a common phrase. People and nanoseconds going too fast for you -- that's the Millennium. Trying to keep up with people going too fast for you is also the Millennium. The inability to slow down is the Millennium. The inability to keep up, combined with the inability to slow down, and feeling inadequate either way -- that's the Millennium, baby."

In the meantime, I'll be slowing waaaay down up North for a while. I'll be back; I always am. In fact, I'm never really gone now am I? 

Happy summer everyone! Hope to write with you again real soon and please, please, don't forget to write!!!

What do you do to slow down?  

What slows you down? 

What is your relationship to slowing down?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Where does all the time go?

worrying
laughing
wondering
eating
cooking
cleaning
looking for the perfect raincoat at a thrift store
finding other things at a thrift store instead

running down the trash
running up the mail
running down the recycling
taking out the compost
looking for the lost thing I need right now
and that other thing
forgetting my...
walking Jude to the bus
walking home
running up the stairs
locking the bike
unlocking the bike
parking
backing out
stopping
walking back to the bus stop
waiting...

I thought I would have time to do that today
I'll do it tomorrow when it isn't raining
when I have more time
But wait: I don't have time tomorrow either

time is time no matter what; don't you know that by now?
yoga 
breathing
finding time to breathe and be with time
finding time
booking time
knowing that time is a social construct
but not doing anything about that

time out
sleeping
recovering from the weekend
where there wasn't enough time
what time is it? 
oh shit. really? 
already?
is it bedtime already? not yet?
shouldn't i be hungry by now?
what? time to get up? No.
Five more minutes.
Five more
five more
five more

Okay. I'll skip washing my hair.

washed away with the rain?
in my memories?
on the page?
everything at once?
what time is it? 
Now. 
But I'm forgetting something I need to know right now
like:
check email, the weather, reply to a text, eat, check, check, check.
notice
take my time
hurry up

running late
last minute

wow.       early is really weird.          really, really weird. 

time        is not as i know it when                    I'm         early. 

where am i?                 It's as if I'm moving backwards.

 I     gotta        do             this                    more. often. 

More often. 
I gotta more often. 
I gotta more do. 
More often. 
More do. 
Often do more.
Moredo. Gotta more.
I often. I often. I often.
Do you often?

standing in the elevator
waiting to go up two flights seems like it will take forever... hurry!
until I rest my chin downward, see my belly going in
going out
and it feels so good, so delicious, from inside
to out
and I say to myself I hope this elevator ride
never ends 
because I could do this all day long and be happy


WRITE WITH ME?
Where does all your time go? (or mine for that matter?) :

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Is your moon also in the 8th house?

So I decided to have my astrological chart done. It was hard to follow, since what do I know from houses in Jupiter and such, but apparently I am in a restless phase and something big is supposed to come along in the next month. Additionally, turns out I'm not done with Pluto, I am obsessed with living, communicating, feeling, and expressing only the deepest, core, truths (I believe this is the Uranus in one of my houses speaking?), and I am basically doomed when it comes to relationships... unless I can... now what was that again?

But isn't this true for everyone, I asked?

Well, not really. Because my moon is watery and this lifetime is all about getting back to the womb.  Because my sun is friends with Mercury and Mars is my buddy, but my Venus doesn't get along with Saturn, unless Neptune is visiting. And, by the way, I'm an old soul, born in the final phase of the moon. The sliver, am I? The crescent? Now, this does explain my tendency to doodle out moons, crescents in particular, all over the place, perhaps accounting for the tattoo on my ankle, which is, likewise, in its final phase.

Oh, you too, you say? Well.

My feet are very, very tired. Are yours?

My job is to grow fins. Is yours?

My job is also to go back home, return to my roots, to origins, to God, to Source. Is yours?

I'm always trying to find home. I'll get there, but it will take some time. It will be complicated, but my job is buck up against dogma and find out what my origins did with their struggles along the way. 

You too?

The good news, the very good news, is I have a guardian angel. And my midheaven is up to something exciting and a big party is on its way.

