I came across this piece in the files this morning written in June of 2010 and thought I’d share.
All kinds of women live in my house. They are the women who I have grown up watching, the women who have grown up in me. These are strong women, tall women, round women, full women, lifting one eyebrow and giving you that look women, laughing from their belly making their whole body shake and yours too women. These are alive women, vibrant women- the women in my house.
The women in my house, the women who I have grown up watching, the women who have grown up in me are broken women, fragmented women, holding it together by prayer, string, duct tape or by whatever they can find just to keep on moving, to keep making it from day to day women. These are women who have known struggle and sacrifice. These are women who have known heartache and disappointment. These women have kissed death and handled dying of more than just loved ones. These are women who know fear and failure, who sing the blues with Billie, weep loudly with Mary, and moan and moan and moan with Martha. These are the women in my house.
The women in my house are ancient women. In fact, they are older than what they really remember, what we remember. These women walked in the garden in the cool of the day. They remember standing in front of the looking glass and not seeing flaws or distortions or the residue of other people’s expectations, but seeing their true self, their well self, their made in the Image of the God self . These are the women that remember they were always meant to be whole. These are the women who fight to make their way back to the beginning and stand their ground refusing to be moved – this time. These are the women that have grown up in me, the women that live in us all. These are the women in our house.
©Charisse R. Tucker, 2010.
Becoming... 