that I wrote this morning

9.6.12 Thursday.

Hello, good morning, Old Hagness sweetly whispers into my ear. 

I pour the French Market Coffee with Chicory, the darkest of dark

brew into her North Shore Mug, and she wrinkles her nose,

she wants her big dragon mug, and I say, I do not have a big

dragon mug, and she says, well you better get one then.

I smile to myself. Oh, yes, I've been looking for one for some time,

but just can't find one. Well then, she smiles at me, you have a job

cut out for yourself. Get yourself, no get me, a big dragon mug.

And how I love dragons, wild Chinese dragons, Taoist dragons

of the spirit world. And I know Old Hagness loves them too,

and then the Great White Dragon swoops into our room,

and I breathe in her energy, her wild and wonderful and

colorfully beautiful energy that swoops me up and twirls me

into the cyclone with Old Hagness and we spiral up,

and up, through the ceiling, through the roof, into the

absolutely clear blue sky, the cool, end-of-summer

fun air that fills our city, and we swirl up higher and higher

out of the atmosphere of our home planet, further and further

and we are no longer bodies but a swirling mass of molecules

and space and time swirling and dancing tiny tiny

particles of matter, smaller than molecules, smaller than atoms,

smaller than electrons and protons and neutrons, so small

they have no names and we swirl and twirl and the

coffee mug bits of matter and the dark coffee are

all part of this swirling mass of energy and matter

all in a dimension where everything interchanges,

matter dissolves into energy, energy coagulates in particles,

we are the big wild dragon of the universe. And the White Dragon

of many stories and memories herds us back together and we slowly

descend through the blue clear autumn sky, the clouds, the air

the roof, the ceiling, coagulate back into our normal bodies,

our normal selves, back into the morning coffee time,

the time of slow conversation, silent communion,

awakening unto day. And so this

one day begins with gentle music,

memories and moments that unfold,

each twirling in space, mixing,

communing, being one, being many.

And so this day flows into the actions

of today, other todays, each new,

each never occurred before,

never will occur again.

And we, Old Hagness and I, we sit here,

this moment, with our coffee, and words

and together and separate, musing,

breathing, being.

preciousqueentheodora III

Dances with Scarves

My husband hates scarves.  When I ask him how they look - because I keeping hoping, he answers, “Beautiful, now if only you’d lose the scarf and wipe that stuff off your face.”

I should be more grateful for a husband who wants only the raw me, but the devilish part wants him to think all the time and money I spend on mineral and fabric beauty is worth it. 

“You mean my makeup?” I ask in distress.  

“Makeup, paint, what’s the difference.  Why do you want to hide yourself under that stuff?”

“I don’t hide,” I instruct, “I enhance.” And I try my hardest to turn on an allure born of confidence, wrapping my slinky scarf around his neck to pull him close.

“It’s much better back there,” he smiles, referring to the scarf behind his back.  

“Well, if you don’t like it you’d better have a talk with your family before Christmas,” I smile and his romantic green eyes lift in annoyance.  

My husband hates scarves, so it’s only fitting that my consistent presents from his travel savy family are scarves, and I’m amassing a distinguished collection. I try to wear them despite my husband’s disdain, but somehow our date night is always tinged by the scarf, and they are too impractical to where anywhere else.  Following the fashion advice of Edna in “The Incredibles”, who had her clients “lose the cape” because they led to too many fatal accidents, I don’t wear scarves as part of my daily dress because they attract stains and get stuck in everything from the washing machine to cabinet doors, and even the garbage disposal.  So they sit in a drawer collecting dust, waiting for their turn to be felt and appreciated.  

Finally on one sunny morning when my children are hounding me like little alarm clocks and I keep hitting the snooze button, they sneak into my scarf drawer.  Soon they are like kittens in a ball of loose yarn, rolling in billowy softness, running down the hall and flying them like kites.  I drag myself out of bed, turn on Raffi Sing A Long and we dance, swishing them here and there.  I am the bull fighter and they are the little steers crashing head first into silk curtains.

"You’re teaching our kids to scarf dance?”  My husband says after coming out of the shower.

“Might as well put them to use!”  I announce with a few tucked in my pajama pants and do a belly dance of sorts.

Before long the children cover him with their scarves, giggling and tickling his face with frayed ends.

“I love scarves now,” he says jovially and wraps one around his head like a Babushka, batting his eyes in playful fashion.  If only I had those eyelashes …

—Sarah B.

My Wild Woman

Morning. Solitary. Cat on porch. Sun outside before it gets hot.

