Writing with Rox WEEKLY—What rereading my Blog taught me (again) about writing and (again) about life

Occasionally I'll wonder if anyone reads my blog. Not in the "no one cares" sense, but in the "There are so many blogs out there, so many magazines and books...hasn't everyone read everything there is to read already and aren't I just repeating myself... and besides everyone's busy" sense. Everyone gets the point about writing by now, at least as far as what I have to say about it: Write your truth, don't edit, trust your raw voice, writing together is a wonderful way to build community, stories are gifts, etc etc...

Even so, writing is a lonely business and even though it's a deeply satisfying, beautifully puzzling, sometime life-changing, magical process of discovery, on the other side of the shore, when you set the pen down, it IS comforting to know that someone is out there reading, resonating, etc. 

It's the same kind of thing my students will sometimes say in discussing why we write in the first place.  "What's the point? Who cares? Who really wants to read this? It's boring! etc etc..."

"What are you, kidding?" I'll say after a disclaimer such as that, "this is brilliant! NOT boring. Keep going!" Sure, I tell them that and I mean it. I DO want to hear it. It is NOT boring. It is beautiful. And truthful. And please keep writing...  But you know how it is. You can't always apply these things to yourself, especially when you're the "teacher." 

It's the same kind of thing my students will sometimes say about it not sounding polished enough, poetic enough, story enough...to which I will say, "but it is, it is it is! It's perfect just the way it is. Write now, fiercely, truthfully, and edit later." I tell them that all too often when we edit as we go, or too soon, that we kill the soul of the piece. We flatten the rhythm, the joy, the fluid juicy energy that feeds us in every sentence; we kill the ecstasy we feel when writing it. The live raw pulsing song of the piece (poem, memoir, essay, short story) gets sacrificed in the name of the big game of "what others will think."

Then—and only then—are we left with boring writing. Clean writing, with less heart and more head. Writing that no longer breathes or sighs. Slaughtered innocent writing that we hardly recognize as our own. Voices abducted, fragments of sentences brutalized and bleeding on the literary field, lonely, without their original, less polished verb companions. I've seen it time and time again. In you, in me, in everyone.

How long have I been preaching on these things here at St Beach? A looong time. And sure, for the most part, I do take my own advice. I have faith in what I say, I walk the talk, write the fight.  But sometimes, like you and me and everyone, I can lose faith.  I can forget and wonder what it's all about. I question. What am I telling these innocent writer people? What do I know? Maybe it does have to sound "better." 

But faith is a good thing. Were it not for faith, I could have easily given over to the literary dark side, believing that pleasing the external is more important than honoring the internal, the truth, the deeper knowing that always surfaces when we honor our truth on the page. And we can feel that truth and pulse and recognize that truth immediately when we are writing. We know we are in it. 

Luckily, when my faith is tested on (and off) the page, I am struck by a reminding wind, a gust of cool calm reminding, seemingly out of the blue. Just a few months ago I was caught up in a panicked existential flare up of "what's the point? why bother? nobody cares, nobody listens."  I was having a very challenging week. All the hormones were aligned to make for some serious crazy. My fibro was in retrograde. I was in the mindset of seriously believing that if I called anyone with my shit that no one would care to listen because X or Y or Z has it a lot worse off than I do, and besides, they'd heard it all before in some earlier version, hadn't they? Plus, wasn't that what my boyfriend was for? My therapist? My community? The makeshift family that I opted for and chose for myself, likely before I was even born? Where were they now?

So there I was convinced nobody would listen or cared. I wasn't due to see my therapist for another week, Two Cute was mad at me about something, Paula was traveling somewhere, I didn't want to burden my friends or Jude's dad, etc, etc. So as I sat there in my own pity party, convinced how inconvenient my deepest oldest pain might sound—either too much to handle or too shallow to indulge—my thoughts ran throughout the day, "who will listen? Who will care? Is there anyone listening? Is there anyone I can talk to?" I believe I was in the middle of taking down the recycling, trying to keep up with the everyday doing of life though I didn't feel at all every day on the inside. I felt lost and alone. "Is there anyone? Anyone?"

And then, there it was, a faint little voice coming from deep within the right middle side of my body. "I'm listening," the voice said. "I'm right here. Right where I always am.  I'll listen."

Well, I just about had to sit down right there in the recycling. 

That was unexpected. I mean, I knew it, but I just never really heard it. Not like that. Not in my body. Which likely explains why at first I wanted to ignore it. I knew it was good old me coming through, but what do I have to do with this? Of course it's me listening; who else would it be? Aren't I always listening to me? Aren't I?

Or maybe I didn't recognize it as me at first. Maybe I did, but didn't take me seriously. Oh you? So, what of it? 

In any case, when I came upstairs I did sit down. It wasn't a big emotional thing. It was't another tearfest. It was just like, "oh, yeah. You are listening. You do count. You can listen and you can also hear." So I took the time to listen to me. To hear me. In my raw truth.

Of course as I knew then, as I deeply-er know now, I'm the only one who can give me that undivided love and listening that I sometimes fall into the trap of believing I need to get externally. I have to be the first one to listen, the first one to hear, listen, and care. That way if there ever does come a day when my people don't want to listen (yeah, right), don't care (yeah, right), judge me for my struggles (yeah, right), find me boring  (yeah, right), etc, I won't fall apart. I'm there. I'm listening. 

I'm reading my own damn blog.

You can imagine how this translates into writing. You are, as am I, first and foremost writing for yourself. To yourself, for yourself. When you come back and find yourself on the page years or days or months later, you will recognize yourself and be so grateful for the gift you have discovered on the page. Finding yourself again—again and again—in an earlier form, writing and breathing.


WRITE WITH ME?
What will you write "just for me"? 
Just for me, I write...

Another Ma Said

It's been years since we've been to CA for Thanksgiving. This year may be the year. After all, fuck all this cold weather in advance! We're going.

Now to sort out who. Me and Jude. Me, Dada, and Jude. Me, Too Cute Face and Jude. Me, Too Cute Face, Dada, and Jude?

And when. Shit, may as well go the entire week since we're paying and flying. Make it a whole week. Why not? It'll be five deep in snow here by then!

So  I call Ma. "Guess what, Ma? I think we'll come Sunday to Sunday! Isn't that great?"

"WHY SO LONG?!!!!"

"I DON'T THINK I CAN STAND TO HAVE THAT MANY ADULTS IN THE HOUSE."

We're going.

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Do You Dare?

Last week in Wednesday Writers, one of my longtime deeply awesome, majestically brilliant (and creative! unfair!) students was leading us through our first writing exercise, "I forgot to write about..." and off and writing went we.

As always, the mixture of story and sentiment was take-your-breath-away-and-knock-you-over. Some of us wrote about our fathers, some of us went to the country. Some of us wrote about not remembering what we did this morning, let alone what we forgot to write about. 

We had no idea where it would go when we started writing, but we had faith that it would go somewhere if we just stayed with it. If we lingered long enough. We knew it would go here and go there and then at some point, something would catch like wildfire and the pen would go burning up the page. 

