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

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Eating my (written) words...AND/OR Is Writing Enough?

EVERY YEAR around this time when I sit down to do the Writing with Rox calendar two months into the year,  I find myself wondering why in the world I can't just sit down and decide which workshops to offer. If you're like me, every idea creates another one.

If you're like me, and also happen to be a bit handicapped by your creativity or "go with the flow" ways of life, you aren't great at marketing yourself. If you're like me, thank God you have amazing students who word-of (spoken word)-mouth you up and down their communities, which is one of the main ways you get people to show up for your classes and workshops.

If you're anything like me, you let your creativity sabotage practical matters; you compromise a complete coherent sentence in order to indulge a bit of wordplay, you spend hours contemplating the most creative workshop or retreat possible, only to find yourself two, maybe three or four months late getting the info out there for the people.

"What really strikes me about what you're saying is that 'writing is enough,'" my very wise, cool, dear, dear, ninja colleague, student, soul-sister and me-in-other (better)-form friend told me last week when I was lamenting my stuckness.

And, if your'e like me, sometimes it's hard to have faith in your truth.

I looked up from my fruit salad, for tropical fruit salad is a must when you spend the morning tobogganing your car to Cub, given the mile-high drifts. Oh no, I thought, is she going to jump on this "you are enough" campaign? Not that I don't go for that, but I was needing a little something beyond my own advice coming back to haunt me, which in that moment resembled contemporary psychobabble gone feral via the cliche highway, lost with words like "mindfulness" and "the present," and other sacred teachings that lose their meaning in the drone of the masses.

(Okay. You want an example? One time I was teaching a yoga and writing retreat and this woman goes  "before I started doing yoga I might have missed the early morning frost on the trees," referring to one of the teachings in Matt Sanford's Waking, which emphasizes that we experience a lot of "you just missed it," moments when we are too busy looking for "perfect" moments. She may have caught the frost on the trees, but she missed everything else, point being that it's all here now: not the beautiful sunset, but also the "ugly" one; not the deep conversations, but also the "shallow" ones; not that big moment, but also this little one: it's all the same moment, folks. Our judgments over what makes a moment missable or not are what keep us separated from the riches and intimacy of the present moment. Contemporary, Junk English, by no fault of its own, can erode the essence of communication by touting certain  things in extremes, is my point. The well intended spiritually seeking yoga woman was only half getting the point about "missing it" that the author intended.).

That said, I fear that "I am enough" is beginning to lose its essence and giving folks the sense that they don't need to work on themselves anymore, myself included. So what good is a workshop called Writing is Enough? Sure, writing is enough, I am enough, you are enough, but how does that translate into a workshop? As it was,  I was feeling pretty defeated that it was coming on March and I still have 2013 fliers all over the Twin Cities. "Sure," I said, "I can think about that."

But she continued. "I mean, you're basically saying it doesn't need to be anything more than that for people to come together and write because that in itself is more than enough." She was referring back to what I'd said earlier in the conversation about always feeling like I have to sell the writing process by offering certain guarantees, objectives, insight, outcome, etc, all of which occur  naturally within the powerful experience of writing together in community. "Why do I spend so much time doing the sales pitch when the act of writing together is more than enough?" I'd complained. I'd known this to be true for years, but somehow always came back to the need to add more more more, contributing, I fear—or at the very least supporting—the destructive forces of our dysfunctional "go! go!" world.

I ran the whole thing over in my head. All the way up until the part where she said, "...what you're saying is that writing in itself is enough."

"Oh.... that kind of  'enough'," I said, suddenly clicking into alignment. How could I have missed it? Well, I was looking for something else. Something bigger and better instead of what was so clearly just here.

"Yeah," she said, smiling that patient knowing smile, "that kind."


Is writing enough? How so? 

And/or what sort of workshops would you like to see here at The Beach? 

As always, thanks so much for sharing and I hope to write with you soon! xoxoxo

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Good Folks, Good Times

Ever since I was seven, when Ma hauled me and my brother off to Northern Californian for four weeks to go to the coolest summer camp ever (it was a win-win situation!), I've loved sing-alongs. There was something about sitting beneath all those shady apple trees in the heat of the summer and singing about love in my bell bottoms and tie-dyed sunshine t-shirts that has stayed with me and likely, had always been a part of me, even long before summer camp. Somewhere deep within the timelessness of the human body, mine recognized and rejoiced in the rise, fall, and resolution of a good solid folk song. My heart hung on the story lines, memorizing the words and melodies, singing and living through them each time as though the first.

