Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Close encounters with kindnesses

This morning the Friday Writer's enjoyed our annual Pontoon Day along one of the lakes out west on Highway 7, don't ask me which. There were many delights of the day, naturally, and never enough time to write them all down.

It had been a while since we'd all been together (nothing rallies writers like a pontoon!) and so much to write about, given the pace of summer. What struck me most during check-ins was the mention of kindness: directly, indirectly, subsequently, in hindsight, humbling, life changing, and most importantly, the essential detail to every story.

On and off the page, we thirst for kindness; the offering and receiving, knowing and recognizing of said human elixir changes protagonists and antagonists alike. And subsequently, though rarely intentionally, changes the world.

So we wrote out our memories of recent encounters with kindness. I wrote about water, the way my Zumba teacher smiled at one of her students as they boogied in tandem, a fellow hiker patiently waiting for us slow walkers to take our time, offering words of encouragement to us all, small hands at summer camp offering high fives to bigger hands and vice versa. Someone offering an arm to steady a fellow walker on an incline. A peaceful walk with new friends. Loud hoots of encouragement to everyone on stage. The raw writing written and shared with others. A student offering her pontoon and lake for the day for all to enjoy. And on and on. It's endless. It's infectious!


Try it. Write out your recent kindnesses. You'll like it. My dad used to say, quoting someone, that petting a cat lowered your blood pressure. And of course!  A reciprocity of kindness, a self generating energy of the heart, poetry in motion. So try it. It's good for you!

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Dear Amber...better late than never...

Oh... I love you Amber. To show up raw and open for us to love you and support you. 

I feel like awards and trophies and accolades should be given out these days to those who show up raw and messy and real because that can be the hardest of the hardest. Anyone can get good at sports or music or throwing shit around the field or writing for that matter, but so few of the few show up for real, 100% spirit, where we can go and just be who we are raw alive vulnerable. They just don't hand out trophies for that kind of thing, but if I ran the world I'd make it a thing. 

Anyway... anyone can get good at the shiny stuff that looks good to be good at, but so few of us can get good at vulnerability. So awards and trophies and confetti and candy and hugs and candles to you Amber. 

If I had Amber's courage, I'd show up more often in tears or raw or open out there in the world with so many rules and edges and old ways of being that no longer need be; no wonder so many of us often feel so alone and pointless: we often look inward towards self-blame, whereas there is still a huge dysfunctional world out there that has forgotten intimacy. And this takes atoll. This takes a huge toll that no amount of protesting can disarm unless we are talking a heart Revolution, a revolution of the highest hearts of ourselves, to show up as love with love. Not with anger or Wars or this is mine that is yours, but with our hearts. 

But what does this really mean? How do we begin to show up hurting in this Modern Age where battle of wits, battle over he knows the most and scares the most is in charge? Of course I don't have the answers, but I know writing helps a whole lot. And of course smiling at babies; that is what Jude and I do... we smile at babies... let them know that that the world is also very much a loving place. I think that's what it comes down to. We show up with our hearts where it's safe. "Satellites," as Deb says. And we leave the light on when we go.                  

                                 Love, 

                                                Rox

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Another reason why I love writing

I love writing. And I especially love writing with others. Whether I'm writing about the swimming pools of my childhood—those little blue dots of paradise—or the more silly or difficult things, when I write with others, all is well.

I think writing together teaches us to love one another. To love each other until it's effortless. We just do. We can't help ourselves. And the love bubbles over like an Irish Spring or an infinity pool... or whatever memory that's surfaced on the page this morning.   

And sometimes it occurs to us one morning in the middle of writing group, the same writing group we've been showing up for year-after-year, how healed we are. How that thing we thought we could never do, or say, or that seemed so insurmountable, is really no big deal.  That here we are, free. Relaxed. Feeling welcomed, knowing how much we really belong. Not just here, but in all of life. And we wonder why it took so long to get here, yet we know it was all part of it, the same way we know this is also part of something to come, that we're not done.

