Another not a prompt, but just because post

Ma is here. She came in last night at 12 from LA. She only slept about 3 hours, she says. I had to send her out to Dunn Bros this morning while I saw a client. Dunn Bros coffee is right across the street. You just cross the street and you are there.

She drove there.

Writing with Rox weekly prompt—What is Intuitive Writing, anyway? (everything I ever needed to know I learned from intuitive writing)

This morning I was doing a little intuitive thinking and started thinking about my MFA program and how I got there... and how I got from there, over the years, to how I got here. And where is here? Happy. Here is happy. 

"Here" is also following this whirlwind intuitive writing path that I've been following now for about ten years. A lot of folks will email or call to ask what is intuitive writing exactly and how does it work? I tell them it's hard to explain, you have to just do it. I tell them it's a practice like any other and the more you do it, the easier it gets and before you know it, it changes your life.  The short answer to how it works is it's hard to explain because I make it up as I go, and because there is so much to it—it's infinite!—yet you begin with just one word. You just start with a word, a line, a memory, a feeling, a moment, and commit to it with love. See where it takes you. You won’t know where it’s going when you do it and if you think about it or try to prethink it, you’ll get stuck. If you just trust that the words know where they need to go and you stick with them, you’ll remember everything you love and then some. 

                                  

                                        THERE

I remember that rainy Seattle day vividly. I was driving to my job in Auburn, a 40 minute commute to misery. On clear days, you could see Mount Reineer and though I couldn’t appreciate it at the time, those commutes made the miserable job worthwhile. Of course it wasn’t the job, the rain, the divorce, the traffic, the clients, etc… it was me. I  was miserable.

I wasn’t doing what I loved. I didn’t like myself very much. So nothing at all was very joyful. I’m not sure I had much clue what I loved, though I knew I loved my cat. And the feeling I got swing dancing and singing camp songs with others and listening to Cake and Leonard Cohen, Eminem, and Sublime. Or following a strand of words across a blank page. Or playing air hockey. And being silly. And thinking about a first kiss somewhere dreamy out in nature or in a seaside city of cobblestone. Romance. I loved that. Or skipping. Or riding my bike in the dark cool summer nights. I loved the night.  Or parties where everyone talked about what was real, spoke from the heart.  Speaking Spanish with natives was cool. Speaking gibberish was a heck of a lot of fun. Admittedly, so were making crank calls. Whatever it was, I recognized this fleeting feeling as "completely alive," in full flow. 

Still... so what? Subconsciously I told myself this was not a "real" way to go through life. It didn’t add up. I didn’t pay attention to these things, give them much credence. They were hardly relevant because, what was I going to do with them?  None of these flashes of feeling fully alive, in my truth, etc, could ever actually make anything. And even if it did, it wouldn’t amount to anything. I tithed to the societal pressures telling me “well, you can’t make a living being silly. You'll never make it as a dancer, writer, etc..."  buying into the same mythology that you did: “So then why bother?” and gave up most of what I loved. Before I could even consider doing or even feeling the flow and excitement of what I loved, I shut it down. Didn’t even think about it. Of course growing up in LA this message came pretty early on. Everyone wanted to be a star and they nearly killed themselves trying. Well, some did. 

Still, even if I did pursue what I loved in any sort of organized outcome-based way, it was all too soon infected and then killed by self-consciousness, external expectations that I internalized for way too long. The love lost its spark. I could feel it in my body; I was out of sync with my authenticity. Of course I was only doing what most of us do, looking for permission to do what I loved, as though I had to pass some sort of test that granted me that right. I don't know if you all got the same message I did, but I grew up believing that only the very special/talented/beautiful/loved get to do what they love, live their truth. The rest of us had to hide who we were, shut ourselves down. And play it safe, get a  "real job."  Oy. What a setup. I took a "real job," lived a "real life." It's just what you do, right? You shut down your life force. And then you wonder why you want to eat so much. Or drink so much. You're only living half a life. So I went through life like that. Half alive.

Sadly, I wasn’t serving myself or God, or the “universe.” What does that mean? What is this "universe" speak? It means, I wish we taught our kids first and foremost to tune into what they love,  what makes them feel most alive and that as long as we do that we are serving self/God/universe best we can. It doesn't matter if we end up writing books, doing standup, or selling used cars; if we love it, allow it, if we are in our truth, we're going to be good at it. Otherwise we aren't good for anything. If we are killing ourselves and miserable dong (yes, I mean "doing," but I like "donging" better; somehow it seems more appropriate) what we think we should do or should be, we are not contributing to anything except an old mythology that is ready to fizzle out.

                                             HERE

It took me years to realize that there is no point. You just do what you love and see where it goes. You just do what you love, live what you love, and suddenly a million doors open up. You can’t know what those doors are before you start being and doing what you love; you just have to trust that they are there and will open.  And it might take a long time to see those doors because at first you don't recognize them; they can be subtle, unfamiliar. At first you may not recognize kindness or love so you don't see those doors. But eventually they start to appear more frequently, like everyday. And then you can't believe how many there are. It's infinite. And what you really can't believe is how they are never to rarely the doors you had hoped for before you got started on your truth path. 