Today in writing we wrote about what our "normal" is and what our "not normal" is. This exercise was further inspired by a student who came in and said she would never consider putting magnetic paint on her wall, which was shocking to me. Again, doesn't everyone paint on their walls?

But thankfully it isn't her normal. Because as we wrote and shared, I got to hear about her normal, her childhood tubing down the Rum River all the way to her doorstep. And about someone else's normal, full of mystical sin eaters and emerald majesty. Someone else's normal was begging to change, hungering for a new normal.

And that is why we write. Because my normal, crazy as it is, is normal to me. My normal is magnetic paint on the small wall, film projector paint on the big wall. My normal is getting my chart done just for the heck of it. My normal has mother issues, is vulnerable, addicted, allergic, compassionate, codependent, sensitive, drawn to instability, yet overly stable, committed, searching for freedom, out-of-my-body, in my body, creative, intuitive, passionate, apathetic, homeless, everchanging...

...isn't done with Pluto.

And sharing these normals when we write together—in their varied phases of bloom—we linger there until we recognize our miraculous belonging in this moment in time, amidst this vast, infinite, lonely, weightless, universe with multiple moons, heavens, holes, and empty houses, where we so easily could have gotten lost and disappeared behind the fallen stars.

WRITE WITH ME?

What is your normal?

What house is your moon in? 

What's doing with your horoscope?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—On the Radio

Yesterday, say late afternoon, Jude and I dangled our legs over the cement slab of  Lake Harriet to go see the Loons. It took some convincing. "They're the ones that go 'Ooooooooooooo?Ooooooo' like that little black and white speckled bird stuffed animal you have goes when you squeeze it," I attempted when he wanted to know what the big deal was. Of course I knew Loons was a long shot, that it was likely those fake Loons you see around this time of year, but up at the playground I overheard some more-mom-looking-and-sounding-mom-than-I tell her kids "Let's go see the Loons," so I acquiesced to the fantasy. 

Hope, maybe, and possibility create tension not only on the page, but off it as well. While I had every doubt, I held out hope a long time, even when the Loons looked a little suspicious with their clownish white beaks. Of course that made me feel horribly guilty, extremely un-Buddhist, clearly so overly attached to Loons that I could hardly recognize the individuality of this not-quite-Loonish flock. Still, even as we patiently scoped the bird clown invasion, as the setting in of that "this isn't quite right" feeling thickened, I didn't want to abandon the possibility. 

"Mama, why aren't they makin' the 'Oooo?Oooo' sound?" Jude wanted to know. 

"Give it a minute, honey," I said, "it needs to get darker." I looked around for the know-it-all-mom, but she wasn't around to back me up. "Loons like to call out at dusk."

"What's duksk?" Jude looked around as though dusk would be rounding the corner or emerging from the deep sea, for that matter, along with the Loons.

"Nothing honey. It's just poetry for getting dark." Like I said, I'm not the most momish mom at times. On good weather days, I'm selfish about enjoying the moment without having to break it down.

Still, all too soon, the moment changed when appeared a mid-aged fellow and his Golden Retriever, who kept nosing his tennis ball back into the water. At one point the other mom materialized and her toddler joyously kicked the ball back into the lake after the owner had retrieved it for the third time. Josie howled on the ledge. What was I thinking believing her about Loons, what with a toddler who does that? Still, Jude was amused and I got to go back to feeling the sun on my skin, waiting for that sacred Loon song. 

"Those aren't Loons are they?" I asked Josie's dad as we finally stood to go back. And that's when he broke the news about the Coots. I didn't ask him what sort of sing they make. It didn't matter at all by then.

"Huh. See Jude? Coots. Sort of sounds like Loons, though, right?"

"Sure, Mama. Let's go." It didn't much matter to him either.

Back in the car Jude suggested I put on a song really loud. "I'm tired of all that ram ram hare aaaaaah hare harry aaaaaaaah..." he trailed off, perfectly tired. "Turn on the radio," he ordered. "And turn it up. Loud."