And I want to say if anyone finds this notebook or any of them and feels as though they are prying: Don't! Read on! Read on until you find yourself in these pages, until you see yourself in every page, in every vibrating letter that carries infinite life. Read on until you see yourself in love, as love.

               

                ...

Write with me!  /......

www.writingwithrox.blogspot.com

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—The paper doesn't fall far from the tree

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—We are all rooting for you Landen

right now, trillions upon millions of candles are being lit in prayer, fountains of tears are raining down love and healing upon Landen and his family, writers are wracking their hearts and souls to express what even thousands of lifetimes cannot express because there are no words, no song or poem, to touch the depth of grief and dystopic horror and compassion and helplessness and hope and faith and love that every mother—no, every one—must be feeling at this moment... And so, we write what we can. And we listen. And we let the words carry all the love and light that they were made to do... So, write the love, writers... write the love...

https://www.gofundme.com/Landonprayers

Help For Landen - Mall Of America Attack Victim

This is Landen, he is the sweetest kindest 5 year old you will ever meet. His soul is soft and gentle and instantly brings a smile to everybody he meets. He is full of energy and life and enjoys soccer, playing with friends and family and playing hockey with his brother and sister. He was enjoying a day at the Mall of America with his mom and friend on Friday morning when a stranger maliciously grabbed him and threw him over the 3rd floor balcony for no apparent reason. The family doesn’t know him and are completely clueless as to why this monster would target their family with this heinous act of violence. My wife and His mother have been best friends since they were 3 years old. They have grown up together, started their families together and truly have a lifelong friendship for the ages. Their family is always so generous to others, they give without expecting anything in return and are the type of family you always hope to live next door. Landen has a very long road to recovery ahead of him. He suffered life threatening injuries, many people who fall from that distance aren’t as lucky to make it. He has many surgeries ahead in his life to try to get back to a normal life for a young, vibrant boy. We started this GoFundMe for their family to help cover the immense medical costs and rehabilitation costs for the long ahead. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedules to hear about their story.

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Why chanting is good for writers

Now now... don't worry. I'm not going to proselytize.  

Last weekend me and TCF drove to Madison to see our favorite HindJew Krishna Das (KD) who we've been following all over the place for years because, like yoga, like writing, it works, which for me means it brings the love, opens the heart. And open the heart it did.

But it also opened up something unexpected, something I'm not used to opening much because "I'm a writer" and I let the page do the talking: my mouth.

As a writer for so many years, I tend to tell myself "Oh I'll write about that" whenever something happens or when I know I need to release something; in other words, I tend to save it for the page, which is a well intended, often fruitful practice. However, years and years of writing and editing and shaping words in my head—while deeply beneficial to the page—has gotten me into the habit of withholding my speech, rushing the details, or minimizing its place in the oral tradition. As a quick wit vulnerable to intoxication by repartee, often accused of relying to heavily on "yeah, yeah, yeah," I struggle to embrace the longwinded fanfare of storytelling, especially my own. I've been writing for so long, in fact, I've nearly forgotten the curative power of talking. Don't get me wrong; one of my all time favorite endangered species is long, deep conversation, which is a prompt for another day. I'm just saying when it comes to telling my stories, writing is my telling of choice.

No wonder my chanting went hog wild, renegade. This was not my comfortable key of C.  I  embraced my uglier tones, pushing through vocal ranges ordinarily way out of range, ones I'd rather not tread. I sang it out. I sang off key. I sang out a voice I kept hidden. I sang out a voice that came out sounding like my mother's. I sang out creaky cranky corners of my body that hadn't ever been offered melody. And while it wasn't easy, (an ugly voice brings up some gnarly darkness, shapeshifting memories, rejected and neglected parts of self), I felt like I had no choice: I had to sing through it.

