Silent Night

Hello, Lovies.

So sorry for the lapse in writing. I’ve been trying to write - trying pretty hard, actually. But I think my Lyme has damaged the half of my brain that is usually in working order, the writing part of my brain. It’s a dilemma.

The last two weeks have been weird. I’ve been exhausted and a little (a lot) depressed. When I found out that my Lyme was back, I developed a brilliant plan which I shared with my friends and family. My plan was to refuse to have Lyme, and to carry on with my regular life. I thought that this plan would work, because honestly, I am just too peppy and spastic and optimistic and rebellious to really be sick.

My body is rejecting my plan. It is insisting that I do, in fact have Lyme. And along with all kinds of other fantastic symptoms, Lyme makes one sort of…well, stupid. Stupid-er, in my case.

I once went to a Lyme symposium at which several experts spoke about the disease. One of the experts actually had Lyme herself… and she was brilliant, but it became clear during the first minute of her speech that she couldn’t remember any words. I’m not kidding. She’d say . . . “I’m here today…to…to…to….hmmmm.” And then she’d look down at her notes and say “Oh, yes! To discuss LYME DISEASE. Lyme disease is caused by …by…by….by….hmmmmm. OH YES! A TICK!” And this sort of thing went on for thirty minutes. At one point she was trying to describe her life on her family’s farm and she actually had to describe horses to us, because she couldn’t remember the word horse. “I love to ride large . . . tall . . . brown . . . animals. That gallop. And say ‘neigh.’ And I brush them.” Like that. This woman was a doctor. I can’t say that this particular symposium was very comforting.

Anyway. Like the sweet doctor, I can’t remember any words right now. Or where I am, quite often. Truly. Also, when Craig is talking to me, I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about. Which is not new. At all. But usually I don’t know what he’s talking about because I am thinking about writing, or the sky, or paint colors. But now when he’s talking, I’m not thinking about anything else. I just can’t process. He talks. And I stare. And then when it becomes clear that it’s my turn to talk, I keep staring. And then he says, “Okay. Never mind.” And I say, “Okay. Sounds good. ” And then I try to remember what I was doing before he started talking.

You can imagine that due to my brain deadness, whipping up any sort of essay for you all each morning has become problematic. Mostly since I can’t usually even remember what our little blog is about. Something about monasteries, right? Are we monks??? I can’t find any robes lying around anywhere and I apparently have several children which seems odd for a monk. Hm.

This whole brain issue has been stressing me out. Stressing me right out. Because we need each other here. And I thought…man. I don’t know how to keep this going. I have nothing to say. I have nothing to say, other than: WHERE ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH ARE MY KEYS, PEOPLE? Damn.

But yesterday I was laying in the bathtub thinking about my sister, who is coming home for good tomorrow. For good. Tomorrow. She and John will arrive on my doorstep at 8am. The whole family will be here waiting. At this point in time I can’t really remember who the whole family is, but I am assured that they will all be here and that several of them are lovely.

Amazing. She’s coming home.

And then I started thinking about Christmas, which is also approaching fast. This Christmas thing, it’s a big deal for us Christians. God coming to Earth to live and love and die for us is a pretty big deal.

And I was thinking that even though I might be pretty stupid these days . . . I can still recognize holy ground when I see it.

The next few weeks are Holy Ground. For lots of us.

And so I thought. Hm. Maybe I’m not supposed to be fighting my way through this haze - grabbing desperately for something, anything to say. Maybe I’m supposed to shut up for awhile. Maybe God wants me to be quiet and soak in the arrival of my Sister, and of His son. Maybe He wants me to make some room for them.

Maybe God actually has to render me catatonic to get me to hush. To rest. To Be Still. Because that’s what this season is about, isn’t it? It’s about slowing down. Making room at the Inn. Practicing our faith that He makes the world spin, we don’t. So if we just stop for awhile, it’ll be okay. It’s about marveling at miracles. It's about getting very, very small, and very, very cozy. Halting production. Quitting consumption. Worshipping. It’s about gratitude, worship and awe.

Come, Let Us Adore Him.