So it’s not that honoring your truth/what you love doesn’t take you anywhere—it does— but outcome is not the point. In fact, you'll miss the outcome altogether if you are too distracted by it. I'm not saying anything new, I realize. The mindfulness folk say it a lot better than I. I'm just recycling the millions of gifted and well earned "aha" moments that have finally caught up to my body.

                    THEN, NOW: HERE, THERE

Of course none of this occurred to me on that rainy drive to work when I called Ma back. I may have been hungover. 

“How’s the job, hon?” 

“Awful. I can't stand it. I'm miserable. The only thing that ever made me happy is writing. Still. All I want to do is write."

"So why don’t you?"

"What do you mean? How? Actually, I have been thinking of MFA programs..." 

"So go." 

"What am I going to do wih it? You can’t make a living writing... Besides I already know how to write."

"No you don't. Just go. It'll be fabulous. If you're miserable, do something about it. If you know this is what you want, then fucking do it.  Why the fuck wouldn't you? You have to go... Roc?"

"Really? How am I going to pay for it?" 

"Your dad will pay for it. He'll do anything for your happiness."

So I took a leap of faith. Really, I didn't have too much to lose, but I thought I was losing everything, which, thankfully, I really was, though "letting go," is more like it.  So I got a free ride in the U of M's MFA program and up and moved. I was fairly miserable the first year and thought many times about going home to Seattle. Then one day a door opened. I took a yoga class. I wanted to get more flexible because I was a runner; I had no idea I was heading into a revolution of self. Gradually, very gradually, I settled in to the program and over time stopped trying so hard to be something or be someone I was supposed to be and began being more of me.   So there I was getting to know me, remembering me, doing what I loved, and sure enough, a million doors opened.

So that’s what Intuitive Writing is. That’s the long answer anyway.  If you just trust that the words know where they need to go and you stick with them, you’ll remember everything you love and know exactly where to go from there.

YOUR PROMPT

what do you love?

Writing with Rox weekly prompt—Not a prompt, just a story about Ma

Sometimes you just have to write it down.

Tonight I talked to Ma. It's been about a month, typical. I really should keep better track of what she says. At some point I had an idea that I would publish all of her answering machine voicemails from over the years and I do have a rather large email collection of her greatest hits. And, and, and... she is the most beloved character in my memoir ("Here's Fifty Cents and You Two Fuckers Can Take the Bus Home!")...

 For years Ma has been dogging on herself for her ADD, dementia, lack of discipline, losing her keys/wallet/checkbook, etc all the time, missing airplanes, getting lost, etc. It's occasionally funny, but mostly rote by now, even predictable.  I don't even get annoyed anymore. Tonight, though, it was funny:

Ma: Well, after three days of hell and rearranging everything, I found my checkbook that I thought I lost.
Rox: That's good.
Ma: But I wasted all this time having to redo everything.
Rox: You should always count on finding it again. It usually shows up.
Ma: Not really. Things disappear all the time. I've lost rings. A really beautiful coat. (I may be wrong, but I think she also said, I kid you not, "a rocking chair...") All kinds of jewelry...
Rox: I thought you said X stole your jewelry....
Ma: No. It turns out she didn't. I found it. But things disappear; I lose them.
Rox: Oh.
Ma: You'll never guess what I did today...
Rox: You lost your sunglasses?
Ma: No. I was getting gas on Overland... you know, that place. And I pulled away with the pump still attached to the car, pumping gas.
Rox:
Ma: And then it came out of the thing and smacked against my taillight and broke it.
Rox:
Ma: Can you believe that? I'm getting dementia, I swear.
Rox: Ma, how is that even possible?

Writing with Rox weekly prompt—Just Because You're Neurotic...

Jude's portrait of stressed out Mama. The "lines" above my eyes are my worry wrinkles.

"Are you paranoid?" Jeffrey the plumber asks me, this fine Sunday evening of Memorial Day Weekend.  We are standing in my bedroom bathroom at 9:30 p.m. watching the drain spin it's clear water like a delicate top, a sight that typically pleases a plumber.

Okay. I know what some of you are thinking. But bear with me; remember: I'm not paranoid, I'm Jewish.

"No," I answered a little too quickly. I  searched the plumber's lips for a smile, uncertain if he is accustomed to asking such things to total strangers with a straight face. "I mean, not really..." I didn't tell him that earlier in the day I dragged Jude to the only service station open on Memorial Day Sunday so I could get my fluids checked. "Has it been running clunky?" the service guy asked.

"No," I admitted. "It just has a funny smell."

"Has it been making a 'eeeeerrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiii' sort of sound when you turn?"

"No," I said. "Again. Just the smell."

"Well, it looks good to me!" he said, slamming the trunk.

"Really? Are you sure? Safe to drive?"

"Yup."

He explained the funny smell, but I don't remember the exact terms he used. Knowing Odelle, my Hyundai, has a leak in her tranny box (case?) (which I manage with routine level checks), I am always suspicious. But no, I didn't tell Jeffery the plumber.