This is a type of Intuitive Writing Prompt that is more open ended and less topic focused than the ones I often send out about a specific topic, theme, or memory. For example, last week's prompt was write about something retro, which might bring you back to your record collection or dancing beside the jukebox or wearing saddle shoes or... it may have got you thinking about the word itself, inviting more of an analysis or rant. 

The Intuitive Writing prompt, while more open, has a more rhythmic flow, more about process than product (though I'd argue most writing is process first, product later) and will ultimately open up a dozen or more prompts easily as you write. A few others (among the infinite) like it are: 


What I really want to tell you ...
I remember...
And the truth is...
By the way...


At the end of our sharing one of the students remarked on what a great prompt it was and complimented our leader du jour, to which she said "well it was just like something Rox had done before..." 

Well... yes and no. I may have done something like it. But not exactly it.  Something like "I don't want to forget to write about..." which is close, but not the same.  The thing is that every prompt, even ones that are similar, will entirely make a difference in what comes out. There is a certain pitch, tone, rhythm we all respond to, resonate with perfectly—perhaps developed in the womb or shortly thereafter—that will provide an opening when we dive into Intuitive Writing. It's like a melody or song, poem, language  or any other thing we latch more easily onto than others. Of course any prompt will and can ultimately get you to your hot spot, your writing prana, your word chi, your writing ju ju, your...

Once you have been writing a while, you begin thinking in prompts. You begin to realize that everything is a prompt. Any word, phrase, song... Anything you see, hear, taste, smell, touch and linger in will invite something. You may think "oh, no, I have nothing to say or think about tofu!" But that is just your head getting in the way of the best poem or memoir or whatever you are about to write. Go ahead try it: Tofu.

So what's this about "do you dare?" Do you dare go deeper, that is. In writing. In your life. What does that look like? Mostly allowing yourself to explore and open to your vulnerability on and off the page so you give live and write more freely because what are you waiting for? 

A few Intuitive Writing Prompts, going deeper into vulnerability are:


I'm afraid to write about...
I'll never write about...
If only I could write about...
I've never told anyone this, but..
I'm waiting for...


If you want more on that I still have a few openings in my Wednesday Writing Vulnerably class which meets monthly, beginning this Weds at 9:30-noon. Let me know asap if you want in!



In the meantime, Write with Me? "I forgot to write about..."



Thanks beautiful student and friend of mine for this inspiration. You know who you are. xoxoxo

Writing with Rox WEEKLY— RETRO Weekend

Yesterday TCF and I went to Cheapo (remember?) and looked at Compact Disks (remember those?). Wow, what a flashback. When I moved here in 2001, to the heart of Uptown, I wondered what that huge yellow and red place was; Ma and I speculated it was some sort of discount clothing store akin to the ones we have in LA.  Little did I know I would spend countless afternoons click clacking my way through the "new arrivals," looking for anything Thievery Corporation, Afro Celt, Peter Gabrielle, and anything 80s. Those were the days when eighties dancing was still easy to find, before texting, where people made eye contact more, Orr Books,  before Facebook, before...

"What a retro weekend we are having!" I sang joyfully, nostalgically, as we walked the quaint sunny streets of St Paul, Moby CD and (the original) Bad News Bears movie in hand. "Aren't we? A retro weekend!"

"Yes, honey," TCF agrees with a wide sunny smile; retro pace is his pace. "What else was retro, though?" 

Here, I know TCF won't mind me disclosing that he still uses a record player, owns no microwave, becomes excited upon purchasing new kitchen tools like a dish-wand, and only recently bought a cell phone. He embodies classic retro and wears it well, inside and out. This is a man who appreciates watching the sparrows swarm the feeder, proudly proclaiming, "I could easily make an entire day of that!"

Still, he has a point.  What is retro anyway? My bff Paula in Austin just told me that I'm the only who actually listens to and leaves voice mail. Is that true? Is voice mail now retro? I suppose if The Smiths are now in the Classic Rock section at Cheapo, then voice mail (never mind answering machines) are definitely a retro possibility (retrobility?) 

Lately Jude and I have been doing Mad libs. Is that retro? Or is retro more of a psychology, an appreciation for watching the birds, lingering in the groove of the moment, no matter what the record player or boom box or player piano or campfire singers are playing?



Write with me? What retro activity have you been up to lately? What the heck is retro anyway? 

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—What We Learn When We Linger

 Aside from the cabin bauble, one of the simple pleasures I get when staying a few days at these darling, lakeside mini doll houses is reading the little guest books. In ways I am not proud of,  I enjoy that it's a little like reality TV or Facebook (neither in which I partake) in that you get to eavesdrop on other couples' lives, get a sense of them as people, and read about all the great fantastic things around town and in the cabin they are doing, while feeling superior or inferior in comparison. 

Typically the entries can be a bit low key, rote, even a bit boring, but this latest one in Grand Marais, where I spent Labor Day Weekend, made for much livelier reading: individuals heeding the call to consciousness on this beautiful shore, couples going deep into their feelings, often writing love letters to one another within the pages, honoring the peaceful, romantic respite on Lake Superior with the man/woman of their dreams. In particular, there was this one couple who had been coming for 5 years in a row, writing faithfully of their renewed love and commitment to one another. Their story began on the page at Cabin # 9 in 2008, only a few months into their relationship, both of them swimming in those early months of love and lust. 

"Typical," I said, "the bliss of early love. Enjoy it while it lasts...Of course, we're kind of like that... aren't we?" 

And it did last. Despite my skepticism, I'd hope it would last; how could I not? And it lasted another year. As I turned the pages, I found the second entry from each of them, a year later, doting on one another, having endured a tough year, but staying strong in their commitment. "Well surely, it can't stay this lovey-dovey," I said, eagerly turning the pages to see if there was more. There was. Five years worth. Sure, there were challenges to the relationship. There were kids and divorces involved. There was lack of support. But they stayed strong in their love to one another. "Shit," I told TCF, "they gotta make a memoir out of this book!"

And as we read more of this couple on the page, as we lingered with them, we grew to love them, attach to them. We began to root for them, perhaps even see ourselves in them as the protagonists we aspire to. Perhaps unconsciously we wished our relationship was more like theirs; on the ride home TCF compared me to the female "character" in the book because unlike her, I wanted to run around and hike and bike too much, whereas (I'll call her) Kathryn, simply wanted to lounge around all day and just be together with her lover. "Oh that's great," I stormed, "you're comparing me to a fictional character?"


If you've written with me before, you've likely heard me say "linger" enough times to know it is a very important part of writing. The first time I heard the term linger was from my reader at the U of M, Charles Baxter, who upon reading my memoir, suggested I take the time to linger longer in certain scenes. Let us really be here. Let us see this. Take your time. 

"Linger" is a term I have integrated and morphed into its own animal around here, borrowing from my own experience as a writer and teacher, as well as my life teachers, naming a few—yoga, chanting (both lingering in action), and my bible, A General Theory of Love. My point is everything Charles said, with the added twist of "stay here on the page as long as you can, and then some more, even when you think you can't," especially during process or healing writing. 