After 3 hours of chanting with KD, we headed back to the hotel and before I knew it, I was talking nonstop, telling TCF all these stories about childhood and college, some rather difficult things. I forget how it came up, but out came the story about my brother's friend Jason, that irresistible combination of gorgeous and bad seed who stayed over night too frequently, or my boss Steve at Venice Beach who I still try and purge with each word I write or the guy who threw glass bottles at my bike as I rode home in the night or my mom's boyfriend or the "slow" girl and blonde boy on the block I took it out on and all  the wrong things I had done and been done to. And as I talked, I could feel these things happening again as though it was happening now, moving through, the same way I feel when I write, in perfect flow.

And I wished I could call all those people up that I'd hurt, intentionally or not, and apologize for what I'd done. And I also realized that there were also people out there, perhaps ones I'd forgotten who were also sitting in hotel rooms at this very moment wishing they could call me up and apologize too. And I realized that it felt so good to talk it out. And that if I hadn't talked it out, it might not have ever surfaced at all, page or otherwise. In fact, once I was done talking I realized I had some great stuff to write about, which I may have never found if I kept saving it for the page. And then it was done and we ate some yogurt and strawberries. Where had those stories been my whole life? What had they been? Unnamed blockages of driftwood? That dissonant wordless song?

So don't be so writerly all the time, writers. Talk a little. Don't save it all (for better or worse) for the page. It's good to talk.

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Texting Ma last December at 12:44 am

And then there are those moments, usually late afternoon, or late at night, like now, when I get up from the recliner or from the floor and realize suddenly on the way to the kitchen, hey, I can walk. My legs are back.

And so I pace the upstairs...kitchen to christmas tree...across the cork floors, over the ugly rugs and uneven patches of flooring, past the cat condo, past the couch, the table, the cat toys, the litter box, the backdoor , the recliner,  back and forth, back and forth I pace happily on my easy legs, relax into the fluid motion of walking, trust my legs will hold me up, will walk me and take me effortlessly where I need to go. It feels so good, dreamily good, and I start thinking maybe this is it

Maybe I got my legs back

Maybe it was just a silly fluke

Or virus and now it's done

But then I feel the first pull in my left leg,  then another, and before I know it, it's the same old dance

But I keep going because maybe it will work itself out, go back to the way it was, so I pace backwards, back and forth backwards 

and my entire upright leggy life plays backward before me, in film snippets

Look: there I am walking my dollies up and down the driveway in a stroller

And look at that: Can you see me walking Batiste down to the corner, to Balsam, and back? See how happy I look? And there... that's me, you, and dad walking along the beach in Oregon on the way to Evergreen. See? Eventually I have to stop pacing, forward or backward, 

I have pushed my luck, faced facts,  but I'll do it again tomorrow

               

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—What I Overheard a twenty-something LumberMetroSexual say to a much older woman in line at the Whole Foods in Edina this afternoon...

...after he allowed her to go ahead of him:


"Yes, I'm sure. No, I'm not in a hurry. Nope. I've learned that it works better to not rush. To take my time with everything. It's just better over all to not rush anything. Life's just too short for that."

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Come weather

Come rain or snow or sun or sleet or 

                winter or summer or fall or ice or spring or fog or snain or wind or rainshine or 

sunstorm or hail or slippery roads or detours or delayed flights or mudslides or broken shovels or wingless snow angels, or trips to Trader Joes, or running out of salt, or wet socks, or bad boots, or Raynaud's, or plantar fasciitis, or power outages, or soggy carpets, or frozen pipes or cracking skin or fear of a falling roof, or fear of falling, or ice damns (damn them!) or lousy take-out or weather related bad hair days or dry ink or empty wells or deep hunger or or  or …..

we’ll write through it.

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Have you seen me anywhere?

