A Love Letter

Anonymous said...

I love, LOVE this blog, but sometimes feel lost when I read it because I am agnostic/atheist...not quite sure. Anyway, Glennon, in terms of ideas for future posts, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this, since so much of the other stuff you write about resonates with me.

Dear Anonymous,

Thank you for being brave. There are a lot of people who enjoy this blog and love the Monkees, but feel conflicted when they read my posts about Jesus and the Bible. Thank you for speaking up for all of them.

When I write about Jesus, it’s because he’s on my heart and mind. Often, my heart and mind are the only two topics I have to write about. I don’t write about Jesus because I am secretly hoping that my posts will persuade you to love Jesus too. I really don’t. I write about Craig a lot, because I think that he is an incredible man who has helped save me. I don’t write about him secretly hoping that you will want him, too. Please, no. The man is vulnerable these days and could probably be lured away by a decent casserole. Be kind. We need him.

I get a lot of emails from people who are concerned that my faith posts will alienate readers. These readers are worried that people will read my thoughts about Jesus and decide that since they don’t feel the same way, Momastery must not be for them. I LOVE these people because they care about the Momastery so much that they are trying to be tender zookeepers. But I try to remind them that Monkees are not Monkees because we are all the same. My goal as a writer is not to be as neutral as possible so everyone is tricked into believing that we are one big homogeneous crew. That is not sustainable or real. That is like trying to solve racism by demanding that everyone become “colorblind.” I don’t think that the best way to learn to celebrate and cherish differences is to pretend we don’t see them, or worse, that they don’t exist.

My goal is to share my life and thoughts as honestly and gently as humanly possible, in hopes that others will do the same, and in hopes that eventually we will all find that we don't have to be afraid of each other. I think that learning to talk about and listen to differing ideas about faith without becoming personally offended is a worthwhile skill at which a lot of us are a little rusty. If everyone would practice this skill more, the world would be a much less horrifically violent place. Somebody needs to figure out how to be different and still have peace. Why not us?

The important thing for you to know, Anonymous, is that I don’t secretly think that you need to believe in Jesus like I do. I don’t secretly believe anything, Anonymous. If you’d like, you can read about my faith here.

For purposes of full disclosure, Monkees do have a few common beliefs, you can read about them here. That’s all though. Mostly, we are all very, very different. We are beautiful mysteries to each other and that is okay. That is great, I think. We don’t need to solve each other. We don’t even need to understand each other. We just need to treat each other kindly.

Anonymous…I am so grateful that you are here. It sounds like you and I are different. I do believe in Jesus and in the Bible as I understand it which is admittedly, not much. I really am a freaking walking bundle of faith. I am so full of faith that there is little room in me for anything else, like common sense. I run into things a lot, Anonymous, and I do things like accidentally store my keys in the oven and throw books in the washing machine and drive to Maryland when I am trying to go to the post office, which is two streets away. I live in Virginia, Anonymous, not Maryland. One might think that since He’s on my mind so much, God would help me out with these little details. He doesn’t, though. I don’t really get that.

Anyway, Anonymous, my point is that if you are a gourmet cooking atheist who is often complimented about her facial symmetry and obedient, demure daughters and doesn’t have to shop for pants at Gap Kids and still get them hemmed... then we are different, yes. But I don’t see that as a problem. I will never try to change you, because the truth is, in my heart of hearts, I don’t think you need to change. I hope you don’t think I need to either. I think that might be a good start for us. I bet we’d really like each other.

And I promise never to send you a “Jesus Loves This Chick” shirt. Mine’s cute though. It’s hot pink.

I’m so glad you’re here.

Have a wonderful weekend, Sweet Anonymous.

Love, Glennon

On Walden Mom

Hi everybody.

Last night, Amma and I watched some old home movies on my laptop together. We would have watched them on TV, but we don’t have a TV. We got rid of it when we decided that our family was being brainwashed by consumerism and wasting our lives away on the couch. We wanted more quiet, so we decided to create our own “Walden” experiment by living without a TV. Our decision was very rebellious and dramatic and revolutionary, I thought.

