Whatever, Honestly

So.

I’m at the gym yesterday. I go to the gym all the time. My Lyme doesn’t permit me to work out anymore, but I would never allow a detail like that to keep me from free child care. So I drop off the kids in the nursery and I sit in the sauna and read. It’s exactly like hot yoga, without the hard parts of hot yoga that I resent, like the moving part and the not allowed to read during part. When I come out I am smarter. And warmer. And more peaceful. Actually I think it might be the best thing in the world. And now instead of meeting on the exercise bikes and sitting still and talking, Adrianne and I meet in the sauna and sit still and talk. And when we leave we are so sweaty that we even believe we’ve worked out.

Last week, following a particularly dramatic Mommy Meltdown, I bought some new workout clothes for my sauna exercise regimen.

Let me explain.

Once every week or so I have a breakdown during which I wail to Craig that for various reasons that I am too overwhelmed and despondent and incoherent to discuss in detail, my life is completely unmanageable. We call it a Mommy Meltdown in our home. My friend Erin calls it a Caretaker Fatigue Attack. Either way, mine include lots of tears and dramatic phrases thrown around, my favorite of which is: I JUST CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE. Craig once made the mistake of asking me what specifically the IT is that I am unable to TAKE, and let us just say that he will not make that mistake again.

IT IS LIFE! IT IS LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFE FOR GOD’S SAKE!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyway, whatever. The point is that as my meltdowns begin to wind down, I usually decide that the only thing that will improve my life is to leave the house ALONE - immediately - and buy lots of crap. I do not know why this is my solution, but when I arrive at whatever crap store my van drives to, there are always many other maniacal looking women also wandering the aisles aimlessly. So I’m convinced I’m not the only one who considers crap buying a viable solution to I JUST CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!

Anyway, last week on my crap trip I bought some new workout (sauna) clothes. One piece was a cute yoga top with major pads in the bra. PADS IN THE BRA. The irony of practicing yoga in order to connect with the universe and one’s inner self and find acceptance and self love in a padded bra is not lost on me. As a matter of fact, it is SO ME. So I bought two.

I wore my new boob-y top to the gym yesterday.

I did my time in the sauna, but I wasn’t ready to leave yet, so I went out to walk on the treadmill. I smiled at the lady next to me and noticed that she was sort of staring at me. I assumed what I always assume - that she recognized me from the blog. OR that maybe she was impressed by my huge boobs. I smiled humbly. The lady locked eyes with me and said, “Excuse me, your tag is still on.”

Please understand that for me, this is like someone saying, “Excuse me, do you have the time?” No biggie. I always leave my tags on. Taking them off is just one of those things with which I can’t be bothered. And since I JUST CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE quite often, I have a lot of tags.

I thanked the nice woman and then continued walking. Didn’t even look for the tag, didn’t even pretend to. I got 99 problems, lady, and a tag ain’t one.

Half hour later I’m back in the locker room preparing to get in the shower. Yes, I shower at the gym, too. I refuse to pick my children back up until we have reached the FULL TWO HOUR NURSERY MAXIMUM. If I arrive three minutes early, I wait outside the door and stare into space for three minutes.

So I walk past the locker room mirror and do a double take. Here’s the tag. Here’s the tag I was wearing, just like this, for my entire two hours at the very crowded gym.

And there you have it.

Recovery

My original plan was to take another month off from writing, and come back to you in February.

But then a friend told me that she knew a Monkee who had just hit rock bottom. This Monkee has been drinking heavily for years and years and last week her world was turned upside down when her alcoholism was discovered. And my friend told me that this Monkee needed us.

And so I said, “but, God – the thing is that I’m not ready just yet.” And God smiled and said, “But sweetheart, who asked you?”

That voice might have been Bubba, actually. I get unsure sometimes. Either way, it sounded true. So here we are.

I’m going to write a lot about recovery this year. And I think we can all benefit from it. Because done right, life is one long recovery process. I believe that we’re all recovering from something. Maybe for you it’s not food or booze addiction like it is for me . . . maybe it’s an addiction to selfishness or pride or anger or isolation (which it also is for me). But The Truth is that we’re all recovering jerks. The only other possibility is that we’re active jerks, and refusing to recover. Anyway, nobody recovers alone. We are in this together.

Dearest Drunken Monkee Friend,

I have been where you are this morning. I’ve lived through this day. This day when you wake up terrified. When you open your eyes and it hits you . . . the jig is up. When you lie paralyzed in bed and shake from the horrifying realization that life as you know it is over. Quickly you consider that perhaps that’s okay, because life as you know it totally blows. Even so, you can’t get out of bed because the thing is that you don’t know how. You don’t know how to live, how to interact, how to cope, how to function without a drink or at least the hope of a future drink. You never learned. You dropped out before all the lessons. So who will teach you how to live? Listen to me, because I am you.