When traveling, I'll inevitably run into lookalikes of people I know or have known. Everything about them is the exact same: energy, facial expressions, height, rhythm, voice, cadence... except they are total strangers. But whomever they remind me of—friends, old teachers, students, relatives, doctors, coworkers, neighbors, people I grew up with, and all those who have passed through my life and are now strangers again—along with those I know well and hardly at all... it's as though they've returned, like a duende,  as though they are really here again, right down to the gestures, the way they hold their cups of coffee or fiddle with their hair or manage their towel in the wind...its uncanny... And so I turn to TCF and predictably say, "doesn't our waiter remind you exactly of so-and so?" or "Oh wow... see that woman over there? She's like a carbon copy of my first yoga teacher." Or my great aunt. Or my dad.

...and then there are some people I see everywhere over and over again, like archetypes, so much so that they become family—stranger family—so familiar to me that I can foretell their gestures, what they'll say, and in rare moments, their entire life story...it's that known....and I have noticed this for years. 

Oddly, I've never run into myself out there... why is that? Am I avoiding me?

           

           Occasionally, some people I know will say they met someone while traveling, or they have a friend who reminds them so much of me and that we have to meet, that we'd love each other, but somehow that never happens; that other me that is out there somewhere remains elusive. And sometimes I wonder how I'd be with this other me, this mealike....would I be nice? Would I judge or be cold or find myself penetratingly boring? Or perhaps we would hug, tell each other I'm so happy to finally meet you...And then I realize how many strangers out there are reminded of someone in their lives when they see me, that I am over and over again someone else's mother, widow, bank teller, yoga teacher, sister, lawyer, memory... 

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Hand in the Ocean

                                    Hand in the ocean

                                           oh my night, why not

                                    accidentally locked  a 

                                                                    

                                   little light in the closet

I just love when the voice correct on my phone writes poetry for me! What a gem!

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Empathy : What I really want to tell you

Happy New Year Writers!!!! How did we get here again so fast?

So... I want to reach out and reassure anyone and everyone who reads this that I'm okay. In the MidWestern Minnesota Nice tradition, "I'm fine." And on some days, I'm not so fine.  Can that be okay? That said, my posts are not meant to worry you or incite pity or concern, but if they do, that's okay too. We get what we need or want out of any piece of writing and I'm not going to stand in the way of any feelings or process therein that need doing. So feel what you must feel; worry if you must!

That said, I am okay. I'm me,  just as always.  I'm me going through a hard time, just like you do from time to time, just like the characters in your novels do. And then, there are balanced moments of bliss and flow, like when writing with you. Or petting my cat, Or laughing. Or.... endless ors...

And I so so so appreciate your care and love. As you know, as I encourage you, I have to write my truth, and sometimes that truth is happening now and it comes out as ratty old rage; some days I feel absolutely driven to document that raw truth because I want to talk to others in my same situation and/or provide a safe (albeit gritty) island harbor for those who may come floating my way, also lost at sea, perhaps a little further or less lost than I. I want to be able to remember this, for all its glory and grit, and to receive it. I want to write it out for me, for you, for others, also, because the duty of the writer, I believe in part, is offering another companion on the page for some of life's mysterious ups and downs.

I can't tell you how much I've been gifted by (lately and always, but particularly lately) the many countless posts I've found online, the anecdotes, the complete narratives, others write about their personal struggles with chronic pain: the joys, challenges, tips to heal, how to deal, words of encouragement, etc. From people I do not know, but have grown to know and invest in just by reading their posts, their joys and struggles. A simple line or two posted on a forum, even from 2008, is a thread of hope, a lifeline, morse code abloom in the dark, my cell phone a portal to possibility, a searchlight for hope, while knowing also that hope is futile because the present moment is the only hope there is, so I come back to that too. Because what else is there ever, but here, now? If I cannot be happy in this moment, in this body, how am I am practicing unconditional love, radical acceptance, for life? For myself? So in acceptance, practicing acceptance, I change.