It's not that I wanted Roto Rooter to show up at 9 pm; I called at 3 pm requesting an appointment on David's recommendation who is likely tired of me calling him up for every thing gone wrong or suspicious-acting in families mechanical, pipe, electric, handy, computer, etc. To make a long story short,  Friday night my toilet downstairs overflowed. After that, it's all a little hazy. Somehow I had turned it into a disaster in my mind. Likely because the car was also acting up. Likely because I have memories of Ma cursing at all the machines in a panic when we were kids.

"So call Roto Rooter," Dada said.

After tinkering in that little box of water with all the flushing parts atop the toilet, Jeffrey the plumber asked me what the problem was. "It's flushing just fine," he said, watching the bowl fill and swirl clean. After that we ran the kitchen faucet. "This is beautiful," he said. "Is it not draining fast?" I leaned in. "I guess so," I admitted. "It's just that it clogs sometimes."

"Does it make a 'glunk glunk glunk' sound and then gurgle?" he asked.

"I don't think so," I said. He filled it all the way up again, just to be sure. Sure enough, it was starting to clog. "See!" I said.

"I put the stopper in," he explained.

"Oh. Well... it looks like that when it drains slow," I reasoned.

He shone his flashlight under the sink, searching.

I stood around not knowing what to do. I felt guilty that nothing was acting wrong. "Okay. Let me know if you need anything...Would you like a glass of water?"

"No," came his hard answer from under the sink. Then it occurred to me he might of thought I was making a wise crack. What kind of an idiot offers a plumber water? At least I didn't offer him a plum.

I retreated into the dining room.

I obediently followed him from sink to toilet upstairs where he proceeded to flush the toilets, run the water a bit in the sinks, and command me to "come over here."

"Yes?" I said, a half-folded pair of  Two-Cute-Face's shorts in hand.

"Are you seeing how this water is draining like a top?" I peered, once again, over the tub and into the emptying drain.

"Is that how you can tell it's all good?" I asked. "If the water goes down like a top?"

"There's nothing wrong here, Roxanne," he said, "this is how you want sinks and tubs to behave." Clearly he'd seen his fair share of rebel plumbing and this was not it. The pride he felt for my well behaved pipes caused me to view the flowing water as a work of art. How had it gone unappreciated for so long?

"Are you paranoid?" he then asked.

"You mean we don't have to do the sewer line thing?" I asked, having no clue really what that meant. After talking to David, I just assumed something involving the sewer or the "main," or whatever would be inevitable.

"I'm not even going to charge you," he said, and headed downstairs and out.

I am often accused, often by me, of living in a dreamworld because I am so far out-of-touch with how things work. Similarly, I am awful with directions, prefixes, and spacial relations.  I am relentlessly hard on myself about this. True, it's consoling knowing the upside to this dysfunction is high creativity, but creativity doesn't help when you are lost two blocks from home.

And true, I have been called "paranoid," though I prefer the term neurotic. It's endearing.


So, come on. Cheer me up. You must have a story like this. What brings out the paranoia/neurotic in you? What in this world do you simply not get? What is your mechanical-mind disaster story? Plumber story?

And lastly, my neurosis tend to flare when I need a good vacation. Some time to shake off the superfluous, get out of the city, have some fun, and be peaceful. That's why I'm going for the very first time to Madeline Island in September. Won't you join me?

Writing with Rox weekly prompt—Knock on your Neighbor's Door Day

I like to make up holidays. Partly to make fun of the ones we have and partly because they so clearly reflect what is so functional and dysfunctional with the world.

The truth is, I like to indulge in the fantasy of an evolved world where we don't need the excuse of holidays to feel loved, do what we love, spend time with loved ones, give gifts, have something to look forward to, etc, because everyday is full of these moments. I've written about this before here in a vision of Loveland, my future city of love light.

The one I made up yesterday during Weds afternoon Intuitive Writing was "knock on your neighbor's door day." On this day, anyone can go knock on anyone's door and ask to come in and join them in their lives for a day. No questions asked, all welcome. You knock, they let you in, you take off your shoes, make yourself at home, and have a big meal, maybe go on an outing. Nothing huge has to happen; you just know you have a place to go no matter what and are welcome no matter what and can stay as long as you'd like.

The idea brought back of memory of last summer when Too-Cute-Face and I were biking home from Lake Calhoun by all those huge houses on Xerxes. We'd been lamenting the lack of parental nurturing in our lives, even in our forties. Wishing for the little things: a meal out, encouragement on a hard day, celebration on a good one, invitations to dinner, etc. I told him I missed being able to go down to my dad's house on the beach in Playa del Rey and doing yoga while he played piano. I missed having a soft sunny place like that to go where I knew I was welcomed all the time (by dad, mind you, not his wife, which is likely why I wasn't flying down there more often). We wondered what would happen if we knocked on one of those big gated doors on Xerxes and invited ourselves in. We could bring the drum and the guitar and maybe sing a few songs together, we mused.