"Good God, the radio? Really?" 

Like mother like son. But really? The radio? What a concept. 

So I took a leap of faith. And where there's lack of Loonsong, there is cheesy 70s music; waiting for me was that perfect sentimental summer song that goes "something something...love isn't always on time! Woe oe ooooe..." which I blasted and belted along with the 3 others just like it to follow. Oh, I was flooded with memories and feeling and drives with Ma listening to radio in LA traffic way too loud, each song better than the last.

When I looked in the rearview, I expected to see Jude conked out, but he was singing right along with me, making up his own perfect words, which never would have happened if the Loons had come down to sing.

Write with me? 

Favorite Radio Songs?

Loon Stories? Er, Coot Stories?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Ah Sugar, Sugar...

The other day Jude and I were hanging out making paper mache masks with our awesome artist friend and her boy, who is a couple years younger than Jude. In the way of most kids, he and Jude entered in and out of their running imaginary worlds and at one point the worlds collided; full of giggles, her boy announced "I'm smooooking..." and began pantomiming with wide gestures, waving paper strip cigarette to his lips. 

"Now Avi," my friend declared, containing her alarm more then any Jewish mother I am or know, "what do we know is worse for us than any other thing in the world? What's the absolute worst thing we can put into our bodies?"

The boy dramatically paused, posing in deep thought of finger to chin as modeled by our thoughtful elders. "Hmmmm? Hmmm... Ring Pops!"

I couldn't contain my glee. "Yes! Right! That is absolutely true! Don't ever get hooked on Ring Pops or dark chocolate M+M's or Bottle Caps or any other beautiful irresistible sugary thing, kids." I could've gone on. I could've said "at least when you quit smoking you get to have sugar!"

"Okay," his mother said, reigning us in, "yes...Ring Pops are not great for you, but no... what else? That's right. Smoking..."

"Of course," I agreed, "smoking. Don't smoke kids." I mumbled something out the side of my mouth about how it's still debatable.

Cigarettes extinguished and back to the task at hand,  my friend asked, "So why is it you're giving up sugar again?"

"Well, it's only for a month, first of all..." I said, because, first thing's first, after all. "And, well... I just want to see if I can do it." 

"Mama eats candy all day!" Jude chimed in, with which I couldn't argue.


As a kid, my dad literally had to drag me out of the candy aisle, while I anchored myself, lanky blonde ball and chain to the metallic grocery cart at Gelson's. He may have given in once or twice, consenting to say, Gatorade Gum or Good N Plenty, his downfall,  neither of which really counted. As a doctor, he balked at any compromise when it came to sugar, identifying it repeatedly as "chazari," Yiddish for junk, trash, rotten, in the same category as messhuga or mishegas, which he often trioed together in the same sentence.

I don't know how much psychoanalytics has to do with my lifetime tithing to sugar, but I do know that dad was right in that there is nothing good to come of sugar, except maybe vodka, which he was indifferent to. Everyone knows the truth about sugar; I get it, I know it and for the most part I maintain a functional relationship with it. And yet... every once in while I have to give it up for a while. 

I know it's time when I start dreaming about sugar. And lo, Monday night, the first day into a thirty-day white sugar fast, I dreamed of sugar. It appeared as a crystal, red ruby gem, which I kept knowingly both in my mouth and in my hand, the way you can in dreams; I was being chased in a labyrinth, not unlike the one from the childhood board game Shoots and Ladders. All along I knew said treasure was a red cherry Jolly Rancher, those tiny oblong hard candies that always melted a bit inside the cellophane that we got as kids on the penny shelf at 7-11, which I hadn't thought about in years. No way anyone was going to get their hands on my treasure, no matter the danger. Some dreams are embarrassingly clear. 