Here’s the thing. I miss my TV. I want it back. It’s been nice, you know, I guess, and I really do believe that life is better in most ways without it, but I still want it back. I feel out of the loop. I never know what’s going on in the world, and when I go to CNN.com to catch up, I try really hard to click on the important stories about the wars and natural disasters and thing such as this, but I always accidentally click on something about the Gosselins. And after reading about them, I get tired and my news time is over. So all I ever really know about the world is what Jon and Kate are doing. Also sometimes a little about Lindsay Lohan.

And also, there’s something comforting about flopping down on the couch at the end of a long day with my hubby and vegging out together. I miss it. I mean HOW MUCH CAN YOU REALLY TALK TO EACH OTHER? I think Craig and I may have hit our limit. And reading is great…reading is my favorite, but it’s so individual. We can read next to each other but we can’t really read together. I draw the line at marital read-alouds. And also, when I decided in my head that Craig and I would read together every night, I may have forgotten to factor in that Craig hates to read.

And, Oh My Gosh: HGTV. How I miss you HGTV. I think of you every single day, HGTV. How is the House Hunting going? The Divine Designing? Are you still Designing to Sell? Oh, we will meet again soon, Sweet, Sweet HGTV.

By the way: here’s a secret for you. While we don’t have TV service, we still have a little TV and DVD player downstairs that I keep to “do my yoga.” But I have NEVER “done my yoga” down there. All I have done is everyday say to my children “Hey guys! Since it’s a special occasion - would you three like to go downstairs and watch a movie and not come back up here unless someone is on fire?” And Chase always says “Mommy, why is it a special occasion again? It’s just Tuesday.” And I say, “This is the day that the LORD has made, Chase. Every day is a special occasion. Roll with it. Go.” So, the truth is that the entire Walden experiment is a bit of a sham anyway.

Or, maybe it’s not a sham. Maybe it just had a different outcome than I thought it would. Maybe the outcome is…I do want a TV. I do. I do. I really do. I mean, Thoreau didn’t live in the woods FOREVER. He came back. I wanna come back.

Here’s the other thing. I was going to write about Amma today. I think I got a little sidetracked. Oh, well. Here’s the video we watched together last night. I’d never seen it before. It will explain why my kids prefer to play with Craig than me. When I play “bookstore” I sit on the couch with my coffee and demand everyone use his library voice. Check out Tish's body language, facial expressions, and attitude. It's like she was made for customer service.

P.S. Today is the anniversary of Shayla Marie's death. You can read about her here. We love you, Sunny.

Teamwork

Hi Lovies. Fun news today.

Erin and I received mixed reactions after this post about health and body image. I have pages of emails from Monkees who were thrilled about the prospect of learning from and being supported by a “wellnesss coach” … and I also have pages of emails from Monkees requesting that I quit butting into their pantries and stick to my pan stories. I tell you this: it is not easy to please all the Monkees all the time. Erin and I have spent the last few weeks trying to think of the Monkeeist way to handle this dilemma. It was equally important to us to offer help to the Monkees who asked for it and to respect the boundaries of the Monkees who didn’t. I think we have a lovely solution to offer you.

Today, I am excited to announce our first Momastery Spin Off Blog, “Full at Last!” Erin will be writing and facilitating the blog (God help her) and is over there, ready and waiting for you. Her dream is to create a place where interested Monkees can talk safely about our food/body hurts and hang ups, trust each other, and learn that we are not alone. She wants to create a team. She also wants to support us and love us and hold our hands and allow us to complain and roll our eyes and get too tired a lot. She is going to be less Jillian and more Bob. And she is also going to help us learn to cook a little healthier, if we want to. You guys, Erin has taught me how to COOK some things. Not a lot of things, but a few. If she can help me, she can help anyone. I really don’t think there’s any room to argue with that logic.

So, for those of you who are interested, head on over to Erin. You’ll be in good hands. I’m going to spend some time over there today, too. For those of you who are staying put, I have an idea. Would you leave a comment suggesting a topic you’d be interested in the Monkees discussing? I’d love to know what’s in your heads and hearts.

