On Saving Up: A Gypsy Heart and Blue Hydrangeas

Saturday morning at the grocery store, as I was meandering to the checkout lane, I lingered at the rows and rows of gorgeous flower bouquets. I love flowers and have so many fond memories associated with them.  Growing up, my mom and I took walks when the weather was warm and the trees had blossomed.  She always picked a bloom, brought it right up to her nose, closed her eyes, and drank in the aroma.  In the springtime, she called me Petunia. She taught me how to break apart the tightly packed flats before planting them in the soil.

Flowers make me feel safe, loved, and beautiful.

When I saw these vibrant bouquets at the grocery store, I wanted so badly to buy some for my apartment – but I kept hesitating.  I was waiting for something.

I’m 24 years old and, to the outside observer, my life seems a bit….  Well…. Unsettled. 

This fall, I will begin graduate school in voice performance to earn a degree that provides very little job security.  I am single – no boyfriends, lovers, or fiancés to speak of.  I’m certainly not living the life I had planned or expected – though I have tried to embrace its funny messiness.  

In college, I loved the idea of a “nomadic” existence.  This blog’s namesake is an allusion to Tennyson’s "Ulysses."  When I read this poem at age twenty, my heart sang a similar tune: an insatiable hunger for wild and wonderful adventure.

            “Come, my friends,

‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die…

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

I related perfectly to Ulysses – his curiosity and thirst for life.  I understood his unquenchable thirst for experience, knowledge, and purpose.  I wanted nothing more than to dance through life carefree and unattached.

But something happened last year.  I began to see that my gypsy heart desired more than endless adventure and movement.  What I really wanted was a Place to plant roots, a Place with People, a Place to invest. A Place to call Mine.

I took inventory of my surroundings.  I didn’t see a husband or a prestigious career or a house with a picket fence, baby blue shutters, and a bright red Kitchen Aid Mixer. 

But what I did see was this:

I saw my rock star aunt who is having her final chemotherapy treatment next week.  I saw my roommate, who lost her car keys in our neighbor’s bathroom Sunday night at 11:00PM.  I saw my parents sitting across from me at the dinner table, listening, lecturing, glowing.  I saw a group of beautiful women, who have been Jesus to me these past three months.  I saw mentors, musicians, bosses, coworkers, and students.  I saw a life.

I realized at the grocery store, in front of the sweetest bunch of blue hydrangeas, that I had been waiting to start my “real” life.  I had been saving up my ideas, music, words, recipes, love, time, dreams, and flowers for when I would arrive at some tangible, settled place called “real life.” In the throws of my twenty-somethings, I had forgotten that my real life is happening. Right now.

It might not be what I expected, but it is every bit as real.

At the grocery store that morning, I felt like maybe God gifted me with this assurance:

This is it, baby girl! This is my Plan A for you. This is the life I’ve given you right now. Now go and live it!

 And so I bought the blue hydrangeas.

On Striving: Tupperware Lids and Jaw Tension

On Thursday evening, I stared myself down in the practice room mirror.  Nearly at my wits’ end, I was at an impasse between my brain and my body; between the way I wanted to sing and the sound that I was producing.

For the past several years, nearly every voice teacher, peer, or adjudicator has offered some variant of this piece of advice:

           

Don’t try so hard.

Like so many singers, evidence of strain has manifested in my jaw, tongue, and shoulders.  My abdomen is sometimes so locked that my diaphragm feels more like concrete than a buoyant water balloon.  Hulk veins in my neck pop out when I sing difficult passages above the staff.  

It has taken me two years to undo just a few of those bad tension habits.  And now, in a practice room that felt more like a sanatorium, I laughed inwardly at this most recent irony:

           

I am now trying really hard to not try so hard.

And boy, have I tried everything:  Prayer. Yoga. The Alexander Technique. Personal exploration. Mental exercises. Stretches. You name it.  Still, the tension remains, like a stubborn Tupperware lid that refuses to shut properly: after succeeding in pushing one corner down, the opposite end pops right back up to mock you.

My teacher in college recommended a book that I have found so helpful: The Inner Game of Tennis: The Classic Guide to the Mental Side of Peak Performance by W. Timothy Gallwey.  Gallwey describes what actually occurs in athletes when they are playing “in the zone.”  He explains how, in our mind, we have two selves: Self 1 (the judging self) and Self 2 (the non-judging self). Players are at their peak when they completely let go of Self 1, the Ego.  By releasing judgments and control, Self 2 (our body) is allowed to work the way it is designed without the interference of our egos providing self-instruction or critique. When that inner voice is silenced and we are allowed to simply be, we can truly focus on the present. Gallwey quotes D.T. Suzuki regarding this state of peak performance:

“As soon as we reflect, deliberate, and conceptualize, the original unconsciousness is lost and a thought interferes…. Calculation, which is miscalculation, sets in…. Man is a thinking reed but his great works are done when he is not calculating and thinking. ‘Childlikeness’ has to be restored….”

Nevertheless, shutting down the tendency to control and demand proves to be the most challenging task for me, not just in the practice room but in everyday life as well.

Why is this?

I believe what Gallwey submits to us is that we strive because we want the glory for our success.  We want to be responsible for getting things right, so our ego interferes with our natural selves.

The same is true with God I think. In life, there are so many times that I sense myself striving – striving to love people well, striving to serve, striving to be kind, striving to be perfect, etc.  All of those things are good, right? We are called to “make every effort to add to [our] faith goodness; and to goodness, knowledge; and to knowledge, self-control; and to self-control, perseverance; and to perseverance, godliness; and to godliness, mutual affection; and to mutual affection, love” (2 Peter 1:5-7). 