In Donald Miller's recent memoir A Million Miles in a Thousand Years,  he talks about an inciting incident, both on and off the page, as a moment in time in which you walk through a doorway of no return. Though I realize I am making myself way more literary than necessary in this regard, the week before Easter, one of my amazing Friday Writers declared she would be giving up sugar for one month, beginning April 6, waiting until after Easter so she could have jelly beans. We understand each other, this fella sugar fiend and I, commiserating often on the lifelong love affair we've both shared with the crystalline vampiress, right down to the methodology we similarly apply to eating Whoopers, so at first her proclamation felt like a betrayal; what do you mean you're giving up dark chocolate M+M's? You're just going to knowingly let me continue poisoning myself while you go cold turkey on me? 

I had no choice other to invite myself in. "Can I do it with you?" I practically begged. Kindly, she agreed, proceeding to outline the rules. "No artificial sweeteners, but sugar already appearing in things I already eat is fine," her intention, like mine, to stay away from processed crack-like sugar—in my case, nightly dishings of vanilla SoyDelicious with a chaser of dark M+Ms, hers something in the jelly bean family. 

By then, I was long past the point of no return. I had to do it. I didn't know why. I still don't know why. But I'm doing it and it's fucking way harder than quitting smoking, especially with Ma in town suggesting we go back to Perkins to get a sugar free mixed berry pie. (Her intentions are good; she swears it has no sugar in it one way or another).

Since Monday, my student and I have been supporting each other via daily texts and emails (see? another reason why writing heals!), ranging from the mundane to the bizarre (mine, not hers).  Man, I need her. I've also been calling TCF multiple times per day, as well as when we're together with, "can I have sugar now?" 

For the life of me I cannot understand why he does not have the same cravings as I do and I'm grateful for his patience. "Where exactly do you crave it, honey? Where in your body? In your mouth?" I get squirmy and fitful trying to explain an addiction he does not have. In turn, he encourages me to do something sweet for myself. "Do some gentle yoga, breathing...lay on the floor and remind your body to relax, honey." 

It's hard to take in what seem like platitudes those first few days. Sure, I love yoga, but really, you can't compare a forward fold to a bowl of vanilla with chocolate chips... not this late at night anyway. But I'm beginning to see the value of the nothingness left when the anticipation and ritual of ice cream and chocolate is no longer there. That same nothing is beginning to illuminate the sweetness that is there all the time: my son's smile, the lick of moonlight on my comforter, the feel of tired on my eyelids, TCF's kindness and compassion... not that I ever took these things for granted, but perhaps recognizing them for the genuine sweetnesses as they are—offerings from the heart rather than the pastel manufactured ones masked in the toxic illusion of love—is the real reason I jumped at the chance for this sort of nonsense.

Then again, it's still early. Perhaps this is still the denial phase. What I do know is that writing, as always, continues to be my sacred go to, whenever I need to battle another craving and remind myself all these melodramatics are going to ease up over time. If you'd like to follow my occasional rantings, I've made myself a nice little sugar shack at My Chazari, but it a'int a piece of cake. 


WRITE WITH ME?
What is your sugar story?
What have you had to give up?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Out of Character

It was strange. 

I'd like to think it has something to do with the antibiotics, the oddly warm weather we're having, the surreality of spring break. Whatever the reason, I must have looked like something washed up out of the Sahara this morning to the kind BP station manager, who greeted me with a welcome wagon, while I recoiled behind my wide infinity scarf, shielding myself from both sun and smile.

"How you doing?" he announced, heading directly toward me.

What does he want? my body wondered, long before any thought-forms appeared. I looked around the deserted station. Is he talking to me? 

What led me to be pumping gas at a surreally vacant BP at ten this morning on Excelsior Blvd was a missed eye doc's appointment, which if you can believe, I showed up too early for. Unable to swing the extra hour and a half of Jude care, I  picked up some Sudafed for my sinus infection, grabbed a Caribou, an apple fritter, and headed home, feeling displaced. 