And that is the moment of change you will find in any memoir or novel or good movie worth partaking. And the hardest conflict to overcome:change. Changing something in ourselves: your mind, your habits, your addictions, your machinations, your destructions, your not so good relationships, etc. Let go, and let in. Not over night; not like in the movies where it's boom boom bam. But perhaps between the inhale and exhale, perhaps a glimpse by the end of the book or story. Even if it's just a small crack, that's mountains. Moving mountains.

But what I really want to tell you is that your empathy for me makes a wonderful point in the case of engaging writing: you feel for me. And now that there is also a conflict (I'm struggling with idiopathic (really great for conflict since it adds mystery) chronic pain), which has heightened your empathy and investment in my story, in my getting better. Why? Because you know me, you read me, you know me on and off the page, you see me in yourself or someone else you know, and most of all, because you're human.

You namaste.

And I you.

See you at writing!

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—All I've started and stopped this year, this day

blog posts
yoga at LA Fitness
swimming at LA Fitness
gratitude journal
adoring woodpeckers
teaching my kid how to unwrap and wrap mindfully
nightly meditation with my kid
modeling the proper way to shop for presents mindfully for (and with) my kid
half-assed forward folds
homemade coloring books of my family and neighborhood
growing out my hair
composing a musical
putting in new cork floor in my living room and bedroom
clutter clearing my shelves
selling my baby and kid stuff
selling the books that make me unhappy
Ditto taking the lot to GoodWill
finishing the cedar siding paint job
hiring help
returning shoes in the back of my car to Shueler's
returning a broken water bottle to Target
grieving (but that's okay)
trying to go to bed early
gluten free pumpkin pie making and passion for
worrying about what my friends and family think of me getting elderly so youngerly
faith in Western Medicine
obsessing over what is wrong
growing and harvesting squash with the hopes of cooking with the squash flowers
looking for a decent primary care doc
wishing my dad were here because, really, what could he do?
calling my brother for advice
blaming yoga
blaming my parents
blaming myself
giving up
giving in
sleeping only on my good side
losing faith in my body
soy yoghurt
0 calorie ice cream
0% Deet mosquito repellent
putting my pen down when it's time to stop writing
parenting myself
scaring myself
daring myself
trying to get physically strong, stronger, strongest
forgetting how to stop
feeling the sunshine

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Keep Calm and Love the Food Chain

Today a sweet old lady got into the elevator with me at Tria, all smiles. She leaned in closer to get a look at my T'shirt and said, "What does your shirt say? 'Keep Calm and'..."?

"Love Bunnies," I said, proudly puffing out my T-Shirt. I just love sweet old ladies, especially animal lovers. "My son—my 11-year old— gave it to me for my birthday. He just loves bunnies and has one of his own named Louie..."

"Well," she said, "we used to have a lot of cute little bunnies in our yard..."

"Oh yeah? Awww..." I pictured a little bunny circus, with happy kids dressed in pastels and bonnets  running through an apple green lawn.

"But now we have co-yotes and fox so no more bunnies."

"Oh," I said. "I suppose—hmmm."

"So that put an end to that. So long!"

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Which Writers' Mythology is keeping you away from writing?

I still hear a lot of guilt from some of you about not writing, not getting around to it or prioritizing it like "real" writers do. I'm not sure where all this writer's mythology is coming from, but anyway, is it helping? Has it ever?

I'd like to remind you that summer is for living our lives, living stories so we have something to write about in the dark days of the MN winter. Of course, that may be a Minnesotan writer's mythology, but it also might be true.

There are a few other writers' myths I've (we've?) heard over the years. Some of them may be true and even helpful, yet some of them are old stories serving harmful rather than life giving purposes. You would know for yourself which is what; how does the narrative you tell yourself about what being a writer is impact your writing process? For better or worse?

Do these sound familiar?

Writers are misfits.
Writers are tortured.
Writers drink. 
Writers write every day, all day.
Writing is always hard.
Real writers don't take breaks to do the dishes or clean the house.
Real writers publish.
Writing is not going to make me any money.
Being a successful writer is going to solve everything and show them.
To be a good writer, I have to be published at the good places.
Well written emails or texts don't count as writing.
No one cares about that. No one will read that.
Someone else already wrote that.
I don't have a writing voice so I'm not a writer.
Etc, etc, etc....

