blog posts
yoga at LA Fitness
swimming at LA Fitness
gratitude journal
adoring woodpeckers
teaching my kid how to unwrap and wrap mindfully
nightly meditation with my kid
modeling the proper way to shop for presents mindfully for (and with) my kid
half-assed forward folds
homemade coloring books of my family and neighborhood
growing out my hair
composing a musical
putting in new cork floor in my living room and bedroom
clutter clearing my shelves
selling my baby and kid stuff
selling the books that make me unhappy
Ditto taking the lot to GoodWill
finishing the cedar siding paint job
hiring help
returning shoes in the back of my car to Shueler's
returning a broken water bottle to Target
grieving (but that's okay)
trying to go to bed early
gluten free pumpkin pie making and passion for
worrying about what my friends and family think of me getting elderly so youngerly
faith in Western Medicine
obsessing over what is wrong
growing and harvesting squash with the hopes of cooking with the squash flowers
looking for a decent primary care doc
wishing my dad were here because, really, what could he do?
calling my brother for advice
blaming yoga
blaming my parents
blaming myself
giving up
giving in
sleeping only on my good side
losing faith in my body
soy yoghurt
0 calorie ice cream
0% Deet mosquito repellent
putting my pen down when it's time to stop writing
parenting myself
scaring myself
daring myself
trying to get physically strong, stronger, strongest
forgetting how to stop
feeling the sunshine
WRITING WITH ROX weekly
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
Wednesday, September 19, 2018
Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Keep Calm and Love the Food Chain
Today a sweet old lady got into the elevator with me at Tria, all smiles. She leaned in closer to get a look at my T'shirt and said, "What does your shirt say? 'Keep Calm and'..."?
"Love Bunnies," I said, proudly puffing out my T-Shirt. I just love sweet old ladies, especially animal lovers. "My son—my 11-year old— gave it to me for my birthday. He just loves bunnies and has one of his own named Louie..."
"Well," she said, "we used to have a lot of cute little bunnies in our yard..."
"Oh yeah? Awww..." I pictured a little bunny circus, with happy kids dressed in pastels and bonnets running through an apple green lawn.
"But now we have co-yotes and fox so no more bunnies."
"Oh," I said. "I suppose—hmmm."
"So that put an end to that. So long!"
"Love Bunnies," I said, proudly puffing out my T-Shirt. I just love sweet old ladies, especially animal lovers. "My son—my 11-year old— gave it to me for my birthday. He just loves bunnies and has one of his own named Louie..."
"Well," she said, "we used to have a lot of cute little bunnies in our yard..."
"Oh yeah? Awww..." I pictured a little bunny circus, with happy kids dressed in pastels and bonnets running through an apple green lawn.
"But now we have co-yotes and fox so no more bunnies."
"Oh," I said. "I suppose—hmmm."
"So that put an end to that. So long!"
Saturday, August 18, 2018
Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Which Writers' Mythology is keeping you away from writing?
I still hear a lot of guilt from some of you about not writing, not getting around to it or prioritizing it like "real" writers do. I'm not sure where all this writer's mythology is coming from, but anyway, is it helping? Has it ever?
I'd like to remind you that summer is for living our lives, living stories so we have something to write about in the dark days of the MN winter. Of course, that may be a Minnesotan writer's mythology, but it also might be true.
There are a few other writers' myths I've (we've?) heard over the years. Some of them may be true and even helpful, yet some of them are old stories serving harmful rather than life giving purposes. You would know for yourself which is what; how does the narrative you tell yourself about what being a writer is impact your writing process? For better or worse?
Do these sound familiar?
Writers are misfits.
Writers are tortured.
Writers drink.
Writers write every day, all day.
Writing is always hard.
Real writers don't take breaks to do the dishes or clean the house.
Real writers publish.
Writing is not going to make me any money.
Being a successful writer is going to solve everything and show them.
To be a good writer, I have to be published at the good places.
Well written emails or texts don't count as writing.
No one cares about that. No one will read that.
Someone else already wrote that.
I don't have a writing voice so I'm not a writer.
Etc, etc, etc....
Again, how does the narrative you tell yourself about what being a writer is impact your writing process? For better or worse? What if they were or weren't true?