Good Luck, Sweet Erin. May the Monkee Force be with you.

BONZO!

Yesterday was heavy. We need a break. And we have been provided a magical break by our own resident song writer, Bonzo. Bonzo is one of Sister’s dearest friends, but I am trying to steal her. Bonzo is fiercely wise and brave and loyal, and we are very lucky because she believes in the Monkee Revolution. I appreciate that she stands by me and loves me in spite of the fact that I talk about Jesus a whole lot. Bonzo and I are learning to love and trust each other even though we don’t totally understand each other. Maybe because we don't totally understand each other. I think respecting differences is important in a friendship. Also, a mutual obsession with Bon Jovi helps.

I got this email from Bonzo a few nights ago:

G,

Ok. Well, as you may know, moderation is not my inclination. Half-ass is no ass. SO. Since you have gotten as big a kick out of the Monkee Anthem as I have, I have decided to complete it for you. It BROUGHT ME JOY to know that this might BRING YOU JOY. AND NOW, when we have karaoke at the Monkee slumber party, we can sing the whole song:

Our Anthem:

Monkee Medicine

By Bon Jovi and Bon Zo

I ain't got a fever, got a Momaster-ery
It'll take a lot of cloisters to hold our community
I got lots of Monkees, it's exactly what I need
Gonna take more than a shot to really compromise our glee
I got all the symptoms count 'em 1, 2, 3

First we read
That's how we started falling in love
Then we bleed
We spill our guts and then we get back up
And we feed
That's how we keep on falling in love
Now this Monk's addicted and our words are the drug

Your love is like Monkee medicine
Monkee medicine is what I need
Shake it up, just like Monkee medicine
Dancing around in the Momaster-ery

Mon – Kee medicine (is what I want)
Mon – Kee medicine

We’re loving and we’re fearless and it’s giving us a thrill
The more we give, the more we have, so every Monkee gets her (or his!) fill,
We get tired very quickly whether home or off to work
But we give it all we’ve got when we try not to be a jerk
When we someday have our slumber party, we’ll all go berserk

First we read
That's how we started falling in love
Then we bleed
We spill our guts and then we get back up
And we feed
That's how we keep on falling in love
Now this Monk's addicted and our words are the drug

Your love is like Monkee medicine
Monkee medicine is what I need
Shake it up, just like Monkee medicine
Dancing around in the Momaster-ery

Mon – Kee medicine (is what I want)
Mon – Kee medicine

We need some inspiration when we’re running out of air
So we found our own formation and our flock is pretty rare
Every day we really want to throw the towel in
We put on our perspectacles and try it all again.

Your love is like Monkee medicine
Monkee medicine is what I need
Shake it up, just like Monkee medicine
Dancing around in the Momaster-ery

I mean, are you kidding? Tell her how brilliant she is. BRILLIANT.

P.S. If you are interested in more information about the project that was introduced yesterday, please email me so I can get you on the distro list. Shake it up today, Sweet Monkees.

The Picnic Blanket

“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” - James 1:27

Warning: I spent a lot of quiet time with God this weekend. As a result, I’m about to get my preach on. Unsolicited advice is coming your way. So sorry. Really, really sorry. Here goes.

After our first Momastery book club meeting, a discussion followed about how Sister has found her calling, and how many of us are still searching for our own personal calling. I’d like to share some of my thoughts about that.

Here’s the truth, as I see it. If we call ourselves Christians, and we know how to read, we already know our callings. Our callings are to joyfully and tirelessly believe, love, pray, forgive, seek peace, tell the truth, and reach out to touch the poor and the oppressed. Those are our callings. Those are the things that Jesus did. Those are the things He told us to do. Our callings are not a mystery. Our callings are written in the Bible (and the Koran and the Torah and the Bhagavad-Gita) and on our hearts, in black and white and red.