Again, how does the narrative you tell yourself about what being a writer is impact your writing process? For better or worse? What if they were or weren't true?

Is it time for a new narrative? A more welcoming storyline?


So! What are you excited about writing? What do you loooove writing about? Sometimes not writing has to do with summer and sometimes it has more to do with losing touch with what you want to write about. So, try these:

I am afraid to write about...

because...

Someday I'd love to write about...   but I need to finish working on ..... first before I can write what I want to write which is.....

I keep putting off writing about.... because....

If I had all the time in the world to write and could write whatever I wanted to, I would write....

What would help me feel more peace about writing and being a writer is...

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Thank you writing practice!

For the first half of my writing life I wasn't that into it. I did it because I had the option to write creatively (verses academically) about what I was learning at MOBOC, the Open School I went to for 6th and 7th grade in LA. Occasionally, I enjoyed it purely as an act of love, a sublime way to escape and broaden my own company, until I was encouraged by others (bless them) and I started thinking about it, doing it writerly, doing it literarily, doing it in hopes of someday doing it for money. And all of those external things, of course, had their place and time.

It wasn't until I was miserable in grad school at the U of Minnesota for my MFA, that I found my true self again, on (and consequently off) the page. I happened across Brenda Ueland's "If You Want to Write" and every word she wrote was for me: write your truth. Write like you, not like them. Don't bother with competition or perfection. Write because it feels good. Write because you hunger for your own stories, the comfort and caress of your own words and rhythms. This was exactly what I needed to hear in grad school, where I'd lost my way. Of course this coincided with my first of thousands (and counting) of yoga classes and the two went together well for me at the time. And the rest is history.

Today I find myself more grateful than ever for my writing practice, both alone and together with you. In this always insisting world of to dos, trying to keep up with who I "think" I am, who I "was," to stay present, is challenging to live up to in a body unexpectedly slowed by neuropathy, pain and limitations I foolishly reserved for my much much much later years. Though I often attribute all good things to my yoga practice, the thing that pulled me out of hell and back into life, the thing I relied on for 20 years to keep me sane, I often neglect my writing practice in that attribution. But now that I am currently limited to only a few poses, it's enough: I'm not falling apart. I can still write myself all over the place: in body, out of body, through body, toward body and when I need to, away from body.

Like breathing, I can write myself back here, now, to this tired, life times walked, overstretched body, and realize it's all okay.

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Happy Birthday to me/This is how it's done!

One of the greatest gifts I've received this year (in addition to the daily gifts shared in writing with you) is this sweet, wonderfully written article my neighbor Linda Jennings wrote about me in our neighborhood newsletter (how cool is that?!), The Minikahda Vista. It's humbling and awkward to see myself in print, but she's a darn good writer and journalist and so I actually kind of like it. A lot.  

So... as a reminder, if you happen to write something about someone you know, please share it with them. It's the best kind of gift you can give and get these days. Hoodies and yoga pants I can always use more of, true; but seeing myself on the page through the heart of another, well... that's presence. 

Thanks everyone for another great year writing together at The Beach! Can you believe it's been a whole year at the new Beach, the Minikahda?  ❤️

Happy to Be Here...

You can learn and be inspired when you have coffee with a neighbor like Rox (Roxanne) Sadovsky. A Minikahda Vista resident since last summer, Rox has been successfully reaching out through NextDoor and The Vista View newsletter to connect with her new neighbors.