Is it time for a new narrative? A more welcoming storyline?
So! What are you excited about writing? What do you loooove writing about? Sometimes not writing has to do with summer and sometimes it has more to do with losing touch with what you want to write about. So, try these:
I am afraid to write about...
because...
Someday I'd love to write about... but I need to finish working on ..... first before I can write what I want to write which is.....
I keep putting off writing about.... because....
If I had all the time in the world to write and could write whatever I wanted to, I would write....
What would help me feel more peace about writing and being a writer is...
I'd like to remind you that summer is for living our lives, living stories so we have something to write about in the dark days of the MN winter. Of course, that may be a Minnesotan writer's mythology, but it also might be true.
There are a few other writers' myths I've (we've?) heard over the years. Some of them may be true and even helpful, yet some of them are old stories serving harmful rather than life giving purposes. You would know for yourself which is what; how does the narrative you tell yourself about what being a writer is impact your writing process? For better or worse?
Do these sound familiar?
Writers are misfits.
Writers are tortured.
Writers drink.
Writers write every day, all day.
Writing is always hard.
Real writers don't take breaks to do the dishes or clean the house.
Real writers publish.
Writing is not going to make me any money.
Being a successful writer is going to solve everything and show them.
To be a good writer, I have to be published at the good places.
Well written emails or texts don't count as writing.
No one cares about that. No one will read that.
Someone else already wrote that.
I don't have a writing voice so I'm not a writer.
Etc, etc, etc....
Again, how does the narrative you tell yourself about what being a writer is impact your writing process? For better or worse? What if they were or weren't true?
Is it time for a new narrative? A more welcoming storyline?
So! What are you excited about writing? What do you loooove writing about? Sometimes not writing has to do with summer and sometimes it has more to do with losing touch with what you want to write about. So, try these:
I am afraid to write about...
because...
Someday I'd love to write about... but I need to finish working on ..... first before I can write what I want to write which is.....
I keep putting off writing about.... because....
If I had all the time in the world to write and could write whatever I wanted to, I would write....
What would help me feel more peace about writing and being a writer is...
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Thank you writing practice!
For the first half of my writing life I wasn't that into it. I did it because I had the option to write creatively (verses academically) about what I was learning at MOBOC, the Open School I went to for 6th and 7th grade in LA. Occasionally, I enjoyed it purely as an act of love, a sublime way to escape and broaden my own company, until I was encouraged by others (bless them) and I started thinking about it, doing it writerly, doing it literarily, doing it in hopes of someday doing it for money. And all of those external things, of course, had their place and time.
It wasn't until I was miserable in grad school at the U of Minnesota for my MFA, that I found my true self again, on (and consequently off) the page. I happened across Brenda Ueland's "If You Want to Write" and every word she wrote was for me: write your truth. Write like you, not like them. Don't bother with competition or perfection. Write because it feels good. Write because you hunger for your own stories, the comfort and caress of your own words and rhythms. This was exactly what I needed to hear in grad school, where I'd lost my way. Of course this coincided with my first of thousands (and counting) of yoga classes and the two went together well for me at the time. And the rest is history.
Today I find myself more grateful than ever for my writing practice, both alone and together with you. In this always insisting world of to dos, trying to keep up with who I "think" I am, who I "was," to stay present, is challenging to live up to in a body unexpectedly slowed by neuropathy, pain and limitations I foolishly reserved for my much much much later years. Though I often attribute all good things to my yoga practice, the thing that pulled me out of hell and back into life, the thing I relied on for 20 years to keep me sane, I often neglect my writing practice in that attribution. But now that I am currently limited to only a few poses, it's enough: I'm not falling apart. I can still write myself all over the place: in body, out of body, through body, toward body and when I need to, away from body.
Like breathing, I can write myself back here, now, to this tired, life times walked, overstretched body, and realize it's all okay.
It wasn't until I was miserable in grad school at the U of Minnesota for my MFA, that I found my true self again, on (and consequently off) the page. I happened across Brenda Ueland's "If You Want to Write" and every word she wrote was for me: write your truth. Write like you, not like them. Don't bother with competition or perfection. Write because it feels good. Write because you hunger for your own stories, the comfort and caress of your own words and rhythms. This was exactly what I needed to hear in grad school, where I'd lost my way. Of course this coincided with my first of thousands (and counting) of yoga classes and the two went together well for me at the time. And the rest is history.
