Good Morning

Anxiety greeted me this morning, somewhat sweetly I may add. I suppose it had been waiting for me to awake. Startled. Troubled. Somewhat enticed, I entertained carrying on a conversation. After all, it was kind enough to say good morning. But then I remembered, I am a woman with a God who cares. And so I turned over. Closed my eyes. And prayed. And remembered. I am more than a doing. I am a being. I got out of bed and stretched. Grabbed the morning list and appropriate resources. Got myself together for the morning tasks. And made my way to make some coffee. Had to make it myself. But that’s ok. I don’t like how Anxiety makes it anyway.

Once and Again

I have found blogging difficult. Truth be told, I have found writing difficult. Writing of any kind. But this too, writing, working through my thoughts on paper (or computer), seeing, listening, sensing out loud… this too is part of the work to which I have been called. So, silencing the internal critic, the twisted perfectionist whose incessant protest drowns out the part of me that is clear and confident… the critic who would stop me from writing anything for fear of flaw or lack of relevance, and encouraging the weary one who simply wants, maybe even needs some things to just be  easy I write these words. Once and again, I take up this pen. Once and again, I turn my heart to this part of the call. Once and again I begin again. 

Coloring Outside the Lines

One of my closest friends and I have a conversation every couple of months about her children and their challenge with art projects. Actually, they don’t have a problem with arts and crafts – she does. Her son colors the sky purple. Her daughter mixes the playdo. It drives her crazy, but I get it. I get it so much that I repeatedly challenge her to let them do their thing. “Let them color outside the lines if they want to!”

I know, I know– there is an order to life. The sky is blue (much of the time) and if you mix the playdo you’ll never have a clean primary color to turn to in your time of need. I really do get her point (well, the part of it that is not slightly OCD). But I think it’s important for them to stretch and flex their creative genes as far as those genes will take them. I also think that it’s important for them to go beyond the prescribed/traditional/”real” ways of seeing the world and allow their imaginations to run wild. I think it’s important, necessary, even critical for them to own their own creative agency and color outside of the lines, not merely for them to be free now, but in the years to come.

And I admit that my position pours out of my own story as a creative type who has struggled herself with coloring outside of the lines. When I was 10 years old, my mother discovered somewhat by accident that I was an artist. A painter to be exact. She enrolled me in a Summer Art Camp and two weeks in, several paint brushes, acrylics, and an estactic instructor later, a gift was discovered.  There had been signs earlier. In fact, a drawing in crayon on my bedroom wall of a house and flowers and a family could have tipped her off had the outrage of her daughter drawing on the wall not taken over.  I was a creative type. In my teen years I discovered the art of cooking and still remember my first Thanksgiving masterpiece at age 14: a swiss cheese souffle. And then there was the writing. Enameling. Singing. Preaching. And the list goes on. Like I said, I am the creative type.

But what I have realized lately is that being creative alone hasn’t made me free. I haven’t been the creative mind and soul that has consistently given myself over to my craft (s) unabashedly. I’ve had moments, sweet moments, of doing my thing without looking over my shoulder. I have had those experiences where the proverbial, “look Mommy no hands!” effect has kicked in and right away, without applause or support from others, I’ve been proud of what I’ve done, excited about the outcome, turned on by the work that my hands, or voice, or eye has produced. But in the spirit of self-disclosure, much of the time, even when others have loved the outcome, I haven’t initially been all that affirming of myself. And this makes the creative process somewhat problematic. It’s hard to create and dismantle, speak and censor, produce and pull back, write and edit all at the same time. It’s even worse to do it before the work has had enough time to breathe and walk around. Even more horrible is to do it in your head before you have even begun.

But this is what happens when you spend years mastering coloring in the lines or maybe mastering being afraid of coloring outside of them. This is often the by-product of caring more about what “they” will think, than you do about your own thoughts and kudos. What I have finally stopped downplaying and ignoring is that I hear in colors and phrases and tastes and yes, sounds that are much bolder, more saturated, more vibrant than what I have often given myself credit for. But my 40 year self wants more. My 40 year old self is demanding more. My 40 year old self wants more time outside of the lines.