And so that’s what I’m going to do. I am going to get very quiet for awhile. At least for a month, I think. I am going to soak up the arrival of my Sister and my Jesus. I am going to spend my usual writing time curled up on the couch with my coffee and my Bible. Reading, listening, thinking, praying. They're all the same things, really. For a good long while, I am going to stop pouring myself out and start soaking Him in. Because when I start to feel drained, it’s time to stop and fill myself back up. So I am going to create some silence and space. That’s where creativity starts, anyway. Not through struggle, but through space. I never, ever, get more accomplished in my creative life than when I commit to doing nothing. All creation starts from nothingness, right? That’s how God started creating, anyway. I could take a lesson.

And so, I am leaving you for a bit, to prepare for Christmas. Not to decorate prepare or mall prepare. To really prepare.

I love you all so much. I am crying right now, that’s how much I love you. You make my life fuller and truer and more magical. And I want us to do 2011 together. Let’s rock it out, together. I’ll meet you back here at the end of January. Don’t forget about me.

Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas, Monkees.

Love, G

Showing Up, A Guest Post by Leigha

Monkees.

Our auction was a ludicrous success. Andrea and I put three checks in the mail this week. We sent $1863 to Evy and $1863 to Rocky. I actually took pictures of the checks to show you, but right before I posted them, Craig suggested it might be better not to post onto the world wide web our account and routing numbers. Oooooh, I said. Yes, I see your point. Smarty pants! We are a good team.

Those are Chase's hands. My fingers are actually even stubbier and my nails are dirtier.

The third check was written for $500 and was sent to Jill to spoil the heck out of Evy and Stella this Christmas.

A very special businessmonkee dedicated a portion of all of her November sales to the Carrolls this Christmas, and this $500 gift was from her. She specifically asked me not to mention her business’ name, because she didn’t want there to be any confusion about her motives.

Amazing, huh?

But hold on, Lovies. Our Lovefestivus is not over yet . . .we have one last trick up our collective sleeve.

Monkees…meet my precious, brave, huge-hearted friend . . . Leigha.

Dear Monkees,

In mid-October my daughters (ages 2 and 4) and I made Halloween cards for their grandparents who all live out of town and mailed them off. The grandparents were so touched that each set mailed either a card or a letter back to the girls. Their Nona even included two pairs of Halloween socks which they wore proudly for a somewhat disgusting number of days before they would take them off to let me wash them. It soon became a daily adventure to run to the mailbox everyday. “Why are we getting so much mail?” Anna asked one day. “Because you did something that made them feel special and now they want to do something to make you feel special,” I told her.

A few days later I read Andie’s post and I wanted to do something to help. My first thought was I am going to get that mother a “We Can Do Hard Things” plaque but another Monkee was already taking care of that. Then I started thinking about Stella and Evy; what could I do to make their day brighter? My mind wandered back to my own children being thrilled with receiving mail. I thought, “My girls and I could do that! We could make cards and send little surprises in the mail.” My thoughts started snowballing until I arrived at the conclusion that what would really be fantastic would be if I could get lots and lots of creations from lots and lots of kids to send to Evy and Stella.

If our children are mirrors, and that they believe what we believe, then we should invite them to be a part of caring about this family when so many grown-up Monkees have stepped up to give the best of themselves?

PROJECT GREEN LIGHT, MONKEES!

My goal is to send the girls little care packages in the mail about twice a month. I hope to be able to include artwork of all types made by children of all ages. Today I would like to ask you and your children to create mail for Evy and Stella. The sky’s the limit here, so let the creativity soar. Some suggestions to get the juices following include (but would never be limited to) making “Fight Like a Girl” posters, writing about a time you had to be brave and what helped you get through it, pictures making silly faces, pictures of your pets in costume, and anything else that might get a giggle from a two and half year old girl.

Maybe something like this:

Thanks Monkees.

Love, Leigha

You guys, I think those are princesses kicking each other's asses. Fight like a girl. Brilliant. Just brilliant. . .

Evy will leave for camp soon, so perhaps Jill could make the girls' temporary room feel cozy by decorating it with mini-monkee artwork.

I'd like to add one idea...let's send Rocky some art, too. Because everything will look so different to Rocky when she arrives. But kids' art is kids' art, no matter what country it's created in. Hearts and rainbows and stick figures, they translate. Child to child. Heart to heart. Hand to hand. I love it, I just love it.

Please send the artwork to Momastery at 37 Pidgeon Hill Dr. #280 Sterling, Va 20165. Leigha will collect all the artwork and send it on to the girls.

Joy.