Today I find myself more grateful than ever for my writing practice, both alone and together with you. In this always insisting world of to dos, trying to keep up with who I "think" I am, who I "was," to stay present, is challenging to live up to in a body unexpectedly slowed by neuropathy, pain and limitations I foolishly reserved for my much much much later years. Though I often attribute all good things to my yoga practice, the thing that pulled me out of hell and back into life, the thing I relied on for 20 years to keep me sane, I often neglect my writing practice in that attribution. But now that I am currently limited to only a few poses, it's enough: I'm not falling apart. I can still write myself all over the place: in body, out of body, through body, toward body and when I need to, away from body.
Like breathing, I can write myself back here, now, to this tired, life times walked, overstretched body, and realize it's all okay.
Wednesday, June 27, 2018
Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Happy Birthday to me/This is how it's done!
One of the greatest gifts I've received this year (in addition to the daily gifts shared in writing with you) is this sweet, wonderfully written article my neighbor Linda Jennings wrote about me in our neighborhood newsletter (how cool is that?!), The Minikahda Vista. It's humbling and awkward to see myself in print, but she's a darn good writer and journalist and so I actually kind of like it. A lot.
So... as a reminder, if you happen to write something about someone you know, please share it with them. It's the best kind of gift you can give and get these days. Hoodies and yoga pants I can always use more of, true; but seeing myself on the page through the heart of another, well... that's presence.
Thanks everyone for another great year writing together at The Beach! Can you believe it's been a whole year at the new Beach, the Minikahda? ❤️
So... as a reminder, if you happen to write something about someone you know, please share it with them. It's the best kind of gift you can give and get these days. Hoodies and yoga pants I can always use more of, true; but seeing myself on the page through the heart of another, well... that's presence.
Thanks everyone for another great year writing together at The Beach! Can you believe it's been a whole year at the new Beach, the Minikahda? ❤️
Happy to Be Here...
You can learn and be inspired when you have coffee with a neighbor like Rox (Roxanne) Sadovsky. A Minikahda Vista resident since last summer, Rox has been successfully reaching out through NextDoor and The Vista View newsletter to connect with her new neighbors.
The Los Angeles native came to Minnesota by way of Washington, where she got her undergraduate degree (Evergreen College) and graduate degree (master’s in counseling psychology from Antioch University in 1998). Rox worked with troubled teens in the Seattle area a few years, then determined it was time for a change. Her artist mother encouraged her to pursue more education.
Rox landed in Minneapolis, at the University of Minnesota, where she enrolled in the master of fine arts program in creative nonfiction writing. Of her studies at the U, she says, “I loved every minute of it.” Writing and teaching, she discovered, were her true loves.
Even before she graduated in 2004, Rox joined the Loft Literary Center staff to teach Intuitive Writing and the Healing Memoir.
She continues to teach at the Loft and also has developed a private healing practice (Writing with Rox), Wild Women writing retreats/groups, classes in creative expression, and more. She covers a variety of writing genres — poetry, creative nonfiction, song, journaling, email, and more.
“Writing honors who you are and helps you find aliveness and joy,” Rox says. The simple act of writing allows people to slow down, she says, and connect from the heart and mind.
She points out that participants in her writing groups come together not knowing each other and with a certain amount of “Minnesota reserve.” After they start sharing their work with each other, it’s not too long before they empathize with each other and become like family. Both students and teacher gain life-changing rewards.
“Writing helps us deal with the difficult times in our lives,” Rox asserts.
THE VISTA VIEW
Expressions of gratitude for
Rox’s mentorship are evident in
the writing classroom in her home,
from the table on which students
use a marker to leave a lasting
statement to a handcrafted quilt
created by a student to honor
Rox’s instruction and inspiration.
Students also provide feedback on Rox’s blogspot (http://writingwithrox.blogspot.com/p/what.html) using “kind and gentle,” “encouraging” and “supportive and constructive” to describe their instructor. One student suggests, “(The) class should be taken like a vitamin supplement to enhance any other writing or creative endeavor one is involved in.”