So this coming year, I am committing myself to going for it. Instead of having moments, snatches of living out loud experiences, I am working on being consistent and free and unapologetic and fully alive with how I live, and love, and color, and create, and sing, and write, and paint, and decorate, and cook, and dance, and see, and sense, and feel, and laugh, and… well, let’s just say all of it. It’s time. It’s way over time. Time to grab a purple crayon and color my sky. Feel free to join in, there’s room for you too. Room, if you don’t mind sharing space and life with people who aren’t interested in coloring in the lines.

Mosaic Pieces

“So when you look at my face, you gotta know that I’m made of everything – love and pain, these are the pieces of me…” Pieces of Me, Ledesi

Months ago a friend from high school and I met for breakfast. As we shared what was going on since the last time we met. I told her how I was feeling about my life, where I was in life at the time, how I felt about turning 40, and what I thought I wanted/needed in this season of my life. She listened intently, which was true for her even in high school. And then I said it. “Maria, I think I am having a mid-life crisis.” She responded, “Charisse, you were having a mid-life crisis in high-school.” Roaring laughter burst out of my mouth. The kind that cut the tension that had been churning in my belly for weeks. Maria laughed too. As I thought about her words, I remembered that I have always been the internal one: checking to see what was happening in me, journaling (and keeping them all ) since the 8th grade, wondering and wandering around in my head and heart. Unfortunately, I have to admit that often times my tendency has been to focus on what I believed was wrong, broken, bruised in myself, and looking for ways to fix it,  to fix me — often a champion for others, though unfortunately not as great of a champion for myself.

But as I stand on the cusp of 40 (less then 24 hours away) I am looking forward to putting into practice some of the things that I have been working on for a while… looking forward to treating myself with more kindness and love, looking forward to giving myself more fully to the writer, preacher, painter, singer, thinker, leader, dancer, lover, woman that I am. I am looking forward to seeing the parts of me that have looked like shards of glass and broken pottery differently — not like trash that needs to be swept away, nor memorials to my brokeness, scars, failures, frustrations, or what has felt like humiliation.

Some time ago while driving along I heard these words, “You have been looking at your life like a puzzle that needs to solved. What if your life is not a puzzle but a mosaic.” Simple words. No quick answers. But the thought has been lingering in my mind ever since. I have spent so much of my time fretting about the things that are/looked broken, and it turns out that I have been collecting the raw stuff needed to make something beautiful all along– not in spite of these things, but including these very things. On the early eve of my 40th Birthday I have decided to put down the broom and grab instead the buckets (to organize my materials), supplies, and the grout called grace. I’ve decided to simply roll up my sleeves, identify a starting place on the wall, smiling as I work, humming as I go, “So when you look at my face…”

Connection

This morning I made myself get up so that I could take my nephew to camp. The night before he came to my room at bed time. I was on the phone and started to tell my friend to hold on while I kissed him goodnight, but there was something that stopped me, something in his eyes.  He was reaching out, wanting my undivided attention. His eyes showed me what his words did not say, that he wanted Auntie/Nephew time. So I got off the phone, sat with him a bit, laughed a little and promised I would take him to camp in the morning. Connection. He wanted connection.

This morning I threw my body out of the bed and tried to shake off the urge to crawl back in. The boy. You told the boy you would take him to camp. But this morning I felt drained. Weary. Vulnerable. Detached.  I felt disconnected. From friends. From family. From myself. From God. And the only thing I wanted to do was pull the covers back over my face and sleep for another 12 hours.  But that would not work. So, I gathered myself as much as I could, got directions from my brother, swooped up the Nephew and headed out. We didn’t talk a whole lot on the way. “Have a great day!”, “You too.” Simple. Non-eventful. But meaningful. Connection.