  Let me tell you the story about a man named Charlie on this tragic and fateful day...

Though some of my counselors were hippie strange and even though I had no idea what most of the songs meant and I  likely botched the lyrics (as I do so today), the magic of the singing together ran way deeper than anything I could ever have put into words back home without making it sound, as my LA friends back home would say, "lame" or "gay," as this was the mentality I was dealing with back then, back home,  before either of these words meant what they really mean.  I think because  it was such a contrast to life in LA— to the hustle and bustle of disco, fast red cars, movie making, fast talking, deal making, etc—song singing was a welcome slower pace, a sort of peace that I never knew, but must have longed for... When we sang together I felt a belonging to the entire world, unlike at home where my latchkey years were devoid of any consistent source of community.

but he couldn't get off of that train...

Well, fast forward 30 years and I've come home once again to the sing-along. Many fortunate and coincidental and surprising things have granted me the good life where I am able to spend much of my free time playing music with others and singing. Don't ask me how, but I've even been lucky enough to go along with Two Cute Face, a real musician, on a few singalong gigs for 55+ communities.  What I've discovered in singing (or writing, for that matter) with others is how much I hear consistently how much "we need this."  Last week after singing, one of the elders approached us afterwards and said, "There are so many bad things going on in the world, but singing is good. We need to sing." This of course opens up similar feedback, as well as stories about growing up and singing Blue Moon when the sheet music was hot off the press and delivered to your classroom and nothing could be better.

Lately I've heard a few people make a similar declaration: the world is in big doody trouble, but (fill in the blank) is good. As long as there is (fill in the blank) life's not so bad after all. In fact, my son's circus teacher (is that what they are called?) announced this to a roomful of nervous parents about to see their child dangle and clown and climb and swing for a paying crowd; at the beginning of the show he said something to the tune of: Everyone says life is so bad these days, but here at the circus, life is pretty darn great. We have a great time. 

I find these finally carved and well lived declarations of insight so moving. And so crucial, especially given these quick-paced times where genuine community is endangered. These declarations hit me like hope, like powerful cinema, and I can hear the natural swelling of music in the earth as I take in the wisdom of said optimism.

As writers, especially memoir, we need to balance the dark and drama with the light and celebratory.


What do you see that's "good"?  How do you complete the sentence "The world is in big doody trouble, but                           is good! Better yet, or                                                                                                            

                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

                                                                                                             

                                                                                                             ... is good!"

  

And you know what? If you don't know, maybe that is good, too.



And speaking of not knowing, please join me for my upcoming March Workshop at the Beach WRITING INTO THE UNKNOWN  SATURDAY March 22, 2014 9:30am-1pm. What's gonna happen? Who knows, but we'll start with six words and go from there. Where?  We'll go where no one has gone before on the page... linger in the unknown and witness how the unknown lends suspense and depth to the page, and our  lives. Email or call to register. Limited to 6! 

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Guilty Unpleasures

Is anyone able to sit in the womblike white sand beneath healthy swaying palm trees, coconut- mango liquado in hand, while staring blissfully into the many shades of rolling blue ocean lapping at your feet and NOT feel guilty while most everyone you know is back home under snow and 20 below?

Some other things I feel guilty about:
throwing away pennies while vacuuming because the trash is closer than the coin bowl
eating sugar
drinking coffee
making Jude go to school on his seventh birthday
not having a "normal" day job while some people I know work 9-5 either in cubes or standing up without enough potty breaks
being a non-traditional parent
being a parent when I have a hard time parenting myself on some days
texting instead of calling
making ice lanterns in my spare time
not sending birthday cards
taking my time with things
not going to bed on time because I want a few more minutes with my own thoughts or to read
sleeping in when others have to get up at 5 am
cross country skiing on my lunch break
the hurt I've caused others when I didn't have to
being a free spirit when others take life much more seriously
liking candy as much as I did when I was a kid
not wearing a helmet


While it would be nice to be enlightened enough to view guilt through the lens of clear perception as the sack of rocks that it is, I'm just not there yet. Oh, and that's another thing—the "lens of clear perception"— I'm working on letting go of my guilt about my lack thereof, too. 