As I leave her home on a chilly day, I think this is not sunny California, but Rox is happy here — in this neighborhood...in this world. A good place to be.
-Linda Jennings
Watch for Rox’s writing in upcoming issues of The
Vista View.
Students also provide feedback on Rox’s blogspot (http://writingwithrox.blogspot.com/p/what.html) using “kind and gentle,” “encouraging” and “supportive and constructive” to describe their instructor. One student suggests, “(The) class should be taken like a vitamin supplement to enhance any other writing or creative endeavor one is involved in.”
As I leave her home on a chilly day, I think this is not sunny California, but Rox is happy here — in this neighborhood...in this world. A good place to be.
-Linda Jennings
Watch for Rox’s writing in upcoming issues of The
Vista View.
Friday, June 8, 2018
Writing with Rox WEEKLY—The Logical Song
I spent half of my childhood in the car. In LA, you had little choice, given the thick lanes of traffic and the unwalked sidewalks, mostly occupied by the homeless pushing their barbed grocery carts stuffed with debris. One time a homeless woman we regularly saw cruising Little Santa Monica near to where we lived, ripped my dad's turn signal right out of his car at a stoplight.
It wasn't all bad stuck in traffic. It all depended on Ma's mood—where she was in her cycle, or how long it has been since she'd eaten—and/or where we were headed: therapy, drum lessons, the market, a dental appointment, the beach. No matter, if the radio happened to play the right song at the right time (which we had shared custody of, Ma and I: she opted for talk radio psychologist, Dr Toni Grant, whereas I shifted back and forth between KROQ, KMET, and KLOS), all was perfect.
So that day in early February, just past my brother's 10th birthday when he was gifted Supertramp's "Breakfast in America" record, the Logical Song came on the radio and alone with her in the car, away from my brother and his friends, I could ask the questions. What does it mean, Ma? What does "sent me away' mean? What's a vegetable? I pictured this poor guy banished, lost in a boat on a river beneath marmalade skies, along with all the lonely people: Father McKenzie, Penny Lane, Bad Bad Leroy Brown and the rest of the misfit folks I'd gotten to know through the countless records we spun at home over the years.
"Well honey..." she'd begin, "it's about growing up."
I tried to picture it. I couldn't. "But how does that make you a vegetable?"
"Oh for Christ Sakes, Roxanne."
But how could Ma begin to answer these questions, to translate the age of experience (logically), to the age of innocence, where I was still living "joyfully," when life was still "wonderful, a miracle"? She did the best she could and the best she could, was the best she good, because bless Ma, with her ERA bumper sticker, fearless claiming of her space in fierce LA traffic ("up yours you creep! Those fuckers better get the hell off the road!") and her open minded heart, she kept answering those questions that kept coming day after day, week after week, year after year until I was old enough to get out of her car and drive away on my own in my own car and roll down the windows and blast the radio and wait for the day when The Logical Song came on, as I sent myself out of innocence, sent myself away to learn the answers first hand, to see for myself how to be logical.
And that's what Ma was trying to tell me that day in the car as the melodies swirled deeply, keening callingly, addictively, between us. She didn't say it exactly, but she was trying to tell me that if ever there came a time "at night, when all the world's asleep, and questions run so deep," like they did for that simple, aching, longing, searching man in The Logical Song, it meant I was normal and that I was going to be okay. Painful as those questions would get, they would eventually lead to light, perhaps even back to innocence where life was so magical.
It wasn't all bad stuck in traffic. It all depended on Ma's mood—where she was in her cycle, or how long it has been since she'd eaten—and/or where we were headed: therapy, drum lessons, the market, a dental appointment, the beach. No matter, if the radio happened to play the right song at the right time (which we had shared custody of, Ma and I: she opted for talk radio psychologist, Dr Toni Grant, whereas I shifted back and forth between KROQ, KMET, and KLOS), all was perfect.
So that day in early February, just past my brother's 10th birthday when he was gifted Supertramp's "Breakfast in America" record, the Logical Song came on the radio and alone with her in the car, away from my brother and his friends, I could ask the questions. What does it mean, Ma? What does "sent me away' mean? What's a vegetable? I pictured this poor guy banished, lost in a boat on a river beneath marmalade skies, along with all the lonely people: Father McKenzie, Penny Lane, Bad Bad Leroy Brown and the rest of the misfit folks I'd gotten to know through the countless records we spun at home over the years.