My therapist reminds me that this eternal longing I have for "big community" has to do with growing up without one and always longing for one. I think watching too much TV depicting large happy families has a lot to do with it too. Ma, usually running out the door, late for something, called all those shows which I drooled over daily, "fucking stupid," or "totally unconscious," which was true, but confusing: What was better, big stupid family, community or no community at all?

What holiday would you like to put on the calendar?

In the meantime, come and knock on my door... I'll be waiting for you. (Yes, even Three's Company was one of those shows I wanted to step inside of). But seriously, the Beach community awaits you for writing, sharing, taking off your shoes, getting comfy, and just knowing you are safe and loved and welcomed for your stories, your silence, your truth, loudness, and what and wherever else they dream  you on and off the page.

WRITING WITH ROX weekly prompt—In Memoriam

Daniel writing at the Beach,  May, 2011, at a yoga and writing retreat

In Memoriam
Daniel Hennessy, student, spirit brother, writer, poet, friend

As soon as I received the email from Daniel's wife Lynne, subject line "Daniel Hennessy," I knew that he had left his body and moved onto the eternal sunrise. But how can that be? I wondered in that infinite nanosecond before clicking on the message, how can it be? He's happy now. He's doing great. Life is good. It can't be.

I opened the email and read from Lynne that Daniel died unexpectedly last Thursday evening. "I know you two were close and I'm sorry to have to break the news in this way," she wrote.

I pushed aside my Greek Yoghurt and looked up at the sky. I exhaled with shocking volume and locked eyes with the blue of the sky contrasted against the white of the clouds, the same watercolor blue of Daniel's eyes. "Why brother?" I asked. "Why?"

I remembered the first time I met those watery blue eyes in the summer of 2010 at the Loft.  Intuitive Writing. How familiar they were, how much relief they brought, not only to me, but also to the students he shared his stories with in that class. How that class led to another and another, then several epic email exchanges, some in Spanish, some in intuitive flow.

The last email I received from him last July said: "Hey Rox, goin' pretty good.  Lot of travel this summer plus motorcycle camping in state parks.  Lynne is building a portfolio of state park pastorals...sometimes she uses her motorcyle for an easel....How you?" 

I did not write back.

I'm still waiting for an answer. It's coming. First I have to deal with the grief. Get past the denial. I'm still in denial about my father's death; I keep telling Too Cute Face that "when you meet my dad someday..." because I know how much they'd fall in love with each other upon meeting and part of me truly believes it will happen. So it's going to be a while.

"It's not important how he died," Lynne later wrote, "but how he lived."

And how I can speak to how he lived and how he wrote. The seductive literary drawl of his reading voice, especially when reading a chilling childhood memory, where he managed to weave humor into horror. (We both write of our mothers as "Ma," and we both mean the same thing.).

Yes, I can speak volumes to how he lived, suffered, healed, married, wrote, thought, felt, and celebrated among friends and family last May, that beautiful sunny celebratory day that was his wedding day and a day I will never forget because everything, even the stillness, twinkled.

And  I plan to write those volumes. But not today. Today is not about making anything more or adjectivial or big of the loss over or the life that was Daniel, but just to say I will miss you brother, writer, friend, lover of all beings, watercolor eyes, happy drumming man, love animal, poet wanderer, and eternal sunrise... your stories—both on and off the page, ones we created together, one's I had the pleasure of hearing—will live in me for a lifetime, and when the time is right, breathe some of that eternal sunrise back into the world.

Daniel laughing with writing friends

the two Beauties
by Daniel Hennessy

Alan Watts said we did not
come into this world, 

we come out of it.

Well, there's the rub.

Because there is a nostalgia, too.
That I am a visitor on this lovely planet,
that my real home is in the sunrise, 
and that I am reminded of this
by the glance of an infant.

Well, that infant came out of something, too.

Like dew.

Who are we?

Whether you knew Daniel, or perhaps your own "Daniel," all thoughts and feelings  are welcomed and wanted. Love, Rox

Writing with Rox Weekly Prompt—Proud Teacher Moments

Dearest Students, Friends, Writing with Rox Beach Community of now, then, to be, whenever....

Your words are gifts! Offerings. I'll say it and say it. And say it. It goes something like this:

and the tree was happy...

Every single time a piece of raw writing is shared around the table here at the Beach, (or the Loft, or typed up and shared with others, eventually made into a book, a gift, a dream, a song, a quilt, an anything—or a nothing—, etc) the universe is happy. Why? Because you have offered your raw truth, the part of you that is most fully alive, most fully you, fully real, fully vulnerable, human, community. Why? Because the way I see it, the universe does not know how to be anything but itself: trees cannot stop themselves from budding and falling; weather cannot retreat just because spring is here; sunsets are not beautiful on our behalf, yet recognizing them as such is instinctual; and the moon will round upon the edges of the earth, milking the horizon, even if no one notices; and rocks will cradle water, and water will run freely... No part of nature, but the humankind, questions whether or not it ought fully be itself in all it's truth today.  So: when we allow ourselves to be all of who we are on the page, and if want be, share that being with others, we perhaps begin to integrate that into the way we live our lives, and then offer that same fullness of being into the universe.