The Los Angeles native came to Minnesota by way of Washington, where she got her undergraduate degree (Evergreen College) and graduate degree (master’s in counseling psychology from Antioch University in 1998). Rox worked with troubled teens in the Seattle area a few years, then determined it was time for a change. Her artist mother encouraged her to pursue more education.
Rox landed in Minneapolis, at the University of Minnesota, where she enrolled in the master of fine arts program in creative nonfiction writing. Of her studies at the U, she says, “I loved every minute of it.” Writing and teaching, she discovered, were her true loves.
Even before she graduated in 2004, Rox joined the Loft Literary Center staff to teach Intuitive Writing and the Healing Memoir.

She continues to teach at the Loft and also has developed a private healing practice (Writing with Rox), Wild Women writing retreats/groups, classes in creative expression, and more. She covers a variety of writing genres — poetry, creative nonfiction, song, journaling, email, and more.

“Writing honors who you are and helps you find aliveness and joy,” Rox says. The simple act of writing allows people to slow down, she says, and connect from the heart and mind.

She points out that participants in her writing groups come together not knowing each other and with a certain amount of “Minnesota reserve.” After they start sharing their work with each other, it’s not too long before they empathize with each other and become like family. Both students and teacher gain life-changing rewards.

“Writing helps us deal with the difficult times in our lives,” Rox asserts.
THE VISTA VIEW

Expressions of gratitude for Rox’s mentorship are evident in the writing classroom in her home, from the table on which students use a marker to leave a lasting statement to a handcrafted quilt created by a student to honor Rox’s instruction and inspiration.
Students also provide feedback on Rox’s blogspot (http://writingwithrox.blogspot.com/p/what.html) using “kind and gentle,” “encouraging” and “supportive and constructive” to describe their instructor. One student suggests, “(The) class should be taken like a vitamin supplement to enhance any other writing or creative endeavor one is involved in.”
As I leave her home on a chilly day, I think this is not sunny California, but Rox is happy here — in this neighborhood...in this world. A good place to be.
-Linda Jennings
Watch for Rox’s writing in upcoming issues of The
Vista View.

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—The Logical Song

I spent half of my childhood in the car. In LA, you had little choice, given the thick lanes of traffic and the unwalked sidewalks, mostly occupied by the homeless pushing their barbed grocery carts stuffed with debris. One time a homeless woman we regularly saw cruising Little Santa Monica near to where we lived, ripped my dad's turn signal right out of his car at a stoplight. 

It wasn't all bad stuck in traffic. It all depended on Ma's mood—where she was in her cycle, or how long it has been since she'd eaten—and/or where we were headed: therapy, drum lessons, the market, a dental appointment, the beach. No matter, if the radio happened to play the right song at the right time (which we had shared custody of, Ma and I: she opted for talk radio psychologist, Dr Toni Grant, whereas I shifted back and forth between KROQ, KMET, and KLOS), all was perfect.

So that  day in early February, just past my brother's 10th birthday when he was gifted Supertramp's "Breakfast in America" record, the Logical Song came on the radio and alone with her in the car, away from my brother and his friends, I could ask the questions. What does it mean, Ma? What does "sent me away' mean? What's a vegetable? I pictured this poor guy banished, lost in a boat on a river beneath marmalade skies, along with all the lonely people: Father McKenzie, Penny Lane, Bad Bad Leroy Brown and the rest of the misfit folks I'd gotten to know through the countless records we spun at home over the years. 

"Well honey..." she'd begin, "it's about growing up."

I tried to picture it. I couldn't. "But how does that make you  a vegetable?"

"Oh for Christ Sakes, Roxanne."

But how could Ma begin to answer these questions, to translate the age of experience (logically), to the age of innocence, where I was still living "joyfully," when life was still "wonderful, a miracle"? She did the best she could and the best she could, was the best she good, because bless Ma, with her ERA bumper sticker,  fearless claiming of her space in fierce LA traffic ("up yours you creep! Those fuckers better get the hell off the road!") and her open minded heart, she kept answering those questions that kept coming day after day, week after week, year after year until I was old enough to get out of her car and drive away on my own in my own car and roll down the windows and blast the radio and wait for the day when The Logical Song came on, as I sent myself out of innocence, sent myself away to learn the answers first hand, to see for myself how to be logical.