"Well honey..." she'd begin, "it's about growing up."
I tried to picture it. I couldn't. "But how does that make you a vegetable?"
"Oh for Christ Sakes, Roxanne."
But how could Ma begin to answer these questions, to translate the age of experience (logically), to the age of innocence, where I was still living "joyfully," when life was still "wonderful, a miracle"? She did the best she could and the best she could, was the best she good, because bless Ma, with her ERA bumper sticker, fearless claiming of her space in fierce LA traffic ("up yours you creep! Those fuckers better get the hell off the road!") and her open minded heart, she kept answering those questions that kept coming day after day, week after week, year after year until I was old enough to get out of her car and drive away on my own in my own car and roll down the windows and blast the radio and wait for the day when The Logical Song came on, as I sent myself out of innocence, sent myself away to learn the answers first hand, to see for myself how to be logical.
And that's what Ma was trying to tell me that day in the car as the melodies swirled deeply, keening callingly, addictively, between us. She didn't say it exactly, but she was trying to tell me that if ever there came a time "at night, when all the world's asleep, and questions run so deep," like they did for that simple, aching, longing, searching man in The Logical Song, it meant I was normal and that I was going to be okay. Painful as those questions would get, they would eventually lead to light, perhaps even back to innocence where life was so magical.
Thursday, May 10, 2018
Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Guest Prompt from a dear friend about her 11 year old boy and his love of animals
When I read my friend's email last week, I asked if I could post it and she said "sure honey," somewhat dismissively. I think it's pretty darn fabulous, don't you? Sometimes we forget how "literary" a simple-day-in-the-life email can be.
....
Something so sad happened...
After our school's spring fair, we were outside doing some yard work and watering, and after a while, I went in and a few minutes later, I heard N yelling in the backyard. I ran to the window, and saw him, visibly shaken up, yelling toward the tracks, "DON'T HURT THE BUNNY! DON'T HURT THE BUNNY!") I ran out, afraid that whoever he was yelling at might hurt N. There was a young teen (maybe 14), crouched down, petting a wild rabbit. N ran into the house, and I went over to the tracks and asked him what happened. I don't think he spoke English well. He got up and walked to his bike, and I could see the rabbit's back legs were hurt. I tried to talk to the boy, but I didn't think he was understanding me well. I went to check on N, and the boy rode away.
N was sitting on the coffee table, crying and shaking. He told me the boy threw a rock at the rabbit, and stomped on him. I hugged him and he cried on my shoulder, and I told him how proud I was of him for standing up for what's right. He got ready for bed and I went out to check on the rabbit, and N stuck his head out the door and said we should bring him a carrot. I told him the rabbit had gone away. N got into bed, and I told him again how proud I am of him and also told him that not everyone has been taught to love animals the way he has, and sometimes, kids may not always treated well by the adults in their lives and sometimes they take it out on something weaker, like animals...but hopefully this boy saw our concern for the bunny and will make a different choice next time.
He's having a lot of trouble falling asleep...I let him keep his door open, I even turned on the radio in the living room, but he keeps getting up. I know how his mind works, and I think he's replaying the incident in his mind, preventing him from being able to fall asleep, as well as being worried about the bunny.
I am trying to embrace this as a life experience that helps him grow, and I am so proud of him...it took a LOT for him to yell from his gut like that at a complete stranger.
Has anything like this happened to your kiddos?
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Guava Withdrawal
My absolute favorite thing about Mexico is guava. I eat my weight in the smiling pink darlings—and then some. Just looking at the innocent ovals of succulence never fails to make my heart scream with happiness and when we reunited only a short while ago, I felt a forgotten gratitude so deep I nearly wept.
And then I ate them up. Day after painfully passing ocean blue day, I rolled them and stacked them and balanced them atop my too full plate... after plate after plate. The abundance was a luxury. If only I could stock my countertop with always blossoming guava, I'd be forever happy. I felt better. I walked along shore, sand, and cobblestone. I swam with turtles. I felt good. Guavas are loaded with vitamins and super juice. I looked better. I could carry more. I slept like a baby to the guava breast, nourished by her ever flowing madre love.