Earlier while pulling out of the clinic garage, a Somali woman was trying to anchor her SUV in a compact spot beside me as I inched out. I felt the familiar heat, the seed of a tirade, the useless righteousness that begs the same questions in times like this, "Why don't other people follow the rules? Why do I get punished when I do follow the rules? Why oh why did I get a small car? And who the fuck needs such a gargantuan car?  I'm like a minnow out here!" She squeezed further in, obstructing my vision of oncoming cars, who honked at me when I attempted to back out. And finally I just stopped. I gave up. I surrendered to the uselessness and helplessness of the moment. I could've very well put my head in my hands. What am I supposed to do now? I'm sure the poor woman recognized the fury in my eyes when I finally made eye contact with her;  instead of proceeding in the ineffectual passive aggressive way, I raised my eyes for the challenge. I felt myself bristle and buck, awaiting the crossbars on her face. In defense, I raised my eyebrows with petulant inquiry. 

But the woman was not angry at all. In fact, what I dared to see, when I dared to look, was a smile so sweet and opening, I felt something like a flower petal dropping inside my heart. Quickly, I smiled back, the humble sort, as she waved me out of my spot, directing me with the ok sign against any oncoming happy honkers.

Of course all of this took place in under a minute, but her smile stretched timelessly. I berated myself for being so caught up in my drama, my sinus infection, my hard day, for not having more faith in people. For not being kind first. I hate it when people beat me to kindness. It's like a daily showdown: who's going to smile first, me or you? I won't if you don't, but if I do it first I really don't care if you do or don't because I don't have an ego. What? It's not conscious and I don't like it, but it happens, especially during certain times of the month. 

And on certain days of the month or whatever reason why, a random unexpected kindness only goes so far, and by the time I get to the BP Station, I'm back into my contorted form, feeling like an alien pulling into a ghost town. 

Still, I did return the greeting to the manager who was coming right at me. "I'm good," I lied, "how are you?"

Without breaking stride, he seized the nearest squeegee and slapped it smoothly across my grimy window. "As the station manager, I like to greet my customers with a little kindness..." was the gist of what he said, as he continued to iron out my windshield.

I fumbled something in response, my animal body anticipating a sales pitch, or something to posture against. Thankfully, my domesticated side knows better. "Wow. Thanks so much," I said, "that's really sweet of you."

I felt compelled to make small talk after that. "Great amazing sunny..." I attempted, but trailed off when he smiled and headed back inside. He had no use for my throw away afterthoughts. 

There's no point to this story, nothing to share about writing or memoir; there certainly isn't a "happy" ending (it's actually rather anticlimactic: I came home, ate pastries with Jude and Too Cute Face, and did the neti pot). 

Of course it all got me thinking. Whenever I act out of character—belying all sense of self I recognize and rely on—I tend to call  myself out as a phony. Even though I realize it's this type of narrow thinking that gets me in trouble and keeps me stuck, not to mention exhausted, I fall for my thoughts way too often, believing I am exactly the person that I think I am, which gives me very little wiggle room to be an animal... and animal I am.

Of course this is getting wayward, but what I really want to say is that my instinctual withdrawal from kindness scared me a little bit. Sure, I'll regroup and get off the antibiotics, but I have to wonder  because, after all, I'm not the only one who's afraid every so often when kindness comes bulldozing through with a squeegee. 

WRITE WITH ME?

WHEN WERE YOU LAST OUT OF CHARACTER? 

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Earnesty

It seems like it's a word. It feels like it must be a word. Earnesty? Like, honest earnest? Not earnestly; it's not a verb. It's definitely a noun. Whatever it is, I don't get too earnest here for fear of sounding too preachy, but I think calling it earnesty is okay.

Wow, it feels like forever since we've talked. How you been? Me, comme si, comme sa.... battling a sinus infection, ears full of cotton candy, a short trip to San Diego for huge cousin's reunion and Bar Mitzvah... and... here comes the earnesty... I just had a delicious writing retreat with the Friday Writers. I cannot be reminded enough how crucial it is to retreat. Once again, I was reminded of the everyday sacred, where stories, like life, conceive, sprout, and blossom when we give them our full attention, faith, love, and enough time... a lesson for which I need regular practice. 