You are shaking from withdrawal and fear and panic this morning, so you cannot see clearly. You are very, very confused right now. You think that this is the worst day of your life, but you are wrong. This is the best day of your life, friend. Things, right now, are very, very good. Better than they have ever been in your entire life. Your angels are dancing. Because you have been offered freedom from the prison of secrets. You have been offered the gift of crisis.

Kathleen Norris reminded me last night that the Greek root of the word crisis is “to sift.” As in to shake out the excesses and leave only what’s important. That’s what crises do. They shake things up until we are forced to decide and hold onto what matters most. And what matters most right now is that you are sober. You owe the world nothing else. And so you will not worry about whether the real you will be brave or smart or funny or beautiful or responsible enough. Because the only thing you have to be is sober. You owe the world absolutely nothing but sobriety. If you are sober, you are enough. Even if you are shaking and cursing and boring and terrified. You are enough.

But becoming sober, becoming real, will be hard and painful. A lot of good things are.

Becoming sober is like recovering from frostbite.

The process of defrosting is excruciatingly painful. You have been so numb for so long. And as feeling comes back to your soul, you start to tingle, and it’s uncomfortable and strange. But then the tingles start feeling like daggers. Sadness, loss, fear, anger, all of these things that you have been numbing with the booze . . . you start to FEEL them for the first time. And it’s horrific at first, to tell you the damn truth. But feeling the pain, refusing to escape from it, is the only way to recovery. You can’t go around it, you can’t go over it, you have to go through it. There is no other option, except for amputation. And if you allow the defrosting process to take place, if you trust that it will work, if you can stand the pain, one day you will get your soul back. If you can feel, it means there has been no amputation. If you can feel, you can hope. If you can feel, you are not too late.

Friend, we need you. The world has suffered while you’ve been hiding. You are already forgiven. You are loved. All there is to do now it to step into your life. What does that mean? What the hell does that mean? This is what it means. These are the steps you take. They are plain as mud.

Get out of bed. Don’t lie there and think - thinking is the kiss of death for us - just move. Take a shower. Sing while you’re in there. MAKE YOURSELF SING. The stupider you feel, the better. Giggle at yourself, alone. Joy for its own sake . . . Joy just for you, created by you - it's the best. Find yourself amusing.

Put on some make-up. Blow dry your hair. Wear something nice, something that makes you feel grown up. If you have nothing, go buy something. Today’s not the day to worry too much about money. Invest in some good coffee, caffeinated and decaf. Decaf after eleven o’clock. Read your daughter a story. Don’t think about other things while you’re reading, actually pay attention to the words. Then braid your girl’s hair. Clean the sink. Keep good books within reach. Start with Traveling Mercies. David Sedaris is good, too. If you don’t have any good books, go to the library. If you don’t have a library card, apply for one. This will stress you out. You will worry that the librarian will sense that you are a disaster and reject you. But listen, they don’t know and they don’t care. They gave me a card, and I’ve got a rap sheet as long as your arm. When practicing re-entering society and risking rejection, the library is a good place to start. They have low expectations. I love the library. Also church. Both have to take you in.

Alternate two prayers - “Help” and “Thank you.” That’s all the spirituality you’ll need for a while. Go to meetings. Any meeting will do. Don’t worry if the other addicts there are “enough like you.” Face it: we are all the same, be humble.

Get Out Of The House. If you have nowhere to go, take a walk outside. Do not excuse yourself from walks because it’s cold. Bundle up. The sky will remind you of how big God is, and if you’re not down with God, then the oxygen will help. Same thing. Call one friend a day. Do not start the conversation by telling her how you are. Ask how she is. Really listen to her response, and offer your love. You will discover that you can help a friend just by listening, and this discovery will remind you that you are powerful and worthy.

Get a yoga DVD and a pretty mat. Practice yoga after your daughter goes to bed. The evenings are dangerous times, so have a plan. Yoga is good for people like us, it teaches us to breathe and that solitude is a gift. Learn to keep yourself company.

*When you start to feel . . . do. For example – when you start to feel scared because you don’t have enough money….find someone to give a little money to. When you start to feel like you don’t have enough love. . . find someone to offer love. When you feel unappreciated, unacknowledged . . . appreciate and acknowledge someone in your life in a concrete way. When you feel unlucky, order yourself to consider a blessing or two. And then find a tangible way to make today somebody else’s lucky day. This strategy helps me sidestep wallowing every day.

Don’t worry about whether you like doing these things or not. You’re going to hate everything for a long while. And the fact is that you don’t even know what you like or hate yet. Just Do These Things Regardless of How You Feel About Doing These Things. Because these little things, done over and over again, eventually add up to a life. A good one.