Adrianne, A Christmas Miracle

I'm not sending out Christmas cards this year. I couple weeks ago I thought to myself, "I should get started on those." But then right after I thought that, I felt a pang of stress. It was just a quick little jolt, but it got my attention. So I immediately decided to tell myself the same thing I’d tell a friend. I said to myself, “It’s okay, G. You don’t have to send Christmas cards this year. No one’s the boss of you. No cards.”

And it felt so good. Soooo good. There is stress that is unavoidable and stress that is chosen, and I’m going to try to let go of some of the chosen stress this year. I choose to rest and watch Christmas specials and take baths and trust that even without cards, my friends and family will remember that the Meltons exist.

So Merry Christmas, friends! We all look pretty much the same as we did last year.

Even so, I do have a very special card to share with you today. It’s the Christmas card that my best friend, Adrianne, is sending out this year.

Adrianne used to write for Momastery. She was the first Monkee to read the posts each morning. She was part of our heartbeat. But something happened to Adrianne six months ago that knocked her down. Hard. And she has needed to save every bit of her energy to try to stand again. And she has needed to protect her heart for a long while. But she’s decided that she’s ready to open it again, to us. She’s ready to tell us where she’s been, and where she’s going.

Monkees, My Adrianne.

This is the umpteenth time I have sat down to draft this year’s Christmas card letter. Never having suffered from a loss for words, I’m a bit surprised at how difficult it has been for me. I’ve decided that the most fitting introduction I can come up with is Dickens’ line, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

I’ll start with the worst of times. Brace yourselves, because this is a doozy.

On Mother’s Day, I received a text message from Trent saying that he is no longer in love with me. (I told you it was a doozy.) I am unable to go into specifics regarding the abrupt ending of my marriage because I have upcoming court dates, and discretion is necessary. But to those of you who might be saying to yourselves, “I’m shocked! I thought they were really happy,” I reply, “Yah, SO DID I!” Needless to say, it was a lousy Mother’s Day.

Without going into the gory details of the past six months, I’ll bring you up to date with where I am now. Trent and I have been separated since May 10^th, and I am hoping to be officially divorced in March. I am living with the kids in our townhouse, and I am okay. Trent is living in a nearby apartment, and he spends time with the kids regularly, based on a schedule negotiated by our lawyers.

This spring and summer were dismal. I’ve tried to write descriptions of the pain this sort of thing causes, but I simply do not have the vocabulary to explain it. I feel like I would have to create an entire new language to accurately portray this experience.

The most difficult part of the entire situation, by far, has been watching Paige suffer. She has been seeing a therapist regularly since the split, and she has come a long way. Thankfully, she has a wonderful first grade teacher this year, and she is doing well in school. She is also enjoying Tae Kwon Do classes.

Even though the Grinch stole Mother’s Day, I decided that he would NOT steal Christmas. So Paige and I recently took a girls-only trip to New York City with a dear friend and her daughter. We had a marvelous time! Paige’s favorite part of the trip was the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular. It was a magical start to the Christmas season.

Grey has truly been the light of both my life and Paige’s during this difficult year. Although he displays some confusion after transitioning from one parent’s home to the other, he is too young to understand what has happened to us. He is concerned mostly with cars, trains, airplanes, and anything that moves. He remains a jolly, happy soul.

Dear ones, my heart is full and truly grateful as I sit here and type. After my world collapsed and the dust began to settle, I learned some beautiful truths. I learned that I have a family who loves me fiercely. I learned that I have an army of friends ready to come to my rescue. Friends, new and old, came out of the woodwork to cheer me on, laugh and cry, and commiserate. I feel more loved today than I ever have.

At the risk of sounding overly Jesusy, I must also give a shout-out to my best friend, who was born in a manger. In the midst of my panic and sadness, I felt the warmth and calm of God’s loving arms holding me tightly. There is no doubt, friends. God heard my cries for help, and He answered me.

At this moment, our house is warm and lit by a beautiful Christmas tree and a whole lot of love. My children are upstairs sleeping under peaceful skies. I am optimistic about the coming year. I am a lucky woman.

Love,

Adrianne

Just a Hunch

Dearest Izzi,

I always feel very nervous when I write about God. Seems so arrogant for a little human like me to publicly explore the mysteries of God. But soon after I started this blog, I woke up one morning and decided that the only thing that’s more arrogant than trying to get closer to understanding God is not trying. So I try here, Izzi. It’s scary though, because I don’t know anything. Nobody knows anything, really. We should probably start there.