Old Hagness stirs this and that, crumples my papers, snickers,

snorts, seems out of sorts, but no, she smiles, she is devious,

I know she is up to no good. "You keep ignoring me!" she grumps

and humps and shakes her nose, her eyes piercing into the innermost

hiddenest self I have. And I am at her mercy. "Hah! at my mercy!

I have no mercy! take that!" I sit back, take a sip of my coffee.

She snarls. She looks evil. She stirs this and that and I am

ill at ease. "Ill at ease!!! Good." she teases me I think

but I am not sure. She rustles my papers, stirs my mind,

my brain cells.  She gets right into my head, my heart,

and makes me shake, cringe, want to spit out all that is in me...

but I don't, I don't even write it out. I am frozen. "Well,

let's unfreeze you then!" the rough voice stirs me.

I am afraid, and sluggish, and know not what to make of it,

except that I am glad she is here, I am glad we will dig deep,

this morning, and extrude that thing that spreads through me,

that halts my energies, my actions, and starves for life.

I sit. She sits. Her face lightens, she thinks, she makes her brew,

yes always her brew, she grabs my cup, tosses my coffee,

and fills it with her own stinky brew, which she urges me to drink.

Against my will, I sip it. "Gulp it down" her hoarse whisper comes to me.

I shudder, and follow orders. Once down, it stops the bitterness,

there is an aftertaste of sweet, ever so sweet. I am afraid I'll fall asleep.

But she grabs and shakes me, and snarls ever so gently, like a big fat bear,

and I am in the bear cave, the sweet huge white bear, my friend of olden times.

I snuggle into her lap, safe in the dark solid walls of the cave. Peer out,

toward the lake, always the lake, the promise, the light. We sit,

there is no end to time, no limit to what we have. Endless, horizonless,

extended time melting into sky and water, light, soft light of the morning.

I dream. I am free. I love, am loved, in the lap of the Great Family. And it is

not my limited family, my family that I fear even as I love from time to time.

My ancestors, my grandparents, my aunts and cousins ... ... ... family friends,

yes we once had family friends, good friends ... ... ... the Great Big

White Bear, holds me and eases her hold, and I stretch, and Old Hagness

invites me to come with her, but I do not want to go, I want to stay

in the Lap of the Great White Bear longer, and she does not push me away,

and I meld into the soft darkness. I am alive. I feel energy pulsating

into me, through me, the earth energy, the earth that whispers, "I am the earth,

here in this cave, or in the city, or in far-away lands, I am the same earth,

the mother of all, I am soft or hard, cold or hot, dry or wet, I am the same earth."

I sit. And think and feel and ponder and let the world breathe me,

let the heart beat of the earth be my own heart beat. I absorb

the Great White Bear. We are one, we are two, we are same,

we are separate. And there is no difference. The earth breathes,

the heart of the earth beats the drum beats, I am, that is clear,

that is simple, that is all that is needed.  

The breeze of the morning brings clouds, and moisture, sun and rising dew,

clouds caress the earth in morning fog, in mystery. I sit. I am the not-I. Perhaps

that is the no-self of Zen. It does not matter what I call it, if I call it,

if I name. It is what it is. And the morning is gentle. So gentle.

Old Hagness is pleased with herself. She the morning "priest", the "shaman"

magician. She snorkels with laughter. Pleased with herself. So pleased.

She is not afraid to show her pleasure. "So, now you have had your morning treat,

now you are ready to work. Git, don't linger, don't dawdle."

But I do linger, I do dawdle, I do not want to leave this moment of magic.

"You cannot leave this moment of magic" she whispers "your life is magic,

you are magic, magic is inherent in your bones, your flesh, you breath."

At that, I cannot argue. I finish my coffee. And still am undecided

how to proceed.  Morning. Magic. Cool air. Cat on porch.

preciousqueentheodora III

6.7.12  

INTRODUCING.... preciousqueentheodora III

Dandelion Serotonin

A few days ago I read  some research reporting that for women, having girlfriends was as good for their health, as not smoking, apparently the positive relationships with other women help us create more serotonin. Interesting thought. I'm a little taken a-back by learning these things, that are "good for us". A bit concerned that while it is comforting to know this, if one were to pursue friendships because they are "good for our health" it would somehow pollute the concept of friendship. Be that as it may, recently I had another interesting experience.

Feeling a bit down in the dumps, I was walking in the neighborhood. Dandelion season is just beginning here. Suddenly I beheld a most glorious site, a whole lawn full of amazing golden dandelion blossoms. They were in clusters, covering most of the lawn with vibrant energy.   I felt comforted, felt more at ease, almost happy. Was that dandelion serotonin? 