Friend, I am sober this morning. Thank God Almighty, I’m sober this morning. I’m here, friend. Yesterday my son turned eight. Which means that I haven’t had a drink for eight years and eight months. Lots of beautiful and horrible things have happened to me during the past eight years and eight months. And I have more or less handled my business day in and day out without booze. GOD, I ROCK.

And today, I’m a wife and a mother and a daughter and friend and a writer and a dreamer and a Sister to one and a “sister” to hundreds of monkees… and I wasn’t any of those things when I was a drunk.

And I absolutely love being a recovering alcoholic, friend. I am more proud of the “recovering” badge I wear than any other.

What will you be, friend? What will you be when you become yourself? We would love to find out with you.

When Jesus saw her lying there and knew that she had been there for a long time, he said to her, "Do you want to be made well? . . . Then pick up your mat, and walk." - John 5:6-8

Carpe Diem

There was a couple who’d been married for twelve years. The first two years were good, happy even . . . but then the kids came and work got hard and money got tight and the shine wore off of each of them. She used to see strong and silent but now she saw cold and distant. He used to see passionate and loving, but now he saw dramatic and meddling. They allowed themselves to become annoyed with each other. And so they stopped being careful. They stopped taking care of each other because they each decided they needed to look out for themselves.

And the distances between them grew longer and deeper until it felt impossible to touch even when they were in the same room. And one day she said to her girlfriend. . . I just don’t love him anymore. And it felt terrifying and exciting to say. And he said to his buddy . . . I don’t know if I ever loved her. And their friends said what about counseling but it all seemed tangled up too tight to try to unwind.

She got home from work one evening and fed the kids and put them to bed and she was tired to the bone. And he was late again. Late again. And even though he was late and the house was a mess, she knew that he would walk in the door, pour his glass of wine, and sit down at the kitchen table and relax. He’d sit and relax. She couldn’t even remember what relaxing felt like. She was always either going like hell or sleeping. Somebody had to keep the family running.

She stared at his bottle of wine on the counter. Then her eyes wandered over to their wedding photo on the wall. Clueless, she thought. We were clueless. But happy. Look at us. We were happy. We were hopeful.

God, please help us, she said silently.

Then she walked over to the counter and poured a glass of wine for him. She put it next to his book on the kitchen table, the place he loved to sit and relax, and she went upstairs to sleep.

He tiptoed into the house fifteen minutes later. He knew he’d missed the kids’ bedtime again, he knew his wife would be angry again, and he prepared himself for her steely silence. He hung up his coat and walked into the kitchen. He saw his glass of wine, and his book, and his chair pulled out for him. He stood and stared for a moment, trying to understand.

It felt like she was speaking directly to him for the first time in a long, long while.

He sat down and drank his wine. But instead of reading, he thought about her. He thought about how hard she worked, how early she woke to get the kids to school and herself to the office. He felt grateful. He finished his wine and then walked over to the coffee maker. He filled it up and set the automatic timer. 5:30 am. It would be ready when she came downstairs. He placed her favorite mug on the counter. And then he walked upstairs and quietly slipped into bed next to her.

The next morning she woke up and stumbled downstairs, exhausted, to the kitchen. She stopped when she heard the coffee maker brewing and stared at it for a few moments, trying to understand.

It felt like he was speaking directly to her for the first time in a very, very long while.

She felt grateful.

That evening, she stayed up until he got home. And she allowed her arm to brush his as they prepared dinner together. And after the kids went to bed and they assumed their TV viewing positions on the couch . . . he reached out for her hand. It was hard, but he did it.

And things started to unwind. A little teeny bit.

Look. I know it’s hard. It’s all so damn hard and confusing and complicated and things get wound up so tight you can’t even find the ends sometimes.

All I’m saying is that somebody’s got to pour that first glass of wine.

Because love is not something for which to search or wait or hope or dream. It’s simply something to do.

Namaste

from PROVERBS AND TINY SONGS by Antonio Machado

I love Jesus, who said to us:

heaven and earth will pass away.

When heaven and earth have passed away,

my word will still remain.

What was your word, Jesus?

Love? Forgiveness? Affection?

All your words were

one word: Wakeup.

Monkees, I’m back.

And I’ve started bowing.

Let me explain.

I love God, whoever He is, and I’d really like to get closer to Him this year. During my Christmas quiet time I was thinking about how one of the simplest ways to get close to a woman is to be good to her children. To be kind and gentle to them and to pay close attention and notice all of the things that make them special. To try to see her children the way she sees her children. And then I was thinking about how God made us in His image. How He is the mother and father of all of us. So I wondered if maybe that’s the best way to get closer to Him, too. By being kind and gentle to His children and noticing all of the things that make them special. I thought about how so many of us spend our time in books trying to find God, when it’s possible that the simplest way to God is directly through the hearts of His children.