Now that I'm home, I'm miserable. It's white out. It's cold. There's no ocean. No fresh pescado. No sunshine. And the worst part is there's no guava. I'm pink with pain. Yellow with withdrawal. What have I done? Me and TCF even ran over to Marissa's Bakery on Eat Street who import the little queenies from time to time, but alas, they were fresh out. Cactus they had, but the guava tree was no more. Why? Because I ate them all.
I keep saying I'll never go back to Mexico because it's too hard to come home. I forget, of course, and head out every other year or so. Why oh why do I do this?
And then I ate them up. Day after painfully passing ocean blue day, I rolled them and stacked them and balanced them atop my too full plate... after plate after plate. The abundance was a luxury. If only I could stock my countertop with always blossoming guava, I'd be forever happy. I felt better. I walked along shore, sand, and cobblestone. I swam with turtles. I felt good. Guavas are loaded with vitamins and super juice. I looked better. I could carry more. I slept like a baby to the guava breast, nourished by her ever flowing madre love.
Now that I'm home, I'm miserable. It's white out. It's cold. There's no ocean. No fresh pescado. No sunshine. And the worst part is there's no guava. I'm pink with pain. Yellow with withdrawal. What have I done? Me and TCF even ran over to Marissa's Bakery on Eat Street who import the little queenies from time to time, but alas, they were fresh out. Cactus they had, but the guava tree was no more. Why? Because I ate them all.
I keep saying I'll never go back to Mexico because it's too hard to come home. I forget, of course, and head out every other year or so. Why oh why do I do this?
Friday, February 23, 2018
Writing with Rox WEEKLY—But if you try sometimes...
I cannot tell you how many times I have written about my first concert—The Rolling Stones—since the long ago day in 1980 when I was ten. And I cannot tell you what joy it brings me every time I write about it, despite it not being a very pleasant evening. I could write about that night a million different ways with a million different details and it would still make me smile.
I don't know why it happens every time, but it does. I mean really... what's fun about the 1980s anyway? What's fun about feathered hair, the LA Coliseum, the nosebleed seats, the drunk, raunchy Dead Head who squeezed my ass on the way to get Nachos, the roach my boyfriend's mom passed us in the limo, the puke in the gas station outhouse on the way there? What's fun about waiting for your preppy boyfriend to kiss you all night, the loneliness of coming home to an empty house and having to kick in the door, shirtless Mick Jagger in lemon yellow tights worming around the stage, and the foreboding echo of You Can't Always Get What You Want careening through your innocent, almost adolescent mind?
But never mind what I wrote. My-soon-to-be-famous-in-my-opinion students wrote about first concerts put on by their kids, the excitement of an upcoming Dessa concert, Bon Jovi, the bittersweet memories of listening to records of Judy Collins and Bob Dylan... As we listen, we relate; we laugh, we long, we regret, we remember... our hearts beat a little faster. We might cry. But why do we bother with all this? Aren't there better things to be doing with our time?
But somehow when we write and share—for better or worse—in addition to making us stronger writers, it feels good. It's deeply satisfying in ways I will never understand. It's fun! We can reframe old stories and take control of new ones. It's a deep cleansing, honoring, and remembering. It takes you back. Or forward. You get to hear yourself again... or for the first time, only with a gentle voice of experience looking back on innocence, on that one evening or moment in time and being able to say to your little(r) self, "hey, I'm back. I'm here. I've been here all along."
And if you do this long enough—this writing and sharing—you just might find...all these years later... you get what you need.
Oh yeah.
I don't know why it happens every time, but it does. I mean really... what's fun about the 1980s anyway? What's fun about feathered hair, the LA Coliseum, the nosebleed seats, the drunk, raunchy Dead Head who squeezed my ass on the way to get Nachos, the roach my boyfriend's mom passed us in the limo, the puke in the gas station outhouse on the way there? What's fun about waiting for your preppy boyfriend to kiss you all night, the loneliness of coming home to an empty house and having to kick in the door, shirtless Mick Jagger in lemon yellow tights worming around the stage, and the foreboding echo of You Can't Always Get What You Want careening through your innocent, almost adolescent mind?