Why? Why linger? Well, there's the first answer: because it makes you a better, deeper writer, filling in the human details of the moment that we can all relate to. So we can care about you and your characters, fictional or otherwise. Because if we don't care about you and love you on the page, why do we want to see what happens next?

The less obvious reason is because you can. What you do in writing, on the page, especially if it feels hard, is an opening. A gift waiting to be discovered if you can stay here long enough, have faith in the process, without having to know where you are going. Taking some time to stop listening to your mind with it's typical defenses, telling you to stop, or why bother or this is going nowhere. If you linger long enough on the page, you begin to linger off the page. You start to love and care and accept yourself and whatever else you are lingering with just as you (they) are.  The grooves get deeper.

Though I'm an old pro (ha), I forget this on a daily basis. At the end of the trip to Grand Marais, as I was about to drive off,  I realized I neglected to write in the guest book. Inspired by one man who had written in the book about risking a late check out in order to write his thoughts, I was called to task, one I typically enjoy greatly, but was oddly not up for in the moment. Still, rushing out, I wrote a few lines about a great hike, thanked the owners, before heading down to the shore for one last moment with the great Lake. As I sat on the warm rocks and contemplated the trip, slowly  releasing one-by-one the rocks I had gathered back to Mother Superior, I considered how blocked I'd been in writing in that little book.  Then I remembered how heartfelt and truthful everyone was in writing in that book. I realized I was blocked because I had not written my truth. 

Seriously? Doesn't my brochure say something like, er, "Write Your Truth" on the cover? What kind of teacher am I? What kind of writer? Of course, "write your truth" does not necessarily mean only when you feel like it or all of the time; it just means if you are feeling blocked on the page, you are likely not writing your truth.

Risking late check out, once again, I returned to the little cabin and to the little guest book and I wrote the truth. The truth that it had not been the perfect vacation. That even in this breathtakingly beautiful place, ideal for a romantic getaway, it had its ups and downs. I mean, it was dreamy. It was relaxing. TCF and I laughed and played and lingered in the bliss of the moment, fleeting as it was. But it had its ups and downs. It certainly was not romantic in the way of Kathryn and Bob. Not really. 

But didn't I have to linger with that too? 

And I did. 

And we'll last.



Write with me?
Linger in your ideal place? Your challenging place? 
Where you don't want to linger? On and off the page?
Guest books? Cabins?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—What are we, Stupid?

There's next to nothing I enjoy more than a bike ride on a summer night in the Midwest. It must kinesthetically resemble womb-time, what with the perfect float I fall into on darkening nights, with those wide open streets, cicadas and azure bellied insects echoing like a singing bowl, the neon ring guiding my way, bugsong, in the black of night. To that, add the Midwestern moon (we don't have moons like this where I come from; heck, I don't think LA has a moon), humidity hugging me like the Santa Annas I remember from childhood, yet with the speed and breeze of the wind on my bike, I am heaven in motion.  Here it is like no other place I have lived and I cannot get enough. I could easily—easily—bike endlessly into this evergiving night.

On these particlar summer nights, all my fears and worries fall away. Love is the only answer on these nights. All else is just petty. My heart blossoms, the world is completely loving, forgiving, enchanted.  One such recent night, this past Friday, after an amazing dinner at Fujiya in the tatami room to celebrate a friend's birthday, Two Cute Face and I sailed the Uptown seas, before cutting down 31st street, arriving shoreside at Lake Calhoun. We took up the path toward home, following the lower curve along the Parkway. Here, giddy from Mojitoes, yellow tail, and laughing with friends, we paused to look at the stars rising above the lake, noticing a particularly bright, bright star that neither of us recognized. Seriously. This was a star. The kind that twinkles and sprouts in five directions. The movie kind. "I don't think I've ever seen a star like that before," we both said, "is that a planet? What is that?"

Then, another appeared in the southwestern corner of the lake. But wait, it was coming right toward us. What is that? Are we still in the Perseids? Are we in a dream? 

Of course all too soon we realized it was an airplane, then another, but on this particular happy night on our bikes, we concluded that the advantage to being "right brained" and not knowing a lot about how the nitty gritty scientific world works is that we get to live in a world where (most) anything is possible! "A state of wonder," Too Cute Face said, as we left the planes and the stars and the other unknowns over the Uptown lake.

Of course living in such a state, some might argue,  has its disadvantages because it can lead to rule bending. As we headed back up Calhoun and cut over to Lake Harriet, winding blindly up and down the roller coaster hills leading to the bandshell, we descended upon the wild rumpus that was letting out  (outdoor movies in the park!) and to avoid the masses of people, we ended up taking the walking path around the outside of the biking path for a few short pedals before skipping tracks back to the bike path. Going the wrong way. 

Now. I know what you're going to say. I know what you're thinking. It's not like I haven't thought it myself. But here's the thing: We were tired. It was late. No one was on the path, save for a few stray walkers, who when we politely excused ourselves as we came through, apologized for being in the middle of the bike path (might I add, walking the wrong way, as well) to which we said something like "no worries, thank you, thanks, good night!" before pedaling cautiously down a few more blocks before turning off at 47th street. Did I mention it was 11:30 pm? 

So just before we turn off, out of nowhere comes this thundering buzz kill, shouting at us from the street. Well you know who I'm talking about. There's always one of them. So, he says, this bully of a buzz kill on a bike, says he, "You're going the wrong way... You're going the wrong way on the bike path. You're going the wrong way!!" 

Best strategy for me in this case is always to ignore it. What am I, ten? What is he the hall monitor? Even when the hall monitor goes on and on, long after he's out of range about "you are also breaking the law!! Which is dangerous. And stupid. And totally disrespectful and...               "

Suffice it to say, we got off the path unscathed, save for the buzz kill. "And peace to you, Brother as well," Too Cute said, joining me in the wide open street toward home. 

"Seriously!" I said. "What's the deal with that?" Of course I was gungho to launch into my tirade about over-the-top bikers who follow all the damn rules and outlandish "cars are coffins" politics who make it miserable for the rest of us bikers, etc, etc, but Too Cute, being Too Cute, took another approach. "I mean, really, where's the Good Will anymore? What happened to kindness? Compassion? How about instead of shouting at us, just say, "Hey, be careful, just so you know, you're on a one-way path... Wouldn't that be a better approach?"

Really. It's not like we're out to run into people. What's all the excitement about? Since when did we all become so f'ing mean when things don't go our way or when others are behaving in ways that don't coincide with ours and/or the masses behavior. What's all the anger about? What's wrong with us? What are we, stupid? Er, oops, is there something about kindness we seem to be forgetting?

Write with me? 
When was a time you were the biker? Or me and Too Cute Face? 
How do you see the world wondrously? 
What do you live for in the summertime? 
Anything else?!