Mondays are difficult for me. It’s my crash day. Ministry robs me of the chance to experience Sunday as my Sabbath, so Monday is the day that I need to recover. I am not the Pastor and don’t preach most Sundays but being available, being open, being supportive, being concerned, being understanding, being present takes its toll day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. So if there is a day to fall apart, a day to be depressed, a day to sing in a loud and deep voice, “Nobody knows the trouble I see…” Monday is the day to do it. It is a day that being single, without children, and without a pet screams the loudest. It’s the day that being far from the friends that have known me the longest and loved me the most unconditional seems unbearable. It’s the day that my vision is most susceptible to distortion. Monday is also usually the time, due primarily to fatigue, that I most often want the very thing that I find it difficult to give to others, connection.

So this morning after dropping my nephew off I decided that the best thing would be to head to the closest Starbucks and veg out a bit. While standing at the counter, waiting for my coffee, and shifting my weight from one side to the next I overheard a conversation between two other customers that drew my attention. The subject: yesterday’s Phillies game. I am an extroverted introvert by nature so random conversations with strangers has been one of the shocking, yet pleasant surprises that have come with being a late-life sports fan. Commenting on Raul Ibanez’s ridiculously wonderful catch in the 8th inning I joined the conversation. We laughed a bit. Shook our heads. Smiled a lot and talked about looking forward to the next game. I grabbed my coffee off of the counter went to the table I had eyed, sat down and smiled. When I wasn’t looking it happened. Connection. Not the kind I wanted on my “Nobody knows” Monday, but the kind I needed, a very small seemingly insignificant moment with strangers that reminded me of what I rarely remember when I am exhausted – that connection is all around. I remembered that sometimes it’s in the small never re-occurring encounters that I am reminded that I belong and am seen if not by whom or how I want, at least by the God that made me.

The Women in My House

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.

Post-Resurrection Realities

“Now Thomas, called the Twin, one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. The other disciples therefore said to him, ‘We have seen the Lord.’ So he said to them, ‘Unless I see in His hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and put my hand into His side, I will not believe.’”  John 20:24-25

A Different Kind of Lent

“The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; He leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.”  Psalm 23:1-3

This is not the Lenten season that I thought it would be. We are days away from Easter and looking back I can say that this has been a different kind of Lent than what I expected. I entered Ash Wednesday in the throes of lament dressed in a sheer garment of sackcloth and ashes that depending on how the light caught my eyes were visible to those who knew me well or well enough. I entered Lent weary, disappointed, and somewhat brokenhearted so the timing of the season and my state of mind made poetic sense. 

But two weeks into the journey something unexpected happened. I woke up with a new sense of joy, a renewed sense of God’s nearness, and a new hope concerning my journey. I woke up and heard that the bridegroom was with me. The places marked for sacrifice became places marked for celebration and rejoicing. The places set aside for mourning became altars where dancing became the appropriate expression to God’s call. This Lenten season I have been reminded of the call to live and not die, and more aptly stated, the call to live fully… abundantly.

There is still much work to do. Cleaning. De-cluttering. Repairs. Renovations… the workload is heavy and will not all be completed by April 24th. Yet there remains in my heart this morning the wonder that gripped me several weeks ago. The Lord my God is with me. The Great Shepherd has known that what I most needed in this season was rest and renewing, joy and laughter. What I now recognize that I needed in this season was to remember that not only am I not alone, but that I have never been left alone even in the places that have been landmines of ashes. This Lent has been different, unusual. Non-Lenty even. But I have decided to trust the move of God in the season. I have decided to abandon my fear of misreading what has been happening and trust my movement in it.

I have eyed a wonderfully lush green pasture to lie down in. Pens, journal, Bible, several magazines and a couple of books. If you’re going to rest, you might as well pack the right tools. And even now, sipping jasmine tea, I hear the quiet bubbling of nearby waters. I will soon journey there to drink, to refresh my face, and cool my legs as I soak in the sun. This Lent my soul is being restored. For me this Lent has definitely been a different kind of Lent.