Churches often tell the Biblical story of God calling Isaiah to be his prophet and Isaiah’s beautiful response: “Here I am, Lord! Send Me! ” God and Isaiah’s trust in each other are intriguing, even enviable to us. We think: Man, that Isaiah was so lucky to have been contacted directly by God. To have been chosen. I wish God would make things that clear for me. But the thing is that God didn’t call Isaiah personally. God made a general call. God needed some ground forces to help the poor, and so like He always does, He said “Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?” Isaiah heard God’s eternal call and cried out “Here I am Lord, Send me!” Isaiah wasn’t singled out, he didn’t receive a Holy Evite… he was quiet and focused enough to hear the words that God has cried since the world began and will continue to cry until the world’s end: Help my suffering people. If you love me, feed my sheep. Isaiah heard and answered. And then he received further instructions, and then his personal gifts were discovered, honed, and used.

Here's the deal, Monkees. I feel like Jesus could use a few new publicists. I think He might prefer the Christian Church to feel less like a country club or marketing blitz and more like a 12 step program in an ER. (Hello, Welcome to church! My name is Glennon and I’m a jerk, so I need Jesus. You look like you’re hurting, how can I help you heal?) I think a lot of us feel the same way. We feel like there’s something off with the version of Christianity that seems to be more concerned with guarding “rights” than the defenseless. We don’t want to be Christians who judge, exclude, hide, or use fancy words that make people feel left out. We don’t want to be Christians who believe God cares more about politics and power than poverty and disease. We don’t want to be Christians who accept Jesus and then assume our work is done. We know what type of Christians we don’t want to be. So now it becomes important to ask “what type of Christians DO we want to be? What is the point of Christianity anyway?”

Jesus said the point is REVOLUTION. Jesus said that the point is unlearning everything the world has taught us about what’s safe and what’s “normal.” Jesus said the point is to joyfully and tirelessly, love, forgive, seek peace, tell the truth, and reach out and touch the poor and the oppressed. Jesus said the point is that when you become a Christian, your work has just begun.

This can feel like a hell of a lot more to add to our already overflowing plates. But if our plates are too full to say “Here I am!” to God’s calls, then we might consider clearing our plates and starting over. Because we don’t have to do God’s things TOO. We have to do God’s things ONLY. That’s why Jesus said “my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” When we decide that we only want to do His work, and nothing else, our lives become clearer and lighter. Everything starts to make sense. Whenever I feel stressed, I stop and ask myself, is this something worthy of stress? Because there are things that are, and there are things that aren’t. And when the things we are doing are God’s things, the stress feels different. It feels less like “Oh My God, I’m powerless and small” and more like “My God. I am more powerful than I could have possible imagined.” His burden is light. And it’s so freaking exciting. Maybe the burdens we’re carrying now are too heavy. Maybe they’re boring. Maybe some of them are the wrong burdens. Maybe we should drop them and pick up God’s burdens instead, together.

A few weeks ago, I had a little vision. I was brushing my teeth and a picture popped into my head of me and my three children, sitting on a picnic blanket in the middle of a forest. I left the extra food and water with Chase and ran back to the car to get something. But I got lost in the woods. And I was gone for days. And by the time I returned to them, Amanda had died of starvation. I looked at Chase and he still had piles of food behind his back. I fell to the ground and pounded the dirt and wailed and said “Why, Chase Why? Why didn’t you FEED YOUR SISTER?” And Chase said, “Mommy, you gave the extra food to ME.”

And I thought: Oh My God. That’s it. This Earth is just a little picnic blanket that God’s left us on for a short while. And I’m afraid that when God comes back, if we have extra while our neighbors are dying, He is going to say, “What happened? I left enough for all of you. I gave extra to you because I trusted you to share.”

Monkees- I have myself a little dream. I want us to start a project together. I want us to find someone, somewhere, who is taking really good care of orphans and could use some help from us. I want us to come together and pool some of our time, talent, prayers, dough, and raw Mama Bear Monkee Passion. I want a group of Monkees to reach out to a group of children who’ve lost their parents, and I want us to care for them. Not just throw money at them, but care for them, pray for them, get to know them, love them, for the long haul. I want us to get to know each other and God better through the process. I want to have Monkee slumber parties at which sweatpants are mandatory and make-up is banned and we eat (organic) Cheetos and pizza and dream up dreams for the children and plan ways to make those dreams come true. We have all wondered if this Momastery love, this Monkee Revolution is “real.” Yeah, it’s real. It becomes real today.