I looked at these profoundly beautiful and persistent plants.  Admired their proliferation in spite of years, decades of persecution. Yes, these spring time miracles of life, I think have survived at least half a century of intense persecution. Poisons and mechanical means have been used to root them out, to no avail. And now, that people are becoming more and more aware of the dangers of using toxic substances on their lawns, and no one has the time to sit for hours on their lawn with a sharp pointed digging instrument to root them out, at least not in our neighborhood, they are boldly and beautifully proliferating.

And I take great comfort in this apparent acceptance of the victory of the dandelion. I used to feel guilty for their May blooming time on my lawn and back yard, the boulevard as well. But no more! Victory has placed the dandelion on almost every lawn, the school yard, park lands, by highways. Their generous dispersion of serotonin into air around me, fills me with joy, comfort,  and a centerdness I am thankful of.

--BY  preciousqueentheodoraIII

4.22.12

BUNNIES

TODAY'S PROMPT WAS TO GRAB AN IMAGE FROM A HUGE PILE OFF THE TABLE AND JUST GO GO GO... WHATEVER COMES TO MIND...THIS IS WHAT AMBER CAME UP WITH

BUNNIES

It’s a bunny wearing a bunny suit. Maybe it’s her green footie pajamas. Those 3 baby bunnies are lucky to have a mommy who wears green footie pj’s and leads them in hopping. The edges are torn. I like that look. Free, intuitive, frayed paper fibers emerging from the whole. There was more here, but I just need this part of it. What was beyond the bunnies? Where are they hopping? Ove spring-green grassy fields. Maybe Mama Bunny is trying to tucker her little bunnies out before bed time. At least they aren’t hopping on her. Boing, boing, boing! Go bunnies Go! This would be a fun card to give to somebody. Maybe someone who was going to have triplets. Hehehe Little bunny smiles. Do rabbits really smile? I saw a bunny outside a window last week. She was stretched out under a pine tree, kicking the dirt around. We thought she might be giving birth. Or not. Maybe just a dirt bath. Beautiful brown bunny-so long and lean and soft. Would like to pet her. My mom had rabbits when I was in high school. One was Siamese Lee, aka Simmy Lee because she looked like a Siamese cat. I don’t remember the other’s name, but Toni certainly would. I liked feeding them clover and dandelion leaves. Nibbling the leaf as it disappeared past their wiggly lips. Munch, munch, munch. Sometimes I eat a piece of lettuce like those bunnies. You can keep a bunny in the house as a pet. Trainable like a cat. Do they shed? Cindy had a bunny as a pet. Hop, hop, hop. I think the bunnies in this picture are names Skippy, Hop, John and Amelia Mama. I wonder if Patty will let me keep this picture. I would post it in my loft. Where did Patty get all these? How long has she been collecting them? Inspirational scraps. So enthralled with the bunnies, I didn’t get to the gorgeous snowflake images. I could look at our snowflake book at home. That would be fun. Try writing around a snowflake. —Amber, WEDNESDAY   May 9, 2012

In Spring of 2008 I taught a class at the Loft Literary Center in Downtown Minneapolis called Life Writing from ten to noon on Wednesday mornings. The class only ran about six weeks, but there was enough enthusiasm and connection among members to keep the class going. At the time I was fortunate to receive an anonymous grant from a student who wanted to make sure I kept doing what I was doing out there in the world, which generously allowed me to continue writing with this group throughout the summer.

We are now in our fourth year.

What did we write about? Well... at first it was short writing exercises about "life," working from childhood on up: Where did we grow up? What was our neighborhood like? Family? What was inside our junk drawer? Who was our first crush? First kiss? First job? Lots of "firsts." You'd think such common small-talk conversation starters would yield tons of boredom, which may be the case in real talking life, but on the page, au contraire. Beneath the surface of  simple everyday questions lie an entire universe of living, breathing halls of memory alive with story-upon-story. Writing takes the ordinary and turns it into the extraordinary. Thick with riches, laden with walls of feeling, depth of scenery, dialogue, humor, and human experience, each uniquely adorned, yet universally felt story simply blossoms on the page, bearing wisdom, truth, and connection to all that partake.

A lot has happened in our little group since 2008. We've added and lost members, naturally, as the stories shared among the Wednesday Writers have included losses and gains of our own.  There's been some mystery to our story. Occasionally the ghosts of long gone members will appear on the page and reawaken some old bittersweet sadness, happiness, memories of the Loft or the Linden Hills Library on 43rd and Xerxes, a mere seven blocks from the "Beach," where we meet at my loft condo, where all things Writing with Rox take place.

This blog is a celebration of the history and ongoing story of the Wednesday Writers. Here you will find raw writings past and present, and perhaps, over time, a bit of insight into our own little story.

Thanks for reading and hope to write with you soon!  Rox