And that's what Ma was trying to tell me that day in the car as the melodies swirled deeply,  keening callingly, addictively, between us. She didn't say it exactly, but she was trying to tell me that if ever there came a time "at night, when all the world's asleep, and questions run so deep," like they did for that simple, aching, longing, searching man in The Logical Song, it meant I was normal and that I was going to be okay. Painful as those questions would get, they would eventually lead to light, perhaps even back to innocence where life was so magical.

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Guest Prompt from a dear friend about her 11 year old boy and his love of animals

When I read my friend's email last week, I asked if I could post it and she said "sure honey," somewhat dismissively. I think it's pretty darn fabulous, don't you? Sometimes we forget how "literary" a simple-day-in-the-life email can be. 

....

Something so sad happened...

After our school's spring fair, we were outside doing some yard work and watering, and after a while, I went in and a few minutes later, I heard N yelling in the backyard. I ran to the window, and saw him, visibly shaken up, yelling toward the tracks, "DON'T HURT THE BUNNY! DON'T HURT THE BUNNY!") I ran out, afraid that whoever he was yelling at might hurt N. There was a young teen (maybe 14), crouched down, petting a wild rabbit. N ran into the house, and I went over to the tracks and asked him what happened. I don't think he spoke English well. He got up and walked to his bike, and I could see the rabbit's back legs were hurt. I tried to talk to the boy, but I didn't think he was understanding me well. I went to check on N, and the boy rode away. 

N was sitting on the coffee table, crying and shaking. He told me the boy threw a rock at the rabbit, and stomped on him. I hugged him and he cried on my shoulder, and I told him how proud I was of him for standing up for what's right. He got ready for bed and I went out to check on the rabbit, and N stuck his head out the door and said we should bring him a carrot. I told him the rabbit had gone away. N got into bed, and I told him again how proud I am of him and also told him that not everyone has been taught to love animals the way he has, and sometimes, kids may not always treated well by the adults in their lives and sometimes they take it out on something weaker, like animals...but hopefully this boy saw our concern for the bunny and will make a different choice next time. 

He's having a lot of trouble falling asleep...I let him keep his door open, I even turned on the radio in the living room, but he keeps getting up. I know how his mind works, and I think he's replaying the incident in his mind, preventing him from being able to fall asleep, as well as being worried about the bunny.

I am trying to embrace this as a life experience that helps him grow, and I am so proud of him...it took a LOT for him to yell from his gut like that at a complete stranger.

Has anything like this happened to your kiddos?

Writing with Rox WEEKLY—Guava Withdrawal

My absolute favorite thing about Mexico is guava. I eat my weight in the smiling pink darlings—and then some. Just looking at the innocent ovals of succulence never fails to make my heart scream with happiness and when we reunited only a short while ago, I felt a forgotten gratitude so deep I nearly wept. 

And then I ate them up. Day after painfully passing ocean blue day, I rolled them and stacked them and balanced them atop my too full plate... after plate after plate. The abundance was a luxury. If only I could stock my countertop with always blossoming guava, I'd be forever happy. I felt better. I walked along shore, sand, and cobblestone. I swam with turtles. I felt good. Guavas are loaded with vitamins and super juice. I looked better. I could carry more. I slept like a baby to the guava breast, nourished by her ever flowing madre love.

Now that I'm home, I'm miserable. It's white out. It's cold. There's no ocean. No fresh pescado. No sunshine. And the worst part is there's no guava. I'm pink with pain. Yellow with withdrawal. What have I done? Me and TCF even ran over to Marissa's Bakery on Eat Street who import the little queenies from time to time, but alas, they were fresh out. Cactus they had, but the guava tree was no more. Why? Because I ate them all.

I keep saying I'll never go back to Mexico because it's too hard to come home. I forget, of course, and head out every other year or so. Why oh why do I do this?