Will you join me? Will you answer God’s call with me? Will you jump up with me and the Monkees and say “HERE I AM, LORD! SEND ME!”

P.S. Also, will you comment and tell us if you know any organization that you have personal contacts with and might be a good match for us? We’d like to find an organization that focuses on orphan care, doesn’t already have a lot of support, and will allow us to partner with them in many ways. We have a team of Monkees chomping at the bit to start researching your ideas.

The Goose Story

Hi Monkees,

Wow. Yesterday was special..

I’ve decided upon a new plan for myself as the facilitator of this blog. I am going to get up at 4:45 to write to you every morning, like I always do. I am going to think all day about what might inspire you and what you might need and want to read about, like I always do. Throughout the day I will check the blog obsessively every ten minutes hoping there are new comments, like I always do. In the evening, after I put my three kids to bed, I will sit down and write a draft of the following day’s essay, like I always do. And then I’ll get up the next morning and do it again, because I love you. But I’m not going to respond to the comments publicly anymore. I think that might be your job. My job is to begin the day’s discussion and yours is to take it and run and respond to each others’ brave love offerings. I love your comments, I actually really need them. They make me feel like what I’m doing is valuable and appreciated. But I can’t respond to each one, or the five hours a day I spend on Momastery will turn into eight and that won’t be fair to my family. If I can’t respond to all of them, I don’t want to respond to any, because I don’t want to hurt Monkee feelings. So I will be reading them and rereading them and cherishing them and saving them, but I won’t be responding publicly. I hope you understand.

I also wanted to mention that when you email me, I will get back to you. I love your emails as much as your comments. It just might take me a while. Amma has started taking off her diaper and pooing in various parts of the house and I’ve been spending a whole lot of time following my nose, armed with Spot Shot lately. So I ask for your patience.

I would like to say a few more things. I love women. It has been my experience that when women are loved well, they eventually turn out to be pretty damn lovable. Finding true friendship, even in a group dynamic is not impossible. I know this to be true. It’s just hard work. And most of that work involves work on ourselves, not other people. If we want to get along with competitive women, we’ve got to be less competitive. If we want to love prideful women, we’ve got to lose some of our pride, etc etc. When we pull out the log from our own eye, we can see clearly enough to notice that the speck in our neighbor’s eye is not as big as we originally suspected. I know this to be true, because I’ve seen it happen again and again. It sure is hard to take sometimes, like Bad Medicine. But we can do hard things. That’s the beauty and challenge of Momastery. We are learning that the problem and solution to much of our isolation is INSIDE, not outside. While we learn and practice, let’s remember to be gentle with each other. People are without their usual armor here, so be more gentle than necessary, please.

In keeping with our bird theme, I’d like to share a poem that my dear friend, Joey, sent me a few months ago. She’s a Monkee, and she said that this poem reminded her of us. Apparently there is a whole lot we can learn from all of God’s creations. Have a wonderful weekend, Silly Geese.

The Goose Story

Next
fall, when
you see Geese
heading South for
the Winter, flying along
in V formation, you might
consider what science has dis-
covered as to why they fly that way:
as each bird flaps its wings, it creates an
uplift for the bird immediately following. By
flying in V formation the whole flock adds at least
71% greater flying range than if each bird flew on its own.

People who share a common direction and sense of community
can get where they are going more quickly and easily
because they are traveling on the thrust of one another.

When
a goose falls
out of formation,
it suddenly feels the drag
and resistance of trying to go it alone
and quickly gets back into formation to take
advantage of the lifting power of the bird in front.

If we have as much sense as a goose,
we will stay in formation
with those who are headed the same way we are.

When
the Head Goose
gets tired, it rotates back
in the wing and another goose flies point.

It is sensible to take turns doing demanding jobs
with people or with geese flying South.

Geese
honk from behind to
encourage those up front to keep up their speed.