Around that time, Chimmy sent me a book called Nomaskar, which was written by a priest who followed Mother Teresa and wrote about her spirituality. I love Mother Teresa. Based on what she did and more importantly, why she did it, I believe she was living according to The Truth, so I try to pay close attention to her.

The reason that Mother Teresa served the lepers and destitute and dying in the streets of Calcutta was not because Jesus told her to, it was because Jesus was leprous and destitute and dying in the streets of Calcutta. And since she worshipped Jesus as God, she figured she should probably go help Him, because it didn’t make a lot of sense to worship God in church while He was dying alone in the streets. And she believed that it was silly to weep when considering Jesus crucified two thousand years ago and not weep when watching Jesus crucified today, on the streets of Calcutta or Haiti or DC or in the high school hallway. Mother Teresa saw God in every human being and when she held a dying leper and dressed his wounds she did not imagine that she was helping Jesus die with dignity, she really was helping Jesus die with dignity. She was holding, as she would have said, “Jesus in the distressing disguise of the poor.” She understood that everyone is Jesus. She understood the meaning of the word Nomasker, or Namaste, which means “The divine light in me sees and honors the divine light in you.” God in me recognizes God in you. And the God in me honors the God in you. So when she encountered a person she would fold her hands, bow her head, and say “Namaste.”

And when she wanted to see God, she didn’t look up and away, she looked into the eyes of the person sitting next to her. Which is harder. Better.

So. Here’s the deal. I’ve talked to God about it and I am sooooooo not going to Calcutta. Not really my bag, baby. I’m a Sister of Sister…not a Sister of Charity. A Monkee…not a Monk. You understand.

But I watch the news and I also hear the sadness in people’s stories and the loneliness in their hearts and the pain of their pasts . . . so I know that Calcutta is everywhere. All of us live in some sort of poverty. Poverty of hope, poverty of peace, poverty of love. We are all poor in one way or another. Mama T used to call material poverty the easiest poverty to alleviate. Everyone is suffering. And so I’d like to be kind, and at the very least not add to people’s pain . . . since everyone is God.

So right before Christmas I decided to start bowing to everyone who crossed my path. Just a little. Just a little teeny bow of my head . . . just enough to remind myself not to be a jerk, since no matter who I’m talking to, whether it’s a child or a principal or a gas station attendant or a frenemy or Craig that it’s GOD I’m talking to. So I better recognize.

And as I bow I say . . . Namaste. God in me recognizes and honors God in you.

I just think Namaste in my head, I don’t say it out loud. Because I tried saying it out loud AND folding my hands AND bowing once at the gym . . . and let us just say that it did not go well. Because I forgot that I was holding a hair dryer and when I tried to fold my hands I dropped the hair dryer on my foot and so instead of gently saying Namaste I yelled SHIT really loud. It went down like this: I was trying to muster the nerve to start this new Namaste Love Project when a lady who looked like an Asian Betty White walked into the locker room. So I thought PERFECT! and I took a deep breath and sort of stepped in front of her and basically, just screamed SHIT at her. Judging by her facial expression and the terrified way she scurried off, I’m not entirely sure she felt honored. So anyway, after that I decided it’d just be a little teeny bow of the head and a silent Namaste. It’s more of an inward personal reminder than an outward gesture. Probably better for everyone involved since apparently I am neither as brave, nor as coordinated as Mother Teresa.

I know all of this might sound a little nuts but I have decided that it’s 2011 and I’m almost thirty five years old and I am just over worrying about whether I’m crazy or not. Robin Williams said “We each get only a little spark of madness. We mustn’t lose it.” And maybe the world needs a little crazy love. And so I am embracing my spark of madness. Fanning it, even. And I’m bowing. And something’s happening because of it. It’s working. I’m starting to see God everywhere.

It’s like that little bow of my head snaps me out of the horrible trance I allow myself to get lulled into each day, in which I forget that everything and everyone is magic. Including me. The world and the people in it are so beautiful when you’re awake. And so the bowing and the silent Namaste is just a little practice to remind myself of what’s real. Of what an amazing life I’m leading and what a gift the people I see are. Like how orthodox Jews wear a yamaka to remind themselves that they are living under the hand of God. Or how Muslims pray five times a day to remind themselves of who they serve. I bow to remind myself that these people who cross my path each day, they are God. And that I am, too. Amazing.

Namaste.

I think it’s the most beautiful word in the world, and it’s my word of the year. 2011 = Namaste. It’s what I’m going to work towards. Seeing the divine in each and every. In each and every. Even me.

I have missed you terribly, Monkees. How are you? Tell me, really. Namaste, Lovies.

P.S. In case you're wondering about the graphic . . . I couldn't find a picture of a Bowing Monkey . . . so I decided that a Bowling Monkey was close enough.

Love.