And yes, I realize that guilt can be a great teacher, a reminder that I need to get my ass in gear and learn how to change my own oil, fix my own sink, tune my own ukulele, etc. I  am also un-blissfully aware that a certain amount of guilt keeps me cozy in a state of stuck: well, as long as I feel guilty about not going to bed on time I may as well not go to bed on time!

Ah, if only we lived in a less guilt-inducing world! Where road signs read "Take Your Time," instead of SPEED LIMIT 55 or WRONG WAY; where we are greeted at any given place of business with "welcome to my place of business, so nice to see you," instead of "may I help you?" If walking into any given place of business is seen as a cry for help, we may as well get real about it. "Why yes, you can help me. Can we sit down and talk for a while? Or maybe we can write together...?" I swear, but every time I go into a store for a little shopping therapy (yes, guilty!) and someone beelines me with "CAN I HELP YOU?" I feel guilty for saying "no thanks, just looking." Sometimes I dare to follow up with, "is that okay with you?" Last week I told the hounds at Office Depot that they were making me nervous... that believe it or not, it takes me a lot of concentration to pick out the right pen. At least I didn't go into the ADD defense, which I've done in the past. I'm getting better.

Of course I'm wise enough to discern when the guilt is really mine or when it belongs to a dysfunctional society based in the "tyranny of the urgent," as my son's principal wrote about last week in the Barton Bugle regarding the recent cold weather school closures and consequent pressure to catch up with all that was lost that week in the classroom. He wrote that he refused to give into that pressure. What a hero. I feel guilty for not congratulating him on that post and surely, I will do so after I do this and the fifteen other things I think I'm supposed to get done before lights out.


Guilt is just another  real thing that makes us human and another detail that adds great depth to our writing! What it is, what we do with it, and how it manifests is what makes us uniquely human.  So commiserate with me on the page! Meet your guilt on the page! What are you feeling guilty about today? And... don't let guilt get in the way of posting... you can always be anonymous!

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Winter Survival

Greetings from Akumal! Even here in the sunny Yucatan winter has found her might way... reports of storms, rains, and even "shape shifters" have found their way on the (cyber) page here in Mexico, warning travelers and locals alike of how to negotiate the (if and when) coming tropical storm. If and when because you never know in Mexico. You can count on weather reports as much as you can count on the exchange rate being consistent. Still, I love the "whatever, manana," attitude here. I think it's partially why I return time and time again, frustrating as it can be.

But enough! I imagine you Minneapolis readers are shaking your pens at me for complaining, let alone being in Mexico and out of the negative climes!

The point is I love how writing continues to honor its roots of communicating vital information from human to human about how to survive. Before it was made all pretty and put into beautiful books (which I for the most part loooove, mind you), writing was a simple act of love, a gift, an offering, etc— an organic need to create and communicate. How many times have you said or heard someone say: "I have to write this down"?

Perhaps over time we added music and sang our wisdom from tribe to tribe to get folks to pay more attention. I'm sure ADD existed then too, after all. From there, we wrote things on the cave walls, which led to paper and pen and highway signs and note passing and book making and texting and ...

One such offering I read yesterday: 

BEWARE OF STONEFISH. DO NOT STEP ON THEM. BITE CAN BE FATAL. 

And wouldn't you know later that day while snorkeling I swam right over a Stonefish, which I of course thought was at first any old ocean stone (You know? Those!) and could have easily stepped right on it and gone fatal had I not known it had fins and a very ruby red mouth. It DID look less threatening when swimming, but still, I saw fire in that fish's eyes.

Last week in Tuesday Eve Healing group, we began our night by writing out our winter survival tips. Still being a relative newbie to MN, I was amazed at what I learned about how to get through this. (Of course, my contribution was "go to Akumal.") Everything from talking to natives about directions to carrying a shovel and kitty litter in your car to creating arte de snow by adding food coloring to your snow-folk. Oh, I guess I did also say "Go to the Loppet on Saturday night to see the fire lanterns go up into the winter sky." I stand by that today, now, even in the tropics.  We could have written all night on that. Perhaps into the morning. We were all feeling much better about winter, at least for then. But we knew if we ever again got discouraged, all we had to do was look into our little notebooks with the added tips etched into the margins and all would be well again. Remember that this too shall pass.