What do we say when we honk from behind?

Finally,
and this is important,
when a goose gets sick, or is
wounded by gunshots and falls out
of formation, two other geese fall out with that
goose and follow it down to lend help and protection.
They stay with the fallen goose until it is able to fly, or until
it dies. Only then do they launch out on their own, or with another formation
to catch up with their group.

IF WE HAVE THE SENSE OF A GOOSE,
WE WILL STAND BY EACH OTHER
LIKE THAT.

Diane, Our Blackbird, Whom I Love and Also Really, Really Like a Whole Lot. A LOT. But a Teeny Bit Less than Adrianne.

I’m currently re-reading an old favorite called “The Cloister Walk,” a book about Benedictine monks and how their monasteries operate. This time through I’m reading with a specific purpose. I’m studying the book as research for our Momastery. I want to learn everything I can about how to build and care for a community of individual women. I want to learn how to celebrate differences and unity simultaneously. How to tirelessly set aside ego for love. How to, in Benedict’s words “persevere, bear one another’s burdens, and be patient with one another’s infirmities of body or behavior.” I am trying to learn how to take good care of each other, because I’d like to turn the notion that groups of women have to be exclusive or petty on its head. This type of peace seeking and peace keeping are hard work for an American girl. But so far, it sure has been worth the effort.

A community, in order to thrive, needs to have a common purpose. And it occurs to me that right now, the Monkees’ purpose is trust building. We are learning how to trust each other by making ourselves vulnerable. By tearing down our walls and admitting that we might be a little needier than we suggest at the bus stop. That we might need something more or something different from relationships. That we might be lonely enough to reach out, brave enough to be challenged, loving enough to put down our guns and care for imperfect people. That we might be strong and wise enough to quit taking everything personally and be kind, knowing that everyone is fighting a battle.

I’d like to introduce you to my friend, to your friend, Diane. If you meet Diane in real life, you might think that she already has every single thing she needs, what with her supportive husband, brilliant children, important career, cute hair, fancy pots and ingredients, and doctorate. You might be wrong. Monkees, meet Diane.

Blackbird

I have a confession to make. I am a Momastery imposter. A wolf in Monkee's clothing. (Well, I will be once I get my hoodie.)

"Nah," think the nice Monkees, "everyone feels like that some days." I know. But I have a very good reason to think I'm different. Besides the obvious one...that I always think I'm different .

Here's why. Women--especially groups of women--kind of terrify me.

I have a metaphor to help you understand my bizarre fear of my own gender. It's just exactly like my bizarre fear of birds.

I went to the San Diego Zoo a decade ago and wandered into a bird habitat. Everyone (else) was delighted in this claustrophobic netted area (I refuse to call it a sanctuary) because several varieties of exotic birds were boldly landing upon them. With false bravado, I poked out my index finger and seconds later, was taken aback by the disturbing pinch of little birdie feet. Watching this fragile scrap of feathers over balsa-bone working to steady itself on my shaking finger, seeing the rise and fall of its little breast, and looking into its tiny eyes, made me want to FLING IT OFF. IMMEDIATELY.

But I clenched my teeth and waited for it to flutter away, because:
1) I knew I couldn't be gentle enough,
2) I didn't want to hurt it, and
3) I had to admit, it was kind of beautiful to look at up close.

Developing close friendships with women terrifies me in just that way-- I know I can't be gentle enough, and I don't want to hurt them. It's why I rarely venture out on the new friend market (well, I do hate shopping.) Even with the friends I've had for a long time, I have to watch myself. I unwittingly play the role of insensitive guy in the relationship, neglecting to respond to my best friend's emails or forgetting the exact date of her birthday or forgetting which topics are OK to tease her about and which ones just aren't. I never cry at the expected times and I don't text or call every day "just to say hi" and I refuse to keep her company in public restrooms. That's just silly.

Don't get me wrong, I'm always dreadfully sorry if I've made a false move. It's just that sometimes I feel like the world of women is a minefield. And when I'm with my closest friends, I don't feel like I should have to work so hard.