What did we do? We wrote. We shared. We laughed. We cried. We insighted. We aha'd! We asked. We answered. We gave. We received. We loved. We released the dark. We let in the light.   We did it again. And again. And again. Over and over. And that's it. Writing together. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to be, but here, now, writing and sharing. That's it.

We sat at a long wooden table, much like the one here at the Beach,  in a VRBO out in Prior Lake, a "cottage," on the lake. In between writing we luxuriated. We spread out in the living room on our yoga matts, on the couch, continuing the stories off the page. Some of us took walks.  We made a fire. We cooked and ate. We had a Crayola ice cream cake for dessert. 

What did we write? We started with a letter from our Sunday selves to our arriving Friday selves, thanking our Friday selves for a great retreat because... "thank you, Rox, for giving yourself time to rest, neti pot, and be present for the gifts shared this weekend...so glad you talked the girls into a yoga class and singing camp songs with you..."

After that we wrote our "dance stories," which led to one of the greatest moments of the retreat. You never know what's going to happen with any given prompt; everyone will go in different directions. One goes to the freedom found in pole dancing, another to the challenges and pride of being a "dance mom," whereas I return to the old Lindy Hop stories. The magic happens when, as listeners, as we receive these unique stories, we begin to truly root for, cheer on the protagonist, love her, feel for her in each story. I suppose this magic is called human nature, but it comes as a surprise every time I find myself attaching to the reader's outcome, the happy ending, no matter how short the piece. By the end of the retreat I told each of the gals why I love them and how much I wish I could spend time in their stories. I realized that this must be an indicator of great writing, feeling like you want to step inside someone's moments, be in their life. After that, prompts were no longer needed. We had the infinite; everything, every word, gesture, breath, presented itself as a prompt. 

One of the dance stories led one of the ladies to write an exquisite piece on the father/daughter dance at her wedding. That one hit me like a gong. It vibrated, layers deep, and if she doesn't publish it, I'm going to have to do it for her. You might think, okay, so... what about it? Well... write yours... you'll see.

Not only was it a great story about something millions of women and men experience (some more than once :)), but within the story she also paused to show us why each dance has it's own story. And then it got me thinking how many millions of "everyday" things we all do that we never stop and talk about, let alone write about, ordinary things that can be quite loaded, for better or worse, both or neither in inexplicable ways.

Taking lint out of the drier, the father-daughter dance, realizing you are locked out, running into someone at the market, waiting rooms, power outage, the waitress coming back to tell you what you ordered just ran out, a delayed flight, a motel room, a missing headlight coming at you, being on hold, waiting in line at Target, forgetting to turn on your lights, a stranger smiling at you, getting your blood pressure taken, walking in to a class late, being early... endless, endless....goodbyes and hellos. 

And where in the world can I go with gratitude? Endless prompts there. But for now, thanks again ladies. Thanks again all of you. Namaste that.

WRITE WITH US? 

What happens/what's it like when you do the same things I do?  

What are the same everyday things?

Father/daughter dance?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Night Fever

It seems like every ten years or so I am hit by a sudden need to watch Saturday Night Fever. Perhaps it's because my son Jude just turned eight, the exact same age I was when Ma took me to Westwood Village to a ten pm show with her boyfriend Jay. 

In all fairness, I begged. I pleaded and moaned. I got down on my scabby roller-skater girl knees and shouted. I didn't get that is was inappropriate. It didn't matter that it would give me nightmares.  This was a matter of disco. It was 1978 and disco was everything. It was disco or die as far as I was concerned. If only I could convince Ma to take me, I'd score major points with peer pressure. The older kids would accept me into their roller clubs, friends would revere me, and surfer Jered would take me out on a date to 7-11, ogling over my maturity.  As it was, everyone was already jealous that I had such a cool mom. 

"But I already got you those fucking satin pants, Roxanne. And look? You ruined them already."

Sure enough there were holes in my Starburst Orange satin disco pants within a week of purchase. She didn't believe me when I told her the holes were caused by my brother Ben farting on them so many times, with such putrid blasts, that several holes were burned into them. "I don't see how else it happened, Ma."