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—National Night Out Crashers/Running With Neighbors

When I was growing up in the 70s in LA, national night out happened every night. You just went outside and voila, everyone was out. Of course this was LA and in fact most people were out, in more ways than one, not to mention the weather, always out at 70, give or take a few degrees. On any given night, there we'd be, engulfed in jasmine and citrus trees, running with the wind. As the elders buzzed along on the upper plane doing their grownup things with cars or hammers or in the kitchen or on the phone, we roared in and out of our houses, running in packs, in costume, in total surrender, as we dove deeply into the only moment there only ever is during childhood: the blissful now. Skateboarding down Holmby Avenue, playing baseball in the street, or Star Wars on the grass, all sense of time lost until inevitably the call would come for dinner. And for those whose call never came on any given day, that was your day in the sun. You'd go eat over somewhere else, maybe even sleep over. Night after night, we hoped it would never ever end.

Last night was the first time I formally partook in NNO, which I consider a huge deal for an introvert like myself, though I did have my extroverted son along with me, which helped a great deal and was the real impetus for my venturing out. After all, we live in a condo, where the closet thing we come to NNO is in passing in the garage or at the annual board meeting at Dunn Brothers in December, though I've been here almost four years and we've yet to introduce ourselves.  In any case, Jude and I braved the streets, headed around the block to the neighboring party we've been invited to two years in a row, but for whatever reason, never made it. But this year, darn it, we would show up. After all, I had Jude's childhood to think about, which means his childhood has to be the exact same as mine! When life was good! And suddenly, quite urgently, I was determined that on this NNO Jude would get out there and find some kids to run around with. 

It took some doing. Why are we going there, Mama? 
Because we are! 
But why? 
Because there'll be kids! 
Where is it? I don't see anybody...
I don't know! Let's keep walking! 


In typical Ma fashion, we ended up at the wrong party. 


In my thirties,  I rebelled against NNO, this seemingly satirical vision of getting people to make eye contact and actually talk to each other. Are you even serious? It seemed to me, at the time, the live version of FaceBook, where you go try people out who live near you and decide if you want to befriend them because having that happen spontaneously or organically was just too much pressure for our rapidly failing social abilities. Of course this was before Facebook, at least I think it was, but still, I wasn't going to partake in such a contrived Hallmark type event when it was easier to stay at home and complain about the end of our social abilities. 

Now, in my forties, I still find it satirical or at least on the scary side, that we have to create structures in order to introduce ourselves to one another, let alone feel un-self-consicous, while standing in the middle of the street,  or drinking beer in your neighbor's driveway, pointing out to one another which house and which kid is ours. I mean, why don't we then stop each other in the local market and exchange pleasantries? Why don't we, while out walking the dog or riding the bike, make the same sort of small to medium talk that we save for just one night a year? Are we so poor at conversing that we have to save it up for one night only? You see what I'm saying. 

As Jude and I stood estranged from this thriving block party, layered in social circles, oozing good times,  feeling like aliens or homeless intruders or at the very least like those Halloween kids who come to the really rich houses for the good candy, I thought about steering us toward home. People seemed to notice us, but not recognizing us, the looks were more like those you might see while you are cutting in line or, well, crashing a party. Lucky for us, when I couldn't look or feel any more self conscious,  a man around my age, perhaps a bit older, welcomed us into the driveway. "Hey!" I said, introducing us. "We're from the condos over there... is this the block that Janet lives on?" The man looked around, shrugged his shoulders and said, "No, no Janet on this block that I know of. But you're welcome to stay."

"Oh, really? Wow, thanks. That's so sweet of you..." I started to go into my story about Janet, this being our first year out, etc, and before long I was getting into my life story, and one by one, the rest of the neighbors were coming my way, hands outstretched. 

Of course, long before that, almost immediately, Jude was out and running in packs with the boys. What did it matter to him who we knew anyway? There were boys running with swords and sticks shooting things at each other, charging out into the night with capes and superpowers. It was dusk in the summertime, ice cream was chilling in the cooler, and this was his childhood.

It was good times.

WRITE WITH ME? How was your NNO? What sort of pack did you run with as a kid? Or... whatever else you got!

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Numeral Poetry

One is the loneliest number you'll ever do.
Two: dosie dough your own.
Three: The little yellow giraffes on your third birthday cake at Uncle Irv and Aunt Teresa's endlessly, fenceless, plush green backyard in St Louis Park in June.
Four: My favorite number. Redish orange. My soccer uniform when I was on Alan's Angels.
Five: Jude and I share synesthesia, a sixth sense, which means we mix up and blend up our senses. We argue about what color five is: Mint green, I say.  No, muddy brown, he says.
Six  bears in a dish with bubblegum
VII  Emerald green, translucent. Best year of my life.
8 everyone's favorite number; why is that? Is it the resemblance to infinity? Because it is bluish purple?
nine   red, deep red.
Ten: On my tenth birthday, Ma post it noted a huge note on the closed kitchen door that said "You are now in the double digits. Congratulations!" I wondered about that as I rushed open the door and walked into the light, louvered kitchen nook and took my seat at the retro table in my yellow spinny chair across from Ben who wasn't there because everyone had already left for the day and it wasn't even ten yet.


Sometimes the craziest writes we have here together at the Beach are the ones when we have 4-5 minutes max until everyone has to be out the door and we pick a response write beginning with any chosen word or topic somehow related to what has just been workshopped or shared and I say, Go! DON'T THINK! GO! I'm not sure how we got on numbers the other day, but what a write it was. You oughta try it! You simply cannot do it wrong.

WRITE WITH ME? Pick any random number and start there, numbering as high as you wish. Or... number backwards for a twist (5-4-3-2-1). Or: Try your phone number, or the one you had as a kid (2-1-3-4-7-4-2-7-0-1) and see what instant thoughts/memories/nonsense/ appears. As always, follow your energy, see where it wants to go. For starters, limit yourself to 1-3 minutes, building up to 5-10, eventually taking as much time as you wish. You never know what's hidden beneath the numbers!


And speaking of things hidden beneath things, I am overjoyed to offer a couple new 4-week workshops this fall:

Don't Go Back to Sleep: The Words Beneath the Words: Introduction to Poetry Therapy 
Thursday Mornings 10am-noon, September 4, 11, 18, & 25  2014         $150

Awakening. Love. Kindness. The present moment. Mindfulness. These are a few of the themes we'll explore as we launch into the words beneath the words of beloved poets  Rumi and Naomi Shihab Nye. Open to all writers, healers, and anyone and all beings curious about how poetry can free the unfelt, the unspoken, while creating spaciousness in the body, mind, and of course, on the page.  We'll read and write together, discuss, arrive at our own insights and inspirations, create essays, poems, etc, and see what happens when we enter into the endlessly flowing stream beneath the words. 


WRITING VULNERABLY

4-class series meets monthly Wednesdays 9:30-noon  

Sept 24, Oct 22, Nov 19, Dec 17  2014      $150

Lately we've been hearing a lot about the health and quality of life benefits of becoming more aware of our own vulnerability and the importance of opening ourselves to this powerful human feeling,  yet what and how does that look like in a fear based world that increasingly emphasizes all the reasons we ought be scared, shut down, and hide? This workshop explores  how we can begin to hold both truths, what it looks like, and the importance to write (and live) our truth in the face of our own lives, no matter how scary. Write vulnerably, live deeply. Cultivate vulnerability on and off the page for a whole life story. 