In case I haven't said it enough, I am so grateful to all of you for sharing your gifts with me. Each story shared takes root in me, to be remembered sometime when I most need it—if not now, maybe in seventy years. In your stories, I've remembered joy and have been granted resolution, peace, forgiveness, compassion, and the relief of knowing I am not alone—physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually. You've been there. You've done that. And even though I cannot relate today, I will tomorrow and boy will I be glad to know someone else has been there.

And the biggest gift of all is that we begin to see that we become the heroes of our own lives, cliche as it sounds. Because comes a time when you look back on something you wrote and go, wow, I can't believe "she" actually did that! How did she ever get through that? And you realize that she is you.

You wouldn't think so, but just writing about what you did this morning (start with "this morning..." and just go from there, see where it takes you...) and going from there, writing and sharing the truth of what you may consider an everyday mundane Minnesota morning and the uniquely you details of it, can and will change someone's life.



Today one of my students (among many, to whom I am one teacher) sent a link to a story she wrote that was published in today's Star Tribune! It's full of gifts and wisdom. Please enjoy!

http://www.startribune.com/lifestyle/goodlife/205273101.html

WWRWP—"Were They Confetti Bombs?"

This morning at the bus stop, a runner went by in Boston blue. In recognition, I put my hands to my heart in namaste and the runner waved back.

"Why did he do that?" Jude asked.

"Well Jude...well... why don't you come over here and sit down." 

He joined me on the steps of the meditation center, where we fittingly wait for his bus each Monday and Tuesday morning. As child-friendly-ly as I could, I told him about what happened yesterday in Boston. I gave him the facts. No drama. Nothing graphic.

Up until today, I've been very protective of sharing world news with Jude. As many of you know, I do not take media news of any kind, which is a whole other subject, the subject of my memoir in fact, which I will eventually finish if I can figure out a way to make more hours in the day. The point is,  he is not allowed to watch regular TV or play with imaginary (or real for that matter) weapons of any kind, at least not on my clock. He is taught daily that "we don't believe in shooters," and reminded that there are no "bad guys," only guys that have been done badly to who in turn act "badly."

I'm not stupid; I know he will and probably does play games of good and evil, though one day last fall I overheard him tell a kid at the playground that "my mom doesn't let me play with shooters." For my benefit,  he also reassures me that when he plays with kiddie toys like BatMan and Robin type weapons over at Dada's that the canons and bullets are love bullets shooting love missiles. I also realize I cannot use young/metaphorical language much longer, which is perhaps why I decided to sit him down today. Perhaps I can tell him the story without sensationalizing it.

Of course he wonders why—why about any and all of it. And because he is my kid, I tell him exactly why. 

For the record, most questions he asks from his creative six-year-old brilliant imagination I'll admit I cannot answer. Often times I will simply say, "I don't know, honey," or I'l make up something really goofy for his amusement. Yesterday he taught me the difference between a "partly sunny sky" and a "partly cloudy" one. When he asks why the sky is so brilliant on stormy days (not his words) I make up something fantastical about magic cloud carpets and Lovelands on high, to which he'll say, "well, I think it's because it's raining over there." He asks a lot of trick questions. 

I'm okay not knowing a lot of things. But when it comes to what is happening to our world—humankind violently, satirically, mindlessly, politely, passively (and aggressively) turning on itself—and why—isolation, fear, lack of love—I am unflinching when it comes to sharing this truth. I'm no bodhisattva, but I've done and seen and suffered and rejoiced and studied too much to keep this truth all to myself, to not share what has been taught to me by elders, teachers, fear, life, the universe... When I talk to my students about the "writers' duty," it echoes Faulkner's belief with a twist: we ought write about what we love and the stories about how what we love has helped us fight for and live more whole, loving, lives. 

Of course that's a bit heady for a six year old. The over simplified, copout explanation is that we are Buddhists (or...Bu-Jews. Or...Hind-Jews) and as such we are rooted in lovingkindness and do not believe (or behave) in harming any living beings. And, as much as I can, I try to live this in our daily lives. We hug trees. We sing songs about love. We help others and each other. We do yoga. We bow to Buddha. Yesterday he offered heartfelt thanks to the birds by shouting out of the car window as loud as he could "thank you, robin!" for giving us the late afternoon sunshine break in the clouds. 

So when he asked why "they" put the bombs there I told him it is because "they" are sad and angry and don't get enough love. 

Like I've said, he may write a memoir someday about his crazy mother called "Hare Mama!" He may think I'm full of shit and become a used car salesman (though we looove them too!). Still, it could be worse. I could be Ma. I could tell him the reason for all this mindless violence is because people are assholes, stupid, unconscious, and should be shot. 

But somehow I think my way's healthier. It's much easier to love Ma now, regardless of, perhaps because of, her suffering. 

Before heading onto the bus, Jude asks "were the bombs confetti bombs?" He is thinking of the easter confetti eggs we dropped on each other's heads and the hardwood floor. The image of happy colorful confetti blasting all over the world's wars and hatred and violence makes me smile. On the other hand, my kid may be the next Paul Wellstone. Or Willy Wonka.