I read somewhere that the less likely someone is to consider that she might be wrong, the more likely she is to actually BE wrong. That sounds true to me.

Some people of faith take a different approach, certainly. I know who you’re talking about, Izzi. These people tend to raise their voices and noses and talk more than listen, and they certainly seem quite certain and adamant about what God disapproves of and prefers. Their main religious concerns seem to revolve around what others are doing. I think these are the people, Izzi, about whom you are concerned. You said that all the violence, exclusiveness, bossiness and zeal of people of faith made you drop out. Made you stop believing in a God altogether. I understand. I get uncomfortable, too. Sometimes it feels like these Lovies think of themselves as crusaders and the Kingdom of God as if it’s territory to conquer or something.

But it’s not. It’s not. The kingdom of God is inside. It’s not out there. The only kingdom of God each person needs to conquer is inside her own heart. That’s where battles are fought and lost and won. Here is the map of my faith journey:

*I am totally on this God train. My enemies are anyone who thinks differently about Him than I do. I will help them change.

*My enemies aren’t people at all. My enemies are fear, apathy, and ignorance. I must help others change these horrible things plaguing them and therefore our universe.

*Oh. My only enemies are MY OWN fear, apathy, and ignorance. Ooooh. I will change. Everyday, every hour, I will change.

I think that the results of genuine faith are gentleness and courage. Both are good. But if I had to choose one, I’d choose gentleness over courage any day. People can be quite brave and hurt others along their path, in which case our world might be better off without their bravery. I always try to choose gentleness first. “And these three remain, hope, faith, and love, but the greatest of these is love.”

Anyway, when a person’s faith transforms her into a more gentle and courageous being, people around her become gentler and braver, too. One at a time. On their own, with God. That’s how the Kingdom of God is spread. It’s simple, I’ve seen in happen. It’s like heaven.

Back to the point. Yes, Izzi, many people see all the nonsense done and said in the name of God and based on this, decide that God must not exist. I have lots of thoughtful, beautiful emails from these people which I save and cherish. They call themselves humanists, and they are my peeps, these people. They like me and I like them. We respect each other and we don’t secretly believe anything awful about each other. And the thing is that the more I listen to them, the more I understand that these people, these humanists, believe in LOVE. They are just so sensitive to others’ pain that they’d rather drop out than be associated with any group that causes it. And so they say Truth and Peace and I say God and Jesus but we agree not to call the whole thing off based on semantics.

And so I tell my humanist friends that it is just fine that they don’t believe in God and we can still be great friends and get much done together here on Earth. And then I add that when I die, Jesus and I will wait for them at the gates of heaven with mega-sized hugs and smiles and sparkly TOLD YOU SO! signs.

And I can almost see them rolling their eyes and hear them banging their heads on their desks through cyber space, Izzi. But they’re smiling, too.

And since they’re still smiling, I feel safe explaining that to me, responding to the religious obnoxiousness by giving up on the idea of God would be like watching Chase and Tish pummel and tease each other about who daddy loves more and in response, deciding once and for all that Craig doesn’t exist. Just because my children behave like raging fools doesn’t necessarily mean they didn’t come from a loving daddy.

To be clear, I think that there are plenty of reasons to doubt God’s existence. Poverty, genocide and natural disasters come to mind. I guess I just don’t think people spewing nonsense and violence in God’s name is a logical reason to give up on God. Because we all know that these Lovies are not defending God. They are defending their egos and fears. I suspect that the religious wars and arguments and rhetoric actually have less to do with God and more to do with human pride and our deep desire to “belong,” to be members of a club, to be right, to WIN, to be powerful and popular. These people want something that has nothing to do with the Kingdom of God, with Truth or Peace. We know that every religious war in history, whether it’s fought with guns or words, is really about wanting something else. Land, Money, Power, Attention, TO BELONG. It’s just done in the name of God to justify it. There’s true. And then there’s TRUE. We must watch closely and decide what people really want. We must figure out what people are really talking about.

Because sometimes I find myself listening to someone talk about “God” and it becomes clear to me that he is really talking about his own fear. And sometimes I’m listening to someone talk about art, or fishing, or children, and I realize with great joy that he is actually talking about God. I think sometimes we just don’t listen to each other hard enough. We hear, but we don’t try to understand. Sometimes the words a person chooses are the least important part of what he’s saying.