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Because Camping

Because it's already been a year
Because it's happy memory making for Jude
Because the stars
And the S'mores, even though I never eat them anymore because they don't taste the same
Because I loved them as a kid
Because I never went as a kid accept that time at Open School on the field trip to San Francisco and I wrote a short story about jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge and my teacher Sally let me and by boyfriend Lucas share his little baby blue pop tent
Because campfires
Because singing around the campfire
Because Two Cute Face brings his guitar and is too cute when he plays and I remember us like that, like that photo from the first year
Because my friends are really good at camping, even though they're Jews
Because it's nice to be taken care of as an adult in the littlest of ways like when your friend brings you a spare bungee chord that saves the day or shows you all the features on your tent you had no idea about
Because you're not as old as you think you are
Because it's romantic
Because the mosquito bites eventually go away
Because biking
Because that one time in Yosemite
Because fresh cool water
Because it's the quiet you've been looking for
Because your comfy bed at home is always here waiting


Write with me? BECAUSE POEMS are a great way to warm up to memories, thoughts, feelings, etc, and then to drop in and linger in anything that shows up. What do you love or not love about camping? What is your camping story?

WRITING WITH ROX Weekly—Amusement

Greetings from the Dells! It occurs to me that I probably like it here at kiddy Vegas more than my son. After all, this is our third year here and he, at seven, still refuses to go on the big slides, no matter how much I beg. I also have to talk him into going into the candy shoppes (don’t you love how they spell stuff in touristy places?) as well as the arcade. What is happening to youth of today? Who’s the child here?

As a kid, I begged my dad (no sense in begging Ma on this one: “do you think I’m driving to the fucking valley?”) year after year to take us to the big 3 in SOCAL: Disneyland, Magic Mountain, and Knott’s Berry Farm. Failing those, the runner-up was “Busch Gartens,” (Anhiezher Busch, aka, Budweiser), the famed beer factory with added amusement park to make it a family affair. It was there at the tender age of 5, I took my first (miraculously not last) sip of beer. Failing that, there was always the pony parking lot farm smack in the middle of the city on the corner of Pico and Beverly Glen, The Santa Monica Pier, and the arcade at Shakeys. As far as big outings, we came to Minnesota every year and went to the Fair.

O’ course back then we had no malls, no cellphones, no quick-fix stimulation the way we do now, though I’m sure my dad would have argued differently. He loathed the way we flocked to the arcade, hoarded the cotton candy, hurled our bodies around in space on obscene rides. Why couldn’t we just be content to sit?  Now I feel like I am in some sort of satire with Jude; instead of begging him to come in from the wilderness of outside, I have to bribe him to go out.

But, as we know, times they are-a-changing. I have faith that the day will come when Jude will refuse to come inside, the same way he refuses now to stop playing MineCraft on his dad’s phone.  I oughta have some faith, after all, for I’m not entirely innocent; I had my Matel’s electronic football. I played Atari. But still, very little came before swimming with the waves at the beach, or soccer, no matter how loudly they called. And they called at the top of their lungs. All the parents did. You could count on it night after night, especially during the summer, like a big city birdcall that ricocheted up and down the dark-less streets. Yesterday's dread is today's nostalgia. God, I'm getting old.

Write with me?

What place of summer amusement did you go/do as a kid year after year?

What did they call you in from as a kid?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Crying Time

About five years ago I was going through a really hard time and I invited a Buddhist healer to come over and help me process some of the grief I was overwhelmed by. I didn't know what I expected, other than I knew I needed to be held in the arms of unconditional love. Without knowing a thing about this healer, somehow I knew this would be the right person. Someone who could offer me a good old dose of lovingkindness, no matter how much "wrong" I'd done or pain I caused, someone who would stay with me, look me in the eye, provide witnessing and holding to me in a time of big grief. We did not talk much. I simply shared my grief, my guilt, my regrets, and my endless tears. And that was it. We sat on my couch that beautiful spring afternoon and nothing had to be done other than that.

 One of the things I remember her saying to me when I likely apologized for my uncontrollable sobbing was something to the effect of, "You know what? If we lived in a functional world, people would be walking down the street everyday crying their eyes out."

I have quoted her more times than I can imagine.

But surely I knew this already, didn't I? Didn't I?

Inevitably in most of my classes and workshops, at some point everyone will cry. And inevitably, there are countless apologies when it happens. Usually someone will get emotional when reading an emotional piece of writing that we have written on the spot and will pause, apologize, and then move through it. This is when I (and the group) will remind whoever is reading that it is okay to cry, that writing is supposed to do this sometimes, that we are feeling beings and as writers it's important to write about the truth of the human experience. Not to mention it makes pretty awesome writing and a great gift for everyone listening.

Of course on some days, on many days, we also have tears of laughter.

That said, as the "one in charge,"  I try really hard not to cry when I am reading my own work because for God Sakes someone has to keep it together around here. I have no problem with my tears when others are reading, but as we all know, it's hard to be vulnerable. Yesterday in Wednesday Writers was one of my crying days (thank you, Wednesday Writers!!!). We were all writing a quick Intuitive Writing response to the prompt "I Write Because..." and I encouraged them to go and go without stopping or thinking for about seven minutes. Classic Intuitive Writing. Anyway. Here's what I had to say:

I write because I'm sorry. Because I have done things that have hurt others and I want to apologize. I write because I want to relive the hurtful things I've done enough times so that I can have insight and apology and reflection and feel the gravity of those hurtful things so I can commit to not doing those hurtful things. I write because I feel like my body alone cannot contain the hurt and I write to be forgiven  even though when I write for forgiveness I start out as absolutely unforgivable. 

I write because I am human and to be human is to be sorry and to make mistakes, even when we are conscious of making them. I write because I am not the parent I always want to be and i want to rewrite myself until I get it write... or right, I should say. I write because the point is there is no ever getting it perfectly right! Otherwise we'd never stop writing or living or doing yoga because what happens when we get writing just right? We stop writing. And we stop parenting. And we stop doing yoga. And we stop being a good girlfriend. So I write as a practice to get it as right or truthful or integrity as I can and failing that I write to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry written in a little card with a drawing of "Mama Sticky Hair Monster" like the monster we read about every night in our Bedtime for Buddha stories about the sticky hair monster who is so frightened of his pain sometimes that all he knows how to do is be mean until he eventually gets it as close to right as he can and all is forgiven. 


Write with me?
I write because...
Things that make me sad/cry are...
Memories of crying...

One Spot Left! Wild Woman Writing Retreat Saturday June 14!

Dear Sisters!

Ready to meet your Wild on the page? In life? Is now the time? Is now the time? Is now the time?

Ready to embrace your wild sensuous, summer, sassy, sanguine, soft, soulful, singing, sailing, secretive, solitary, swaying, sheshee-swinging, spirited, seashell, something, sunshiney, shabooming self  in the sweet sanctuary of your sacred sisterhood writing community? Wild is for everyone! Come find yours. Is now the time?