But never mind what I wrote. My-soon-to-be-famous-in-my-opinion students wrote about first concerts put on by their kids, the excitement of an upcoming Dessa concert, Bon Jovi, the bittersweet memories of listening to records of Judy Collins and Bob Dylan... As we listen, we relate; we laugh, we long, we regret, we remember... our hearts beat a little faster. We might cry. But why do we bother with all this? Aren't there better things to be doing with our time?
But somehow when we write and share—for better or worse—in addition to making us stronger writers, it feels good. It's deeply satisfying in ways I will never understand. It's fun! We can reframe old stories and take control of new ones. It's a deep cleansing, honoring, and remembering. It takes you back. Or forward. You get to hear yourself again... or for the first time, only with a gentle voice of experience looking back on innocence, on that one evening or moment in time and being able to say to your little(r) self, "hey, I'm back. I'm here. I've been here all along."
And if you do this long enough—this writing and sharing—you just might find...all these years later... you get what you need.
Oh yeah.
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
Writing with Rox WEEKLY—My cat gives me Reiki
Happy Valentine's Day Writers!
Now, now... before you go saying saying about Valentine's Day, remember that this day is loaded with prompts because no matter how you slice it, it's about the heart. And no matter what you write about, it's really all about the heart. And the heart is always up to something.
It's been all over the place, hasn't it? It's fallen hard, broken in pieces, gone missing, gone into hiding, stripped, dressed up, run away, danced with you, given your blissful rhythm, the chills, the drunken nerve, beat so fast you thought you'd pass out... and here it still is, beating in time, reminding you that a heart connection is still always right in front of you.
When we write together and share, we connect from the heart and it comes naturally (which is why it feels so good most of the time).
Lately, when I need it, my cat Lola jumps on my lap and puts her paw on my heart. I kid you not. She just sits there, looks me in the eye, and rests her white gloved paw heart center. She senses something. She is wise in ways of the heart, a constant reminder that my heart is always primed for opening. Even if my mind is up to something else, my heart can always be opened.
Sometimes I forget that and I engage a little less alive with life, I give less, I receive less, I think more... and my writing sounds... off... sort of like those Valentine's heart candies with the messages that get more and more cryptic every year: "H&M?" What the heck is that and do I really want my kid reading these things? "Smoo Mes"? Er....? "Lympy?"
Of course we get a good laugh about it and that opens the heart. So you can't stay annoyed for long.
What opens your heart?
Now, now... before you go saying saying about Valentine's Day, remember that this day is loaded with prompts because no matter how you slice it, it's about the heart. And no matter what you write about, it's really all about the heart. And the heart is always up to something.
It's been all over the place, hasn't it? It's fallen hard, broken in pieces, gone missing, gone into hiding, stripped, dressed up, run away, danced with you, given your blissful rhythm, the chills, the drunken nerve, beat so fast you thought you'd pass out... and here it still is, beating in time, reminding you that a heart connection is still always right in front of you.
When we write together and share, we connect from the heart and it comes naturally (which is why it feels so good most of the time).
Lately, when I need it, my cat Lola jumps on my lap and puts her paw on my heart. I kid you not. She just sits there, looks me in the eye, and rests her white gloved paw heart center. She senses something. She is wise in ways of the heart, a constant reminder that my heart is always primed for opening. Even if my mind is up to something else, my heart can always be opened.
Sometimes I forget that and I engage a little less alive with life, I give less, I receive less, I think more... and my writing sounds... off... sort of like those Valentine's heart candies with the messages that get more and more cryptic every year: "H&M?" What the heck is that and do I really want my kid reading these things? "Smoo Mes"? Er....? "Lympy?"
Of course we get a good laugh about it and that opens the heart. So you can't stay annoyed for long.
What opens your heart?
Wednesday, February 7, 2018
Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Every Wednesday, 4pm
Happy February Writers!
Today I am feeling happy that there is sunshine outside and that we can feel it on the couch in the corner of the living room where the kitty likes to lie out.