"Imagine that, JJ" I said as he took his familiar spot at the front of the bus and waved to me as they drove away and out of sight. "Just imagine that."

How do you talk to your children? Elders? What sense do you make of the world these days? What is your "why?"

Writing with Rox Weekly Prompt—EVERYTHING: PART TWO IN FOUR PARTS

 1.
When I was about four, story goes, Ben and I were playing "Dark Room" in the hallway, which consisted of us scurrying around on the hardwood on all fours and me declaring, "I'm an Aardvark!" while we chased each other back and forth until we'd had enough or Ma put an end to it. On this particular day, story goes, Ma and Dad took us into their bedroom and told us they were going to get a divorce because they didn't love each other anymore.

The way my dad always told it was that Ben and I started laughing and went back to our game.

"While we went back into the bedroom and cried," he added.

That story puzzled dad every time he told it. Later, when I was in grad school for psych, he asked what I made of that, being a budding therapist and all. "Do you think it was some sort of coping thing, Rox? I mean... is there something Freudian about that?" Dad looooooved Freud. Almost as much as he loved Jung. "Eileen, what do you think?"

Ma couldn't remember. "I'm sure they were scared shitless, Leonard," was all she could come up with.

In reality, as far as I can remember, the divorce was a nonevent. Everyone on the block was a latchkey kid with divorced parents. You were weird if your parents, at least your biological ones, were raising you together in the same house.


2.
Tonight while reading books to Jude, he pointed out that he was cuddling his "diverse" teddybear. I looked over and smiled, wishing I could be more awake to take in the sweetness of it. Another night of books, another stuffed animal to love. "Do you know what a diverse teddybear is?" he asked.

Well I thought about that.  I think I know what that means... but why does he? Isn't diversity a bit advanced for kindergarten?  Wow, that Barton sure is progressive! Of course, on second thought, I wasn't surprised to know that diversity was something being taught at his school, and I began imagining the context for this teaching. I looked at the teddy bear for signs of "diversity."

"Do you?" he asked again.

"No, honey, I don't. What is a diverse teddybear?"

"It's when your parents live in two separate houses."

Ah. That kind of diversed.


My kid is so pure with language. I hope he never stops doing it his way. The other day on the way to school he begged me to turn up the "radio-ator" so he could hear "Baila Baila Baila" as loud as it would go.  He says something pure like that every day, which I wish I had time to celebrate as hard as I'd like to each and every time.  Lately he's been saying, "Mama hug me up!"

And tonight he told me, quite matter-of-factly, why he has a diverse teddybear.

I can't help wonder if the pain I feel his or mine. I can't help wonder a bunch of things, honestly. I know what I know... I know my life. But I can't help but wonder all kinds of things, all sorts of what ifs. What if Ma hadn't asked Dad for a divorce. What if we really were sad... And I can't help but wonder about this morning. Jude asked if mon homme was coming over in that predictable anticipatory voice I both fear and love, love because I want everyone to get along and love each other, fear because Too Cute Face and I riding out a storm, forecast unknown. 

I tell him no, not today. "It's a school day, honey."


3.
Fifteen years ago I was at a psychodrama retreat on the Oregon Coast. It was my first of many to come, but I don't remember too many details because it was a complete awakening, albeit a traumatic one.  Where I'd been before that I'll never know, living something of a "half-life," I suppose, as my trainer put it. The few things I can recall: I realized I was on the verge of divorce, I felt the most intense sadness I had ever felt in my life, and one of the teachers said one of the most important things I have ever and will ever hear in my lifetime: "Unexpressed grief kills."


4. 
Two weeks ago when the ENT doc told me he could see nothing in my ears, up my nose or in my throat, I refused to leave his office. "What do you mean there's nothing there?" I argued. "How do you explain the plugged ears? The dizziness? The truck-drove-over-my-face feeling?"

"I don't," he said and recommended Sudafed. I felt the pain and anger well up as he left the room.

Moments later on the phone with Too Cute Face, he listened empathetically as I vented about the appointment. "I'm so sorry," he said, among other kind things. "I'm so sorry it still hurts so much." I know he didn't mean it, but that actually made it worse. But the good kind of worse. The kind that reminds me I needn't be such a stranger to empathy, but the kind that is still hard to integrate so it makes me cry.

I cried a lot that week. A lot of old grief was kicking around, looking for a way out.  Miraculously, my sinus hell gradually went away. I should have been listening to it a little harder, perhaps.




What is your divorce story? Or diverse story for that matter? Or (un)expressed grief story?


PS: Is that really snow I see outside my window? Good golly, cry me a river.

WWRWP—Roid Rage in the ER! PART ONE

It started about a month ago with a cold, which eventually turned feral and ate me alive with my first sinus infection. Because I'd never had one before, I assumed the face and jaw pain must have been fibro related, or perhaps lingering effects of the cough, or that time of the month (or second time of the month in my case)... or...whatever... until one morning my face hurt so bad I could barely open my eyes.

"Jesus, Woman," David said, "go to the doctor."