WILD WOMAN WRITING SUMMER SOLSTICE

Saturday June 14, 2014 10am-4pm $75

Real food, real women, real stories, real fun, real wild, real you

 

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Greetings from the South!

"How Y'all Doin?!"

I love this. This is what they offer in passing here in Austin, Texas. It is the equivalent to the Minnesota "Oh, hi there!" or back home, way back home in LA, "Sup Dude?"

In Seattle, while I was there anyway, I believe it was "How's it goin?"

"How y'all doing?" is so disarming. I don't quite know how to respond; I long to retort with the same musicality, but somehow I fall flat with my west coast "he-ey... good!"

Here in Austin, visiting my BFF since 8th grade, Pieceee and I have our own language. We greet each other with one long "hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii," which has at least a dozen other implications other than hello.

"Are you having fun here, Pieceee?" Paula'll ask.
"Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!" I'll answer. I'm having lots of fun.
"Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!" she'll say. She's glad.

Home in Minneapolis, Two Cute Face and I combine our terms of endearment with the sound of a dog howl when we greet each other. It has morphed over the years, but currently he is Rooo and I am Grarra. Hello is a bit more complicated to explain.

"Oooooooh," Ma said to me last year when visiting, overhearing our affectionate exchanges, "You have a language with this one, too?"

This is true. Admittedly, I have a unique language among many of my friends. And to each and all, there is of course, a very long story.

How do they greet you where you're from? How do you reply? What is your made-up language with friends? In your household? With SO's?  What is the story behind it?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Frivolous Spending, Big Time Fun

But before all that, Here ye! Here ye! Here's a link to a wonderful piece written by one of my students in response to my last week's prompt: http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/for-mothers-jvinc/

Lately I have been spending ridiculously. The other night I went into Whole Foods for some bananas and came out $50 later. What gets me is that there is some mindfulness around this mindless spending: there is the voice saying, "hey, what are you doing, there? You don't really need another pair of yoga pants and you know it. What are you going to do with that stapler? What exactly do you plan on stapling anyway? Oh, it's for Jude, is it? Well, then I guess it's okay!" 

Not so bad, you say? Well, somehow that rationale landed Jude and I at strip mall pedicure place, wiling away Mama's petty cash and our precious homework and errands time. And in Edina, no less! (see evidence above).

But was it fun? A blast. Did the polish smudge? Of course. Do my toes look good in rockabilly blue? Hardly. But was it sweet fun? Yes. Was it worth it in memories to last a lifetime? Of course. I believe my child will have to wait quite a while, perhaps a lifetime of innocence, before he will be able to fully appreciate what it means to have three beautiful women so sensually, simultaneously, attend to his feet. 

I have a memory that comes back every now and then every time I go through a binge of frivolous spending. In the height of my tweens, Dad, Ben, my best friend, Laura and I stopped at Gelson's Market on the way out of town for skiing up at Mammoth Mountain and while dad carefully mulled over the discount produce, Laura grabbed a handful of thick fashion magazines and proceeded to purchase them for the long ride North. When we got in the car and for months to come, Dad told and retold told the story to whoever would listen: "She picked up a dozen expensive magazines and thought nothing about buying them. I have never done something like that in my entire life and I don't think I ever could. Then, to top it all off, she bought a Smoothie that cost 5 dollars."  

I believe he longed to throw money away every now and then, but Dad grew up in the depression, where the idea of frivolous spending never presented itself. Consequently, while he was incredibly generous to those in his life, personally, he had very few possessions and the ones he did, he cherished: his  bike, his piano, his little kitschy mechanical flower pot that danced to "In the Mood," his Twins cap, his view of the ocean. More than anything, Dad loved the intimacy of the moment—whether it was with nature, people, music, the meal he was eating, "early bird" and otherwise, etc—very little got in between he and the moment. And while I've inherited this reverence for the moment, the easy and earnest joy of delighting in the way the light moves with the water, or rain's soft doorway,  I have not inherited his minimalist spending practices. In fact, sometimes a reckless shopping spree feels a heck of a lot more intimate than the whims of nature (or people, for that matter). 

I suppose in this way, I am Ma's child. And fun we had buying marzipan in France, I can tell you that! Eventually we made it to the Louvre... I think. But I cherish the memories we went tearing down the boutiques and markets purchasing le kistche!

Perhaps I didn't have any petty cash splurges with my dad. Perhaps there wasn't a lot of spontaneity or whimsy or frivolity to the time we spent together. But there was lingering and the ocean, and the long bike rides across vast landscapes without end.  So what would Dad say if he could see me and Jude yucking it up like royalty in a nail salon on a sunny Monday afternoon in May? 

I suppose if it made a good story, he'd be all for it. He might even forgive me the designer bike rack I picked up on a whim the next day. But the yoga pants? Forget it. Who needs special pants to do yoga?

What sort of frivolous spending or abstaining have you been up to lately? In memory?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—The Truth About Mother's Day

Dear Ma,

First, Happy Mother's Day. Also, be on the look out in the mail for Krisna Das's new CD. I hate to spoil the surprise, but I know how you get with mail. I know how the daily pile gets shoved atop the other daily piles and then you lose the piles and it's a year until you find the original pile. And I really want you to open it on or before Mother's Day because I signed up for Amazon Prime just so you'd get it on time. It's an awesome CD and it will help you remember what you love. Chant and be happy, as they say. Remember last summer when I was visiting with Jude and you started calling me a Hare Krisna?  Last Sunday we joined the Hare Krisna float at the Mayday Parade. It was a hoot. Remember when the Hare Krisna parade went down the Venice Beach Boardwalk when I worked there? Live elephants and all? What a great childhood I had, working on Venice Beach. Thanks for allowing me and encouraging me and supporting me in doing all that crazy counter culture shit. I am such a happy adult today because of all that wild creativity. 

 I hope you don't mind me sharing your Mother's Day card this year with my readers. If I haven't said so already, my students love you. They love the predictable "fuck" that will come out of your mouth in every scene; they love the unconventional way you and dad raised us, best friends living a block apart, frequenting single's events together, remaining close until the day dad died. They love how you can't declutter your house; that you live in LA, that you are maybe going to BhaktiFest with me this year. They love that you threw me out of the car with Li in Santa Monica when we were ten because I was manic on sugar and flying high and you'd had enough and threw two quarters at us, saying, "Here's 50 cents! You two fuckers can take the bus home!"

They love knowing that as you read this you will be shaking your head going "I did not!" and then a minute later going, "I did?"

 One thing I always tell my writers is that every character on the page oughta be lovable; no matter how foreign or odd or different their character, we at some point will grow to love them. It's inevitable, both on the page and in life; anyone we linger with we can't help but love in one way or another.  Why? To write about anybody in such detail for so long, knowing them so well, can only come out of a fierce love, which is the inherent love of daughters, I think. And if the writer loves the character, so must we. In other words, Ma, you must know I love you even when you come across nuts on the page.

For the past three days I have given my writers this prompt: The Truth about Mother's Day. Nothing more, nothing less. See where it goes. 

