So, we’ve decided to continue Momastery for another year, and I’m excited about that.
Many of you insist that Momastery has become a special community of women that shouldn’t be disbanded. I like that word, community. That seems like the right idea. If we are a community, then it follows that each of us is important and has a responsibility to one another. I will continue to do my part, which is to show up here several times a week and offer something hopeful, something funny, something true, something to help streamline your housework. And then, if you feel moved at all, your responsibility will be to respond. Me too or thank you or that was funny or I disagree will suffice. No need to say anything brilliant, no need to stick to the topic. Let this be a safe place where you share what’s on your mind, what’s in your heart. Let yourself be heard. Because we all know that the comments are what make this place a community. It’s the risks people take there, the relationships that are born, the stories that are told and read. It’s the chorus of me toos that comfort and inspire. Because let us be honest, bloggers are a dime a dozen. I don’t make Momastery unique. I am not a community. We are. Listen, I know you’re busy, I know it’s scary to put yourself out there, I know, trust me, I know. But it’s four am friends, and I’m here. Sodon’t eat and run. Leave comments, sign up as a follower, email me, share a poem, a song, a picture, a thought that will help the rest of us get through our day. Show us what beauty you’ve found. Each time that I do. We need it. I need it.
There was this guy who lived like a million years ago named Hafiz. He was a mystic, which means that he didn’t believe he needed religious rituals to communicate with God, because he knew that God was always holding his hand, whispering in his ear through other people and nature and stillness.
Hafiz experienced his entire life as one beautiful miracle after another. He was so excited about his big, loving God and his little, beautiful life that he could barely see straight or even speak in complete sentences. All he could do was skip around, hugging people and reciting original poetry. His joy was so boundless and ridiculous that they call him and his poetry ecstatic. I trust people like Hafiz. I’m inclined to listen to what they have to say. Because if your God doesn’t leave you awe-struck, then I’m not sure we’re talking about the same gal. Honestly, if I want to hear a list of scary rules and what horrific things might happen if I screw up and break them, I’ll just re-read my HOA documents. I think talking about God should be exciting and joyful and very, very confusing. So confusing that eventually we all give up and ask each other: Should we quit trying to hammer out the details and just hug and skip and write poetry together instead?
Anyway, in addition to being an ecstatic, mystical poet, I think Hafiz might have been a blogger. I read this the other night.
At This Party
I don’t want to be the only one here
Telling all the secrets –
Filling up all the bowls at this party,
Taking all the laughs.
I would like you
To start putting things on the table
That can also feed the soul
The way I do.
We can invite
A hell of a lot more
Author of the New York Times Bestselling Memoir CARRY ON, WARRIOR
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