Turning Aside

“Have mercy upon me, O God, according to Your lovingkindness; according to the multitude of Your tender mercies, blot out my transgressions. wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.” Psalm 51:1,2

It is Ash Wednesday, the start of the Lenten Season 2011. Once again I hear the call to turn aside and to take inventory. I sense the need to  stop, to regroup, to reflect, to gather myself together. I realize that I have walked a bit since last year and I fear that some key pieces, essential parcels may have been lost along the way. Maybe not, but when you are this disheveled it’s hard to know whether something is lost or buried in a fold in the bottom of your bag. What I do recognize is that this is a good place and time to check. The One who has beckoned me to come near before is somewhere close, close enough that I can smell his presence though I can not yet see his form.

This rock seems fine. Sturdy. I need sturdy things about now. So I sit. And begin to unpack. It may take a while. Probably a month and some days.  Hopefully along the way I will experience the emptying out, the lightening of the load, the release of unhealthy and un-wholly ideas, perspectives, behaviors to make the next leg of this journey… well, to make it.  Hopefully, I will answer the call to come away and be changed by what happens when I do. But first things first. I must first simply turn aside.

My Tribute

I grew up a Daddy’s girl and thought that would never change. But life happens. Events happen. Relationships change. Things become complicated. Silence takes on new life. Absence becomes customary. Relationships with parents are not shielded from these realities. My relationship with my Dad definitely isn’t.  If I am to be honest, this has probably been one of the single most life altering experiences I have had, the source of much anguish, frustration, and anger. Though I have not always been able to give voice to it , my sense of Daddy-loss has been the primary fount out of which much of my own rejection issues flow.  What I know is that my Dad is not the bad guy in this story. I am not the heroine. Life doesn’t allow any of us to get off that easily with neatly checked boxes. 

But this is not all that I have. In the midst of the sense of loss that surfaces like weighted floating devices (under water for a moment, but seemingly appearing out of nowhere, popping up in surprising places at surprising times) there are other memories that rise to the surface as well. It is because of these other memories that I blog this day.

The Memory: I am in the first grade and I am getting ready for school. I am dressing myself. Everything is in place and I am ready to go until my Mother sees my shoes. Those darn shoes. They always seemed to trip me up. She can’t understand why I don’t seem to be able to tell that they are on the wrong feet. Again.  And so I sit on the edge of my bed, lights off with the light of day streaming in. Dangling my feet over the side. Holding one of my Buster Brown navy blue tie up shoes with the rubber soles with the crunchy bottom in my hand. Not moving. Not trying again. Just sitting. Just looking. In walks my dad. He kneels beside my bed. Gently takes the shoe out of my hand and says, “Feel the inside of this. See how it goes in?” I feel the inside curve of the shoe. “Now feel the inside of your foot. See how that goes in the same way?”  I feel the inside of my foot. Wow, that makes sense to me. I can really tell the difference.  I put on my shoes, this time on the right feet. Tie them up. Head out the room to get my coat. Thanks to my Dad I am now ready for school, maybe even a little more ready for life. 

So to the man who took the time to read me Bible stories “Tell me the one about the  salt lady again daddy!”, to the person whose laugh (even in my memory)  still makes me smile, to the man who took time to talk to a teenager on a pay phone about absolutely nothing in the middle of his work day just because she called and wanted to know what he had for lunch, to the person who let me win sometimes when I begged, “Daddy let me win, please let me win!”, to the one who made me fall in love with Gladys Knight and Sam Cooke in the 4th grade, to the one who told me to not allow life and the anxieties of life to wrap me up so tightly that it made me sick, who said work hard, but work smart, to the man who sent care packages my freshmen year of college that fed me and most of the floor, to the one who didn’t really believe in women preachers but believed enough in me and the God that made me to say that I needed to obey what I believed God was saying to me, and yes for the man that taught me how to put my shoes on the right feet  I say thank you. 

Today, as I put my adult shoes on, I smile and think of you!

Love, your daughter!