In the giving and receiving of these stories, there were so many gifts.  Tears, laughter, nods of approval and understanding, heads bobbing in bewilderment, shaking in shock. The stories were beautiful, evoking different mothers across different lifetimes. When my men were leaving last night after writing together with me, one of them remarked about how much lighter he felt, how free. 

One thing that stood out more than anything was the consistent theme of "I'm over it," whatever that happened to mean for them. I, of course, added my two sense by saying how writing about you has been the biggest part of healing our relationship for me. 

This morning while making the bed I was remembering one of the first mornings Jude was born when I was in the hospital and the nurse casually remarking that, "Boys love their Mamas." I must have slurred in my fevered state how I thought I was having a girl, but was delighted to have a boy. Was that true, Ma? Did Ben love you fiercely? Did I?

Oh, the places this prompt can go and will go. Feel free to chime in, Ma. You and everyone else. And for those who have written with me already, please do share your stories with your mothers or "mothers" or whoever else will be so touched and healed in the sharing.  And/Or share right here on the blog.

Love and hugs, Rox

So there you go: The truth about Mother's Day...

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—What's your Thing?

Last year Paula was visiting from Austin and one night we got into dueling You Tubes, taking turns showing each other our favorite ways to waste time. "You gotta see this," she said, after I showed her numerous clips of my son dancing to The Final Countdown.

"Not that guy again," I said as that familiar tortured, self-loathing figure came up on the screen, this time talking to Conan O' Brien.  A few years prior she'd shown me a clip of the same tortured, self-loathing face in the middle of a stand-up routine pantomiming about how unfair it is that his wife is less than thrilled to be doing her part when it comes to their sex life. Sure, it was funny—lmaorotfl funny—but nothing I had much interest in, especially as a former wannabe aspiring actress/improv star when I was growing up in LA. Back then being a Hollywood star was my thing. Back then, irony was my thing.

That life hadn't been my thing for a long time.

But life is funny. Sometimes our thing comes full circle. 

"I love this guy!" I told Paula throughout the Conan clip. "He is saying what I say! He's talking about my thing!" My thing at the time being the evil of cell phones and other high-tech distractions that take us out of the intimacy of the moment. "I love him! Since when is he so smart?" 

"See? I told you," says my very wise friend, who went through the same thing with me in 1993 with yoga. At the time, I told her that yoga would never ever be my thing. Ten years later, with a bit of hang-dog in my Down Dog,  I told her yoga saved my life and I owed it all to her. I'm sure I won't be saying the same thing about Louis CK, but all the same, she likes being right.

"He's the best," she says, satisfied with her thing yet again becoming my thing.

So yes, for now, Louis CK is my current thing. He's the thing I ask everyone else about:  Have you heard of him? Is he also your thing?  Of course I realize I am ten plus years late catching on to this thing, but still. He's amazing! Don't you think so?  Last year I was this way about a movie called Melancholia; I wanted to talk about it with everyone and then some.  And of course I  have other things, things that have been things for a long time: yoga, intuitive writing, drumming, 80s dancing, along with newer thing like qui gong and ukulele—becoming a bigger thing—and of course all the other things. 

Why is knowing your thing on the page important? What are the themes of your thing? 

Knowing the details of yourself and your thing is part of the passionate energy that will flow your writing. You can talk about it forever; writing is like talking on the page. And lingering in it, writing about it, grows the passion.

What is your thing and how does it turn into a writing prompt? Well... most of our "things" have some sort of story attached: a first time, a moment of growth, a reason/purpose, a person who led you to it, etc, which can fuel many stories, memories, and inform us about themes in our writing and in our lives. Does this thing relate to the last thing? What about the things we no longer thing about?

Here are some other things that have been my thing: soccer, lounge music, swing dance, cigars, saddle shoes, bread machines, crochet, The Current, improv, movies, Thievery Corporation, thrift shopping, David Sedaris... 

What is your thing?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Because/I've been away so long

Why I've Been Away So Long

because taxes
because taxes are done
And new glasses that I had to return because they didn't fit and I need bifocals and I can't deny any longer that I can't see close
Loft class ending; Loft class over
What exactly is it I am doing with my life again? 

Because I made a deal with my therapist that I would schedule out each and everyday for a week and see if I could stick to it
I didn't—I haven't had time to schedule it in my schedule
Because I still have to give up sugar for a week while my bff in Texas has to give up TV
Because I have a memory of cross country skiing last winter with my very sweet laughing friend Jess and we ran into a friend of hers who she hadn't seen in ten years whose husband then came skiing around the hill and we got to talking and he said, "well, at least I get to pick which 80 hours per week I want to work."

Because everything and because nothing
I forgot or I remembered too late
If I fail to text myself an email I'll end up all alone and forgotten
Because: summer camp, the Delles, my out of tune ukulele, yoga, Ma
Because Jude and I falling down laughing when we have to finish our math homework
Because just one more Louis CK on You Tube
Just one more kirtan, one more song, one more page...
one more minute of rest
because tick tick tick tick tick tick
Searching for more time to do everything and

Because yesterday, a glorious fall like spring evening, Passover picnicing with our friends in Northeast outside of Circus School—watching the lightrail, seeing the umbrella sky, matzo-krispie treats—a poem in the making because we agree to let ourselves see the everyday urban thorough the perfect light of a giant pinwheel
Because I tell him I have no idea what I have been up to this winter, no memory at all and he says back,  wise like a rabbi, blonde and fair like a brother,  "it's all just made of small things and moments like this, like hanging out with my good friend Rox in April by the lightrail outside of Circus" and
I am so moved I want to fall to his feet

Because loveland

Because we can't come back to where we were and where we've been
though sometimes we have to in order to come back to exactly, really, where we are
which is why we've been away so long


Sto, eta? So, what is this? Simply a raw intuitive "list poem" titled Why I've Been Away So Long, prompted by one of my beloved loyal readers who finally asked me, what gives? Where the hey are ya?

So what about you? Why have you been away so long? From me? From you? From...? Have fun with the flow of the list poem: random thoughts, words, associations that come to life with any given title... write and write until something catches... you'll be writing for days!

And... if you'd like, check out my upcoming SUMMER classes and retreats! Thanks for reading and hope to write with you soon!

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Highlight of the Day Journal

Jude and I are having a fantastic spring break. I can't remember a spring break where I've had more fun. As far as childhood goes, all I can remember is a haze of spring breaks spent in Palm Springs, which was lovely, but so was Los Angeles. One student joked the other day that I never had to go away for spring break because I was already there! True that.

Of course those were wonderful times and deep memories of a "happy childhood" were made there: the desert was glorious, the bingo with Great Grandma Jean and her mountainside trailer beneath the lemon tree, scurrying up "my" mountain, the oasis that was the small oval pool with plastic yellow and white lounge chairs, miniature golf with Grandpa Norman, visiting the giant dinosaurs, marveling at Bob Hope's house, the Hollywood glamour of downtown before it got all touristy, the romantic nights I envisioned for myself there when I grew.

Truth is,  I wish Ma would have indulged a little spring break action with me when I was a kid. She was around, but I think she was too stressed out to get into it. She wasn't one for fun... kid fun anyway.