I am also satisfied by a full day of writing with you, always nourishment. "Welp, another morning totally wasted," one of my dear students likes to joke after our monthly morning group, the same group that has been writing together for several years and experiencing the same inexplicable magic that happens when we write together and see ourselves in the words of one another, because we can all write about our cars or going to the dentist or the clutter on our tables or what we had for dinner last night and have a deeply moving life changing experience.
I am also sad today because for forever and a day, Weds has been my day to finish off the work day with yoga at One Yoga with Amy and those familiar bodies I took the same class with for years and years (though I think I was there the longest). I miss those familiar limbs in triangle poses and warriors and downward dogs and the corpses that kept me safe company in Savasana.
Even though it's been almost a year, today I struggle to accept that I cannot go and do what I have done for 18 years at 4 pm on Wednesday, what is so familiar. I want it back so much I embarrass myself with the inability to grow up and accept myself where I am. I suppose if I could be okay with not being okay and not accepting where I am than I might be okay with where I am. I might be onto something.
And I am enjoying a laborious text exchange with Ma who is across town trying to understand exactly what sort of feminine product I need her to pick up and were it not for her many questions, it would never occur to me how difficult this was, how words fall short, and how many feminine products there really are
I am also baffled by how much harder and more complicated things are given how easy things have become and how many options there are
For some reason I can never remember what floor I am supposed to get off at my clinic because there are two main floors
especially on Wednesdays
because I think part of me is always expecting to get off on the floor with the yoga studio
It is Wednesday at 4 pm and instead of doing yoga, I am doing this. And isn't it really the same thing?
What's your Weds at 4p?
What do you miss and long for like a petulant child?
Today I am feeling happy that there is sunshine outside and that we can feel it on the couch in the corner of the living room where the kitty likes to lie out.
I am also satisfied by a full day of writing with you, always nourishment. "Welp, another morning totally wasted," one of my dear students likes to joke after our monthly morning group, the same group that has been writing together for several years and experiencing the same inexplicable magic that happens when we write together and see ourselves in the words of one another, because we can all write about our cars or going to the dentist or the clutter on our tables or what we had for dinner last night and have a deeply moving life changing experience.
I am also sad today because for forever and a day, Weds has been my day to finish off the work day with yoga at One Yoga with Amy and those familiar bodies I took the same class with for years and years (though I think I was there the longest). I miss those familiar limbs in triangle poses and warriors and downward dogs and the corpses that kept me safe company in Savasana.
Even though it's been almost a year, today I struggle to accept that I cannot go and do what I have done for 18 years at 4 pm on Wednesday, what is so familiar. I want it back so much I embarrass myself with the inability to grow up and accept myself where I am. I suppose if I could be okay with not being okay and not accepting where I am than I might be okay with where I am. I might be onto something.
And I am enjoying a laborious text exchange with Ma who is across town trying to understand exactly what sort of feminine product I need her to pick up and were it not for her many questions, it would never occur to me how difficult this was, how words fall short, and how many feminine products there really are
I am also baffled by how much harder and more complicated things are given how easy things have become and how many options there are
For some reason I can never remember what floor I am supposed to get off at my clinic because there are two main floors
especially on Wednesdays
because I think part of me is always expecting to get off on the floor with the yoga studio
It is Wednesday at 4 pm and instead of doing yoga, I am doing this. And isn't it really the same thing?
What's your Weds at 4p?
What do you miss and long for like a petulant child?
Friday, January 5, 2018
Writing with Rox WEEKLY—May your narrative arc be simple
Happy New Year Writers!
Wishing you and your writing journey happy 2018, with much love, peace, and adventure on and off the page! Thanks to all of you for your continued support, stories, and commitment to the page and the many, many gifts you offer each time we write together. I am grateful! Whether it’s been a while since we’ve written together or as recent as yesterday, I hope that you are all continuing to find that sacred, unconditionally present, wide open space that is there for you, waiting, every time you sit down to write. The page is always your companion, your portal, your reminder, your present moment. And I look forward to writing together soon!
Oh... and guess what? After chasing the beginning of the end of my memoir (or at the very least, the antagonist), I have at long last figured out what's been eating at my legs and turning my life upside down and brought me to my knees (less painful in headstand, more humbling on the ground) for the past ten months. Hallelujah. The view from the tip of the arc is grand.
Much much ever so much love, Rox
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