"No way, Roxanne, " Ma huffed, leaving a trail of smoke all over my disco moves. "And I don't see how your roller skating teacher could assign a movie for homework. We're not going. Now turn that down!"

"Well... it's more like she suggested it. Come on, Ma. Even you think John Travolta is cute. You said yourself you wanted to go see it!"

I don't know how or why Ma finally caved; perhaps my incessant begging eroded her common sense. Though I suppose it may have had something to do with Jay, who like many of Ma's boyfriends, considered me a pain in the ass, worthy of consequences, given he worked in corrections. Or possibly, likely, because both of them weren't too far away from youth themselves, remembering what it was like to crave the wild night like a child, the same way I did. 

Perhaps it is that same rush of adrenalin that calls me now—older  than each of them at the time, at least by ten years—back to that movie time and time again. That calls me to exclaim "let's go dancing!" to whomever I happen to be watching with. Less often I disclose my intense craving for a smoke, not so much because it caresses some unfulfilled hole inside (it used to!), but because it looks so damn cool. That's the danger in movies for me. I know better, but my young body, my wishful, longing, Hollywood body, is still vulnerable to the tricks of the trade, which for memories such as this, had its place in the sun. Or the hot seventies night, as it were.

And that night was a dream. I vividly remember walking up Westwood Boulevard, heading toward the theatre just south of Wilshire on that late summer night. I bounced between Ma and Jay, decked in their best everyday disco clothes, me with the patched up satin pants, matching yellow shirt with orange satin star in the middle, disco's stamp on modern clothing. There was talk of dance moves and the coolest movie there was ever was. There was an unspoken ecstasy in the strut each of us walked up the city sidewalk that night, a smug understanding that we were the coolest people on earth, Ma and Jay looking fancy and fine with their Marlboro Reds dangling off their lips. 

The memory is encased in disco, sirens and night lights spiraling around me as we hustled in with the crowds just in time. We shared a huge tub of popcorn smothered in butter, large drinks, feet propped on the seats ahead of us. "Oh cool..." I said, as the opening credits unfolded over JT strutting those disco streets I craved so deeply in my young body, the momentum of cool. 

"Cool!" Ma echoed, and at that, I knew I was exactly where I needed to be. I belonged. And one thing I knew for sure, enhanced by the Bee Gees beat pounding with rhythm and momentum, the soundtrack to this forever night: I am special. For that night, I was part of the scene, among the adults with the world (and dance floor) at their feet. 

And that feeling lasted until disco had it's huge backlash a few years later. Things went downhill between me and Ma. Jay left. The eighties came. We learned to dance real lame. Poor John Travolta was exiled from the new wave. Friends and I TP'd houses all over the neighborhood, writing "disco sucks" in egg yolk and shaving cream all over LA's manicured lawns.

As I watched SNF again this past weekend, it occurred to me about that backlash. Why did everyone suddenly detest disco? I remember it being violent, the hatred, as though disco was some writhing disease in bell bottoms. And in the height of peer pressure, I went along with the hatred, agreeing to reject a deep part of myself in the face of Culture Club, aloofness, and androgyny. Running scared from myself in a feral city that broadcasted its utter hatred toward disco, I was reborn a depressed, motionless adolescent, never questioning the death of a pulsing era. Too young to understand at the time,  I can't help but wonder now where all that hatred came from. Why a seemingly good thing was shot down from the starry heavens, no longer cool, all dressed up in satin with nowhere to go. 


WRITE WITH ME?
Where were you the day (year? era?) the disco died? What are your disco days memories? Saturday Night Fever stories? 

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—I want you to show me...

If you're anywhere near my age you likely remember belting it out in the car, or cranking it up in your bedroom when no one was home, perhaps lying in bed, paralyzed by love's woozy grip, picturing yourself on a tropical island ("Blue Lagoon"?) in a saucy embrace... "I want to know what love is... I want you to show me... I want to feel what love is... I know you can show me..."