Inasmuch, until today, I never realized that spring break was actually a time for parents to take a break and have some fun with their kids. To take some days off, get down on the ground, eat the junk food, build the Lego towers, and have some kid fun.  Ooooooooooooooooooooooh. This likely explains why so many folks I know are out of town with their kids having fun somewhere fun.    Glad I caught on.

I won't go into all the fun, but it began Friday night with some rounds of silliness after too much chocolate cake making and eating, topped off at bedtime by the following joke that came out of one of Jude's scholastic books:
KNOCK KNOCK?
WHO'S THERE?
OSWALD
OSWALD WHO?
OSWALD MY CHEWING GUM

Okay, you don't have to tell me whether or not you think that's funny (but DO feel free to share your Knock-Knock jokes) because the point is that was the moment that unleashed it all and it's been mostly a party ever since.

One of the great things that has come out of this spring break week is that Jude and I have been doing our "Highlight of the Day" Journal together. His class was recently assigned this nighty homework and we have made it a ritual to do it together. What a gift. Just as in the spirit of things here at the Beach, we write together and then we read out loud to each other. And it's beautiful! Worlds collide! Sometimes we write about the same things, but a lot of times we get to hear new things, remember places or moments, relive a certain magic, go somewhere new...

Of course my highlight always has Jude in it. But that's my truth and that's writing it down. (I realize he may write a memoir someday. He may regret that his mom had too much fun for spring break and couldn't she act her own age, for crying out loud?) Either way, today we both wrote about how fun it was to have fancy donuts on Eat Street.


Spring Break story? (college spring break stories?!)
Highlight of the Day?

Moral of the story: Writing together is fun! Writing together is a great break! And if you need one—with your child, your honey, your fun-less (or too fun!) mother, your best friend—join me for DATE NIGHT WRITING ON THURSDAY MAY 1!

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Weird, Weird, Just Weird

So, for no reason whatsoever of any kind, I began singing "Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!" this morning around 6:30 am. I was in half-dream mode, fumbling for my glasses, jeans, brain, victim to the torturous early morning wake-up required for Jude to get to the bus by 6:55 am.  Though I thought I'd be used to this by now, we're going on spring break here, folks, and it's not looking good. I'm all for early morning, rise and shine, but we get up before the sun does. It's just plain dark.

In any case, in order to cope with this dreaded routine, I've found myself singing myself awake, usually going with the first thing that comes into my head, my subconscious obviously hungering for any hint of melody that might ease the stiff darkness we are shocked into each morning. (Hey, I may sound like a complainer, and I'll grant you that on this. But even Jude struggles. It takes him several minutes to slide down the stairs in the fetal position, still half asleep himself. Sometimes he eats his Cheerios lying on the table and I'm not going to give him a hard time for that).

It takes me a while, through the haze of breakfast, coats and boots, hats and mittens, to tune into what I am singing. "What a weird thing to be singing," I remember thinking this morning as I poured the milk and belted out the verse about the fire, thanking god it wasn't anywhere  near Christmas. Like everyone else, I've moved on. I even planned on taking my skis out of the car this very day. But I guess the song isn't the point; the singing is. Soon enough, Jude perks up and joins me in song; granted neither one of us is happy to be singing or up, but we have little choice at this hour and when in doubt, sing, I say.

The walk, wait, and walk home was uneventful, but surely dry. A bit cold, but what does one expect before sunlight? As normal, I walked home, showered, and came back downstairs to the light. And then I saw it. IT.  I swear.  Honestly.  I'd been singing long before the stuff started puffing around the city this fine spring, March morning. Really I had no idea. Sure, it's not that weird; this is Minnesota and we can expect snow most days and most months, given this brutal winter. Still, a little odd, no?

Admittedly, this sort of weirdness or coincidence or pessimism or whatever you want to call it, isn't new to me. I find I am fairly psychic in general, though sometimes I think it's because I have a fairly routine, predictable life, perhaps to the point where it is supernatural.

What kinds of little weirdnesses have you been experiencing lately? Does this sort of thing happen to you all the time? Ever?

And if you want to shake it up, get in on some weird fun, join me for my upcoming workshop in May: Bring your pal, your guy, your gal, your best friend, your mom, someone you love (or want to love or want to love you (more)) or anyone you want to share an intimate evening of fun, laughter, sweetness, with a sweet little book you'll make together and share for all time and live happily ever after. Register soon! Limited to 6 pairs. $65/pair

DATE NIGHT WRITING

Thursday May 1 6:00-8:30 pm

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—WHY ASK WHY?

Am I a bad mom for not getting Jude's warmer coat this morning when we stepped outside at 6:50 am and realized it was colder than yesterday and we had only enough time to walk to the bus stop?

We could drive? he said.
No we can't, I said.
Why not?

Will getting up at 6am ever get easier?

Will I always be tired no matter how early I go to bed when I have to get up at 6am?

Are things as hard as they seem? Remember the story about building bridges by hand, Jude? (That is hard; sitting down to do a page of math is not hard). Or is it?

Are things harder now then when they were for our elders?

Is first grade too young to be doing math homework or any homework? Does homework, like my friend who is a father aptly points out, rob a child his time to just be a child and be in childhood after a long day of work at school?

Is this why so many of us never stop working?

Or, like an old friend once asked, is childhood an institution?

Why are the brilliant ones of heart and mind so often unsung? Does that make most of us unsung?

Is everyone tired?

Have we lost our ability to slow down?

Why do I know so clearly what's "good" for everyone else but hazy when it comes to knowing what's good for me?

Why?
Why?
Why?

This morning, we started writing together by just writing down our questions. Whatever they were, about anything. There was quite a range; each one read like a poem, each telling a story, each begging a memoir.

Then we wrote again and answered any question (s) that held our energy . Or went deeper into our questions. There were all kinds of answers. Some came in the form of a memory or story or deeper questioning. One of us, completely surrendering to the song of the page, wrote how writing is the answer. I, to no one's surprise, ended up writing about Ma getting all dressed up and going out on the town when I was a kid and me never really knowing why she did that instead of staying home with me and my brother. Then I asked why I never said anything to her about that at the time. Have I asked her lately?

As writers, this is what we do. We ask, we figure it out. We answer what we can. Sometimes it takes many pages, sometimes just a few. Sometimes it takes our entire lives, sometimes just a few days. Maybe it's a memoir; maybe it's an essay.  Sometimes our asking presents another question or the answer. Sometimes the answer is an opening for another question. We never have to know, one of us writes this morning, that is the pleasure in asking.

Which of course takes us to another question.

Does that explain why as kids we always ask why?

What questions went unanswered and are unanswered still from when we were kids?

What does your little you still wonder?

What does the Fox Say?

What DO YOU WONDER? WHERE DOES THAT WONDERING TAKE YOU? YOU NEVER KNOW WHOSE QUESTION YOU ARE ANSWERING IN THE ASKING OR WHOSE LIFE YOU ARE REAWAKENING. As always, follow the energy! Surprise yourself... you never know where you'll go on the page!

Hope to write with you soon!  ROX