I hemmed and hawed a couple more days until I finally couldn't take it anymore and went to urgent care where the doc suggested I had a bacterial sinus infection and would require antibiotics. "Do I have to?" I protested. I've been on so many in my lifetime I think I'm immune.

"Well, it could go away on it's own," she said, "but the risk of an untreated bacterial sinus infection is meningitis. I flashed on my grandmother and her quivering hand. "Will it help with the pain?"

"Within a few days you should be feeling mostly better."


A few days later came and went. I felt better. But not mostly. A few days later I felt worsely. But again, I figured I'd let it go. And go. And go... As someone accustomed to living with a fair amount of physical pain, I never know what's coming from where. Plus, wisdom from a Jewish Buddhist reminds me that not every physical sensation is a sign of terminal illness, and thus I soldier on.

After two weeks of intermittent plugged ears, head and neck pain, nausea, and crushing fatigue, I was running out of excuses. Could I be depressed? I wondered. Could that be causing all this? I Netied. I Nelimeded. I flushed with ACV and garlic. I did my alternate nostril breathing. Stood on my head. Avoided standing on my head. Cried. Avoided crying.

A round of Flonase  and a packet of  Mucanex D left me hopeful, but unhealed.


In the meantime, my doctor brother suggested I go to an ENT. By then I had diagnosed myself with Barotrauma, a common illness among divers and pilots having to do with changes in barometric pressure, much less common on land. When I insisted to my brother though, that my symptoms mimicked them exactly, Ben conceded that perhaps I could have caused barotrauma by overusing the Neti Pot.

They laughed at this one at the clinics. "You have what?" they'd say, rubbing their eyes in frustration, "what are the symptoms?"

"Unbearable pain."

"That's more like it. Sit down. We'll call you when it's your turn." To pass the time, they gave me a long blue plastic bag attached to a face mask when I told them I thought I was going to throw up; I thought it was supposed to be used to breathe into if you felt nauseous, which I tested in the lobby. I was abruptly told I was confusing it with something else and hadn't I ever heard of a barf bag?

Friday afternoon I finally gave up and headed to the ER just so I could be seen somewhere and do something about the pain. After the requisite CT scan, IV drip of Benadryl, etc, blood tests, we were released around eleven pm. The tests revealed nothing and I was given something for pain and an RX for Prednisone. In my pleasantly doped up state, I understood that the Prednisone was to reduce the swelling in my sinuses. I missed the part about how it would also reduce me to my last nerve.

I slept like a baby and woke up feeling better than I had in a while. Encouraged, we quickly filled the RX and I popped my Preds, excited to be getting back to normal. When the pain roared in around midday, I ignored it. Instead I tidied up and then went back to bed. What happened next is not good. I'd rather not even go into the details. Granted it's the kind of "not good" that will eventually, given enough time and reprieve, be funny. But not today. Let's just say I'm lucky my boyfriend is speaking to me.

"I know you don't feel well" he sighed after trying to get me to smile for 8 hours, "it doesn't mean you can be mean to me all night long." By then he was tired of my pain. Nothing he could do or say got through to me. I turned away from him on the couch. "Fine," I said and headed upstairs. It didn't matter that he took me to dinner. It didn't matter that he sat with me in the ER for ten hours. It only mattered that he refused to watch a movie with me and cuddle, even though it was going on midnight. Why didn't he know that was a federal offense?

A little later I came back down and googled "prednisone and irritability." Bingo. The next day several people, both on and offline will agree that it can make you nuts. "Roid Rage," is apparently what it's called.

"What are you doing on your computer so late?" Too-Cute-Face called over from the couch as I hunched over the dim glow, where my computer faithfully burned, an everlasting candle.

"Googling," I said and headed back up. I ignored the little voice saying come with me. I don't want to be alone.

                                                                      ...

Your Roid Rage story?
Your ER story?
What happens in Part Two? 

(PART TWO coming soon! : Rox goes to the ENT...
 Trailer: "I'll do whatever you say. But, please, no prednisone!" )

Writing with Rox Weekly Prompt—"I Am Squishy Yummy Love"

new agey-rockstar rox

Last week in Word Jam we wrote about our rock star selves, the lives we'd be living if we were "living the dream," as they say. One of the amazingly creative and dreamy herself members of the group suggested we explore this on the page by imagining we were making a living/thriving/living by doing (or not doing) something we were naturally good at and/or something we loved, which can be the same thing. Sitting on the beach. Yoga. Chanting. Scrapbooking. Making tea. Asking questions. Collecting seashells. Noticing all the shades of blue. Highlighting. Feeling the blood running through your veins. Shopping. Running late. Complaining about traffic. Procrastinating....

"So Roxy," my dreamy student offered, "you could write about how to make a living flirting."