On the rare occasion that I find another woman whose gravitational force is impossible to ignore, I start by telling her that my brand of New-York-direct dialect often clashes with the Passive Aggressive dialect, resulting in the occasional girl faux pas. Then I speed right past gossipy girl talk and dive into deep conversations; for example, how stupid I was to ignore how passionately I hated school when I decided to be a teacher, or how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop (it's 726, by the way).

I just have to make wandering into that minefield worth it, as soon as possible.

Girls like me need friends too.

I can't resist seeking intimate friendships, because up close, women--like birds--are so breathtakingly and beautifully complex. I started reading this blog and knew I would not be able to resist Glennon's pull...I'm a sucker for complexity. And wooden signs. That doesn't mean I'm not still terrified I might accidentally hurt her one day. Like today. Which is why I plan to obsessively check the comments you post after this. (Yeah, yeah, THAT'S the reason.) I feel assured that, in this place, a blatant detour from tact ought to be called out by someone. But you have no idea how freaked out I am to put myself out there, having no idea which of my offhand comments will be my downfall for the day.

On the other hand, I fear flocks of birds for precisely the opposite reason I feared that bird on my finger. Let's just say...I'm not at all worried that I'll hurt them...

Just the other day I was teaching a lesson when a first-grader, briefly glancing from my (apparently not so riveting) lesson to peer out the window, called us all over. There were literally THOUSANDS of birds quietly, eerily blanketing in black the front lawn of the school, the benches, and the playground equipment. As birds do, they rustled in waves, swooping up in mini-groups and settling back down in new formations, a few yards away from where they started. The classroom teacher and I watched in awe and fear, contemplating indoor recess, when those THOUSANDS of birds just up and left at precisely the same moment in time. Just like that.

I find flocks of women just as threatening. Actually, it's not because I think they will intentionally hurt me (like Hitchcockian dive-bombing buzzards), but because they just shove their sense of belonging right in my face.

I treasure my solitude, my unique perspective, the way I question everything and my habit of coloring outside the lines. Most of the time.

But sometimes the world feels exactly like my high school cafeteria, and I can't find a seat at a table. Which makes me want to skip out on lunch altogether. And eat vast quantities of chocolate.

Sometimes, when I'm confronted with a happy, humming group of women who simply look like they belong to each other, to something more than just the sum of their separate selves, I have to come to grips with the fact that belonging to a flock might not be as lame as I think. They always seem to be laughing. And I love laughing.

Please understand that I have no self-preserving choice to call it anything but shallow, this sisterhood among women. (Yes, I know it is just as shallow of me to think that, but I haven't watched "The Breakfast Club" for a long time.) All my life, I have gotten itchy in close quarters with women...in Girl Scouts or sororities or malls or spas or book clubs or PTA meetings or at-home parties or mom networks. (Imagine my dismay to discover that deep and interesting people like Glennon and Adrianne actually met through a mom network. My world tilted a little at that one.)

I have never experienced depth in any female relationship that wasn't one-on-one. (Except maybe my huge family, on our good days.)

Until now. Until here. Every single day.

And that terrifies me most of all. You're making me think I might be wrong. About what happens when women flock together. And I hate being wrong.

It seems to me that all flocks have a secret language, a shared understanding that allows them to move together as one. But all my life, just when a flock of women has settled near me and I thought I'd be able to anticipate its waves, it flew off together. Just like that. Leaving me a little relieved, honestly (it is less work), but a little lonely, too.

In the Momastery, for the first time in my life, I'm being let in on the secret language of the flock. I know, you have every right to be wary of me. Heck, I've told you to be wary of me.

But I'm still drawn to your beautiful colors. I'm mesmerized by your complexity, your fragility, your strength. And I'm singing the best way I know how. Please don't fly off without me.

P.S. To all Male Monkees, this not-so-comfy-with-sisterhood-talk girl hereby requests to hear more from you. But a friendly word of caution: tread carefully today with the hearty "Women terrify me, too!" response. On second thought, don't worry. You're all probably more sensitive than I am.

And now, my birdsong.