I had no way of knowing at the time—the time being 1984—as I rewound this "lame" song that no one my age admitted liking, over and over again, shortly after my boyfriend took me to the Rolling Stones concert and then broke my heart the next day. No way of knowing that thirty years later I would be singing that same song, only a spiritual "cover" version, with a room full of Bhakti yogis, eyes rolling back in their heads, arms stretched toward the heavens, just outside of Madison Wisconsin. Had you told me that at the time, in fact, I likely would have said you were mistaking my life for a David Lynch movie. Not so fast, young, tortured teenage, heartsick, Rox. Not so fast. You've got a lot to learn about love, yet.

Indeed life is a constant lesson in love, is it not? But that's what love looks like when you are 13 in Los Angeles in 1984.  And then it morphs and moves around and gets old and stays loyal here and disloyal there. And then we learn it isn't what we thought it is. And then we realize it's nothing at all like we hoped it was because it's much better, and bigger and all encompassing and includes everyone... And we learn about the Dalai Lama. And Thich Nhat Hanh and lovingkindness... and eventually we realize love's a verb not a noun or it's a state of mind or it's like that great book or movie or love song...well, all that and more. And then we are back where we started from: head over heals in love, lovestruck, lovesick, heartbroken, hopeful...until we are chanting "I wanna know what love is" with a bunch of Hind-Jews, many of them wearing turbans. 

All true, but what does all that look like? And what does that have to do with Foreigner? Well. Back to basics. Back to showing "what does that look like?" Why do I ask? Because love is the courier, the fuel of our stories, the ones we live, the ones we write. Not only are there people we love, but there are also things and places and mommies and daddies and summer camps and music...god, do we ever love music. And don't even get us started on our children. And pets... 

We can love these things in our lives and it shows. When we write, it's not enough to just say it (I mean it is, but you know what I'm saying); for us to love what, how, and who you love right along with you on the page, we've got to see what that looks like.

Here's what love looks like for me: Well...admittedly, chanting  alongside a bunch of yogis just outside of Madison Wisconsin on a beautiful summer day. Laughing blissfully, picturing myself doing this on a (very) regular basis, the image of Valley Girl me chanting words in Sanskrit, cowside, for turning out so far from the person I thought I ever would be.  

Love is writing around the table here at The Beach and reading something and when I look up everyone is looking at me that certain way, a few of them crying

Love is a student naming the Beach, the Beach. 

Love is Jude surrounding himself in his stuffed animals and putting his head on my shoulder when I read The Hobbit to him in his bed. It's also Jude unexpectedly taking my hand when we walk to the bus stop. 

Love is breathing into my heart. Love is breathing back-to-back with someone, feeling the rise and fall together. 

Love is falling into fits of hysterical laughter with Jude because the sound of soy milk pouring over the Cheerios at 6 am cracks us up.

Love is singing "You Ain't Goin' Nowhere" with Debmama and Two Cute Face.

Love is my brother eulogizing my dad by remembering the story about a piece of property he had in the mountains, deciding whether or not he should sell it, wanting to keep it "so others had a place to go."

Love is Ma embellishing a Hallmark card with exclamation points and drawings on Jude's 8th birthday card.

Love is knowing someone so well you can predict their micromovements and mannerisms, before they even know they're coming.  

Love is yoga.

Gosh, I could go on because love is writing. Writing endlessly about what love looks like is love. Love is feeling the loops and dots and lines and curves that form words reflected in the shapes and breath of my body.

Okay, one more: 

Love is laughing at corny jokes like "Nine runs into a friend at the coop who doesn't recognize her because she looks like Six. So she says to the friend at the coop,  It's me! Nine! From yoga class!"

WRITE WITH ME? WHAT DOES LOVE LOOK LIKE FOR YOU, RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW? "LOVE IS..."

PLEASE WRITE WITH ME AND SHARE. BUT EVEN IF YOU DON'T, I STILL LOVE YOU AND WISH YOU A VERY HAPPY, SWEET, HEART-CENTERED VALENTINE'S DAY. XOXO