Well. That's a backstory we needn't explore here, now, but I ran with it. (Confession: part of me dreams of being one of those cheesy Motivational Speaker types (with more truth and vulnerability and less cheese) where I soapbox about the generous heartfelt teachings that have been passed along to me through the many elders.). In a former post, I wrote about the idea of a LOVELAND. Let's just imagine the following excerpt takes place there:

"Good evening all of you lovely edible squishy delicious beings of light and love and juicy squishiness with wisdom candle-ing out every single glorious life-giving pore...Welcome all Lovelies and Loveables.. to the Beach and the Writing with Rox ongoing series entitled "I am Squishy Yummy Love." Tonight's program is about how to write an authentic simple squishy yummy single's profile for the Writing with Rox community making, lonely no more, love seeking, being website and songbook (www.writingwithroxsquishyyummylove.blogspot.com) and/or any other single's website or community building cyberplace of your choosing.  Before we begin writing, Loveables, we must first go inward by closing our eyes and envisioning ourselves in a lovable world, where we are 100% certain that we are loved. What does that look like? Feel like? To be lovable here and now just as you are. We'll begin by writing "what I  love..."  After the break, they'll be a single's writ-a-thon upstairs which will run until tomorrow morning. Thanks so much for coming. Let's write..."

Boy, writing is fun. You never know where you will end up. So that's it then: What is your make a living doing (or not doing) what you love soapbox speech? What does it look like? How does it run? Do you have employees helping you pick the herbs for the tea? Do you have question askers to ask you questions for your question-asking business? Trust that as you write it will go exactly where it needs to!

And, oh yeah, the flirting thing. My brilliant squishy dreamy student wondered if I ever help folks write single's profiles for their sweet love-wishing hearts and I said "but of course!" I meant to do a workshop on this around Valentine's Day, but well... anyway, summer's coming which means skin will be showing, flowers budding, and singers singing! Love will be in the air, where it always is, and surely, if you want to court thee some yummy squishy love via the cyber loveways, I am here to help. It's official: Writing with Rox now offering "How to Write a Squishy Yummy Authentic Single's Profile."♥ 
                                                                                                                                                                ♥
Sending love to all, Rox ♥                                                                                        ♥   ♥       ♥  ♥ ♥
                                                  ♥                                                                       ♥       ♥

                                                      ♥                                                           ♥   
                                                         ♥

                                                                ♥          ♥                           ♥

                                                                                      ♥           ♥

♥Writing & Yoga Retreat ♥ 2013 Classes ♥ Retreats ♥ Healing ♥ Hearts!♥

Bliss at the Beach is back!

  

 ♥YOGA & WRITING RETREAT♥              

...a day of nurturing and lovingkindness

Saturday March 23, 2013

10am-2pm        $65

"and the truth is..."

♥gentle

♥ nurturing

♥ juicy 

♥ laughing

♥restorative

♥ self-care

♥love poems to you

♥ bliss

♥ hearts

♥ 

♥ aaaaaaaaah!

Comin?




                                                             Complete 2013  Class schedule

And 2013 Retreats ♥

♥ 

WWRWP—"Nineteen Forever..."

We have a sweet ritual here at the Beach of honoring one another on our birthdays with written wishes, sometimes as many wishes as the age being turned. The wishes go out to the birthday girl (or boy) and then, as you write, the wishes naturally expand and contract, creating universal wishes for all...

           1. love and kindness for the dandelions.

Yesterday, one of the Wednesday gals, our baby, turned nineteen. Nineteen! This moves me for a couple reasons, mainly because we have been writing together since she was fourteen and she was a brilliant writer even way back then.

                     2. Unlimited minutes to talk face-to-face with your friends and family and loved ones.

                         3. Freedom to tell anyone you love that you love them. 4. Daily cake. 5. dessert always.

The other reason is... NINETEEN! Do you remember nineteen? Do you have nineteen wishes?


6. homecooked beautiful meals using every color found in the natural world. 7. a bouquet of marigolds. 8. Marigold honey. 9. Free Lunch! It's everywhere! 
10. A conversation per day with a stranger. 


     When I was nineteen I took the year off before going away to Evergreen. I stayed at home with Ma and worked at the frozen yoghurt shop and took classes at the Improv and got into Theatre Sports.


11. writing for the love of it. 12. singing as loud as you wish and feeling it massage your insides. 
13. cartwheels across the greenest grass. 14. a lindy hop beneath the bluest sky.

           Late at night I'd come home and find Ma still up watching TV in the dark, swallowed in her big bed with the layers of soft, white comforters and blankets, puffy with Ma love. I'd make her switch it to Star Trek and throw myself into the creamy softiness, merge with it.
         "You smell like cigarettes, Roc, Ish! Go brush your teeth!" I'd been at Dolores', our coffeeshop on Pico. Like most work nights, Sus and I smoked and coffeed ourselves into optimism, before coming down and heading home. After dropping Sus off in Bel Air, I'd head back down the hill toward Ma, blasting Blondie's The Tide is High over and over, fighting off the despair.
         "K," I'd say and not move. Maybe at the commercial.
We'd watch young Kirk, thin Kirk, with his globular muscles and tight space pants.
And we'd dream.
         "Roc! Honey, wake up. It's over. Go back to your room. You can't sleep in here."


15. Nineteen days of silence. 16. Nineteen days of silliness. 17. Nineteen days of inner-reflection. 18. loving your reflection in the mirror. 19. loving your reflection in others. AND * one for GOOD LUCK... Nineteen Forever, Baby!