Still, Izzi. There is certainly a whole lot that is said and done in the name of God that makes me angry and sad. But I’ve decided that if I spend all my time and energy down here railing against what I hate, I’ll leave myself no time and energy to create what I love. No time to create and offer the world an alternative. No time to invite heaven, as I understand it, to Earth.

I could spend my life glaring at these people. Or I can look past them. To other people.

Because sometimes I wonder if we use the fighting, judge-y people as an excuse to give up. We are afraid to be associated with them, so we allow them to become an excuse to drop out, to stay on the couch, to quit working for Good, for Truth, for Love, for Peace…but all the while we know there are others. We know the real heroes of the light are not on TV. They’re not yelling. They’re not in meetings deciding who’s in and out. They’re out there. They’re in Haiti helping with the cholera outbreak. They’re in New Orleans rebuilding. They’re in classrooms reaching kids that the world calls unreachable. They’re in Rwanda hunting down child rapists. They’re in long lines at the post office trying desperately not to be jerks. They’re in inner city prisons helping incarcerated mamas raise their babies. They’re on a neighbor’s doorstep holding a casserole. They’re out there, and we know it. It’s just that they don’t have the time or desire to stop their work and offer a sound bite. They deal in a different type of currency. They don’t give a rat’s ass about publicity or money or power. They don’t care about our kingdom, they care about Lovingkindness, about God’s kingdom. Where joy comes from service. Where peace is chosen over pride. Where there is no time to concern oneself with imaginary boundaries because people are bleeding, damnit.

And so I really do believe that for now, it’s our responsibility to pat the judge-y yelling people on the heads, wish them good luck with that, and carry on with our work. Who cares? We people fighting for love, we people of the light….we are like EMTs to a hurting world and we don’t have time (or even the right) to stop our ambulance and gawk at the traveling sideshow. We are too busy. We have important things to do, people to love, and life to celebrate.

And you know what? I write to people of all faiths because I have a hunch that God would prefer that we put our differences aside and serve the world together, rather than render ourselves useless waiting to agree. Waiting to figure it all out. We ain’t gonna figure it all out, Izzi. And so instead of becoming paralyzed by our differences, we must find common ground and work together to make our world more beautiful.

My minister once sent me this quote…The problem with the faith pool these days is that all the noise is coming from the shallow end. I waded into the deep end, and that has made all the difference.

I love this metaphor, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot since you wrote.

You know. . . the shallow end of faith is easier to spend time in. It’s not a real commitment. You can just hop in, stand around in tight circles and people watch. You can examine your nails and catch up on all the gossip. You can talk and talk and talk and come to a great many conclusions and decisions and still maintain your hairstyle and even avoid mussing your makeup. This is important because you never know when someone will pull out a camera. You can spend an entire comfortable life there, really, and just stand around and be heard. You never even have to learn to swim in the shallow end. Good times.

I think the reason we don’t hear from the people in the deep end as often is because they’re actually swimming. In the deep end, you have to keep moving. It’s hard to look cool. It’s tiring and scary even, since it’s just you and your head and your heart in the silence of the depths. There’s not a lot of chatting or safety in numbers in the deep end - you have to spend most of your time there alone. And it’s impossible to get any solid footing. You just have to trust that the water will hold you and you have no other choice but to flail about and gasp for air and get soaking wet, head to toe.

I guess what I’m trying to say, Izzi, is that I don’t know anything. I just have a few hunches upon which I’ve decided to bet my life. I’ve got a hunch that there’s a God. And that He and She loves and forgives us. And that even though I will never understand Her, really, that there is a way to align my life and my brain and my heart in such a way that it synchs with Hers. And the heart I try to synch my heart with is the Heart of Jesus. And that makes me feel like I’m floating with the current instead of against it. And this synching, this floating, seems to make me a more gentle and courageous being each and every day. Which is why I’m convinced that I’m on to something with this Jesus thing.

That’s all I got.

Oh - and one more thing, Izzi. If we die, and we find out that there is a heaven, and we arrive at the gates and discover that they’re not letting Timbuktu babies in, then I think you and I will have no other choice but to refuse entry and hold babies and sing until they open the gates wide enough for everybody. It’ll be good. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up.

Peace,

G