So, wherever you are, whatever you are doing or not doing, What is your winter wisdom/survival song? What is the story behind that wisdom?

And remember, when you share, you are helping us survive! We don't care (yes, we enjoy!) how pretty or poetic or literary it sounds... share from your heart and truth and it sings no matter what!

So help out your writing and human community alike... we want to listen to the whole story!

Sending love and sunshine (with a bit of wind and rain) from Akumal xoxoxo

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Why writing is like playing the ukulele

HAPPY 2014 WRITING FAMILY!

Lucky for us, some might say,  Writing with Rox has not been shut down by the government! As always, the gates are wide open! So come on in and have a write with me! I have plenty of openings here at Beach for 2014 including my FRIDAY MORNING WOMEN'S WRITING GROUP,  MEN'S GROUP, INTUITIVE WRITING WORKSHOPS AND CLASSES, AS WELL AS HEALING WORKSHOPS AND RETREATS COMING UP.

A few months ago Too Cute Face mentioned that he could see me playing the ukulele.

"Ukulele? What am I, six?"

But Too Cute Face is smart in the way of music and in the way of knowing what makes me happy, so I listened on. He said a few reasons why, like it would be a nice addition to our little Kirtan band, might give me the melody that drums don't, might come naturally since I used to play the guitar a long, long time ago. I reminded him how that relationship ended badly. How I couldn't learn a song to save my life, how my fingers were to short and numb, that I was hopeless with strings.

He was persistent though and he promised it would be a lot easier than the guitar. He made a good argument. But what really sold me, shamefully, is that he said it would make me look cute. In fact, I think that's all that really mattered when I finally picked up the cute as pie little Flea, which I had to agree would make anyone look cute. So cute, in fact, that when I strummed it around Groth Music, I didn't even notice what it sounded like. I mean,  it sounded really sweet because it looked so cute. Anyway, I thought about it for a couple weeks, then went back and bought it.

It was still cute.

When I brought it home I wondered, "Now what?" As long as it sits around looking cute, I'm happy. It took me a while to finally play it. Too Cute sat on the couch, strumming liquid sunshine out of that little blue babe, while I puttered around with more important things to do. "Sounds great, honey!" I called from the kitchen.

"Are you going to try it out soon?"

"Maybe! After I vacuum under the dishwasher!"

A few hours later we gathered with friends. I picked up the Flea and began strumming around very softly, pretending I knew what I was doing (which is a nice skill to have by the way). Honestly, I was amazed how good it sounded. Is this what a ukulele sounds like? Like a mandolin? Seriously! Every chord or non-chord sounded good as I intuitively strummed around. Not just good, but like it was actually some kind of some-thing. A note, a song. Whatever I remembered from before about strumming and picking came remembering out body of and eventually I let go of expectations, of outcome, and I just played by feel. Then it sounded better and better, to the point where I finally said,  "I'm not doing this," I said, "this ukulele plays by itself..." and I still think this is partly true, magical little blue uke. By the end of the night I learned "Tears on My Pillow," "Blue Moon," "Earth Angel," and "Jambalaya," but they all have the same 2 chords so it's not big deal. What is a big deal is that I could've (and did) play those same 2-3 chords all night in different beats, tempos, rhythms, etc. It was hard to put it down!


When I started out years and years ago as a writer I remember buying fancy pens and notebooks and all the right writing things. I dressed a certain writerly way, I carried around writerly books. I read all the cool writerly writers I thought I should be reading and quoted all the writerly writers I thought I ought be quoting. I went to the right writerly cafes and museums and got to know all the right writerly people. Eventually I wrote for a few writerly magazines and because of all the writerly people I knew, I began to make a small writerly name for myself among certain writerly circles.   All of this makes me a writer, thought I!  Look at me, I'm a writer! I'm cool and pale, and thin and drink microbrew and write for the cool people and I live in the coolest writerly city there is and...

Yet I felt very, very empty. Unfortunately, I had nothing to write about aside from the very surface of things, which wasn't very satisfying. And in return, I lived a very surface life, where I allowed surface things to define me (if that isn't obvious enough).

Eventually, in the middle of a dark depression on a dark day, I wrote a letter. I wrote the letter that saved my life. Perhaps I'll write next time of that letter. For now I'll say it was the turning point in both my writing life and my life life. Somehow I allowed myself to dream a little on the page, and that created an opening...  And through that opening I fell completely in love with writing. Or remembered it, I should say. Before I got distracted by the external forces of life.

I am grateful that this intuitive/raw writing process and the love of writing just for writing/writing without outcome and writing in community has opened me into the world of intuitive ukulele-ing. Oh, the places you'll go on (and off) the page!

WHAT HAS WRITING OPENED FOR YOU?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Is anyone NOT lonely?

Last 

week Dada 

sent me a story 

about a buddy bench  

which was created by a 

second grader in Pennsylvania 

who was concerned that some of 

his buddies might feel lonely during 

recess. The buddy bench invites anyone who 

is feeling lonely or left out or needing someone to 

talk to have a seat, either joining like-lonelied peers or 

announce that he'd like some company asap. I love this.

 I think it's one of the most brilliant things I've ever heard of. 

Why? A physical space that offers a place of safety and vulnerability, where vulnerability is okay because, heck, aren't we all vulnerable? A place that admits we all need a little help from our friends and not-yet-friends? A place where when words or actions fail, you can announce your way in the world by sitting in the peace zone? You can just sit there and be seen for who you are without having to go about it totally internally alone if you don't want to and if you have no idea how to deal with it. Wow, wow, wow. How revolutionary!

Of course as ideas go, this one got me to thinking and dreaming way too much. Well, why stop with a buddy bench? And why stop at elementary school? What if there were public spaces—call them public works of art if you must—that invited folks to sit here if they felt happy and wanted to talk about why. Or sit there if they wanted to have a hug. Or over there if they felt like making a new friend. How about over there if you want to play tag. Or how about one in the mall that says "sit here if you don't want to be here?" Or another one if you are "lost" or "found" or both, but either way you need to be seen.

Or how about one in your very own home... one that invited a place for "I'm mad, but don't want to be mad anymore, but I don't want to give in first... so let's kiss and make up." Or a corner that said simply, "I'm sorry," or "I'm afraid to tell you something..."

Or a laughing bench. Or a crying bench. Or a grieving bench. Or a circle of benches for back rubs? A drumming bench? An "I miss my mommy" bench?  Or one that says "I wish the holidays were over and I don't have a new year's resolution." Or one to give away free stuff? Or, of course, a writing bench... a place to write and share with others. Of course, a quiet bench is always nice, but most of them are quiet already, so how about a loud one? A cheering section where you cheer for each other and go if you need a cheer?

What sort of bench would you put out there? In your home? In the future? What would it look like? What would happen there? Or not happen there?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Living Your Happily Ever After

Lately Jude has been watching Willy Wonka and I can't help but watch it with him. I'm not sure why, but the ending makes me cry every time. (Does it make you cry every time? If not, what does? Not just movies, but what in life makes you cry every time?)

Maybe because Charlie is only a wee bit older than Jude and I wish for Jude someday to be able to fly high over the sky in a real glass elevator. I wish for a world where children are revered for their purity, their love, their honesty, because, as Willy knows, only wide-eyed magical, dreamy children "can be trusted to run the chocolate factory and take care of the Oompa Loompas."

Maybe it's because the movie is ending and I hate to see it end because it is so wonderful. Or maybe it's because it's only beginning... Or maybe it has something to do with how much I love Gene Wilder, or how it takes me right back to childhood afternoons in the Valley with my best friend Laura whose parents were "in the business," so we could dream and dream big and believe in our dreams, our own big Hollywood dreams in the making...

But likely because, as Wonka says to Charlie, "Don't forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he always wanted...... He lived happily ever after."

So... here's what let's do: Since there's no need to be dreamin' of a White Christmas, tell me what else you're dreaming for... In fact, let's go all out: What's on your dream list? Your "everything I always wanted" list?
If you got everything you ever wanted and were living your happily ever after, what would that look like?


Of course if youd' rather just write your Christmas list, that'd be great too. I'll see what I can do. :)


Remember that you are TOTALLY ANONYMOUS if you so choose.
Remember: it's only writing. If you can't dream and wish and happily-ever-after on the page, where can you?