But if I’m honest with myself, how often do I try on these attributes so that I can be perceived as “good” or “spiritual” or “kind?” When that becomes my motivation, when satisfying a need for approval or attention or glory drives me to perform, those attributes that I'm striving for won’t last: I will  always come to the end of my rope; I will resent those that take too much from me.  My well of love, kindness, or mercy will eventually run dry, because I can only offer a feeble, human supply. When I try to do this with any kind of strength or striving on my own, the result is always resentment, frustration, or exhaustion. 

It is only when I open myself up to receive the Spirit – when I invite Him to work through me – that I can love or serve in any kind of steadfast, sacrificial way.

If I really believe that I am dust, I ought to know that I can do nothing good apart from Him. After all, we were designed to be dependent beings.  Just like God provided the Israelites with just enough manna for that day, God will provide us with exactly what we need.  He promises us this.  Then, when we receive His provision, we can recognize Him as the Giver - not any striving or manipulating of our own.  He receives the glory, attention, honor, and praise.

“I will not boast in anything,

No gifts, no power, no wisdom,

But I will boast in Jesus Christ,

His death and resurrection.”

- "How Deep the Father’s Love for Us" by Stuart Townsend

On Romance: Like Valentine's Day But Every Day

For the past year or so, I have been stuck on this description of Jesus:

“He had no form or majesty that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him.  He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces, he was despised and we esteemed him not….” Isaiah 53:2-3

I have meditated on this passage, sought comfort in this passage, chewed on it, spat it out, found myself in it, and found Jesus in it.  Learning about what Jesus did and exactly the kind of rejection He suffered has been pivotal for me.  His life was so paradoxical, flipping my notion of religion on its head.  

Jesus, through Whom the earth was made, came to earth and made himself nothing. Paul says that he literally emptied himself (Philippians 1:7).  He died rejected, despised, and a mockery.

In Tim Keller’s sermon “The Crucifixion,” he describes how, more than anything else, heartbreak is the absolute worst suffering human beings endure.  Losing love and experiencing rejection is more painful than any other part of the human experience.  So, not only did Jesus’ friends and family desert Him on the Cross, but the One that Jesus loved so powerfully, passionately, and eternally rejected Him. 

Rejected Him.

As in: Wouldn’t look at Him, wouldn’t touch Him, wouldn’t speak to Him, did a 180 degree turn and left Him there to be mocked and ridiculed. 

Can you imagine that kind of pain and loss? I’m struck by Christ’s obedience and suffering – but mostly I’m astounded by the romance of it all:

The romance of being pursued so dramatically by a Lover who will stop at nothing to make me His bride.

Because the Father couldn’t bear to live without me, he put His Son through hell, through horrendous heartbreak, so I could be His.

Me. You. Us.

God promises, despite our stubborn hearts and apparent lack of interest, to keep chasing after us, to never give up on us, to always desire us, to know us intimately and fully, and to let us know Him:

            “I will allure [you], and bring [you] into the wilderness, and speak tenderly to [you]…. And there [you will] answer me as in the days of [your] youth … And I will betroth you to me forever. I will betroth you to me in righteousness and justice, in steadfast love and in mercy. I will betroth you to me in faithfulness. And you shall know the Lord.” Hosea 2:14-15, 19-20

Like a husband at the altar next to a bride he can't take his eyes off, God vows to spend the rest of our lives alluring us in the way that only a skilled and ardent Lover can. A Hallmark card and box of Russell Stover chocolates on Valentine's Day kind of pales in comparison. He offers us more than that every single day of our lives - in the kiss of a gentle breeze, the warm embrace of a friend, the masterpiece of the mountain air, or the symphony of a child's laughter.

The implications of this kind of romance are vast and varied.  They can change the way you dress, the way you pray, the way you spend your time, and the things you get worked up about.  

But mostly, for me at least, the knowledge of this mysterious and timeless romance relaxes my insecure and anxious heart.

On Loving God, But Not Very Much

At any given moment in the past couple of weeks, looking through my iTunes library, one would find the song “What Do I Know of Holy” by Addison Road on repeat.  The honesty and rawness of this song has captivated me.  I can listen to it quietly; I can belt it shamelessly; I can beat my hands against the steering wheel while I'm driving.

I really like this song. 

But not just for the melody or the driving rhythm. I like it for exposing the truth that is in me – that is in all of us.

Do I really love God or do I love His blessings?

I can spit a pretty good game – I even have myself fooled half the time.  But when push comes to shove, when life’s tiny tragedies and major disappointments set in, do I really fear and love Him? Or what He gives?

Because we talk so much of a near and present God, I sometimes forget where I actually stand before the One who spins the Universe in the palm of His hands.

I am a faithless whore; a selfish brat; a "sniveling coward" next to Him. (Tim Keller’s sermon “On the Mountain”)

So what do I know of God?

Of the God who makes the deep tremble, the earth shake, the lightning light up the sky, and yet leaves no footprints. (Psalm 77)

The God who roars like a jealous lion, fiercely beckoning His children back to Him. (Hosea 11)

The God who perfectly measured the foundations of the earth, who shut the doors of the sea, who commands the sun to rise every morning. (Job 38)

The God who knows every wish my heart has ever whispered. (Psalm 139)

Frankly, He knocked the breath out of me: a sweet reminder that I have nothing to offer Him. 

That He laughs at my bargaining devices.

That He is not to be tamed, controlled, or manipulated.

That all I need to gain an audience with Him is to drink grace down - to guzzle it like the thirsty beggar I am.

That I must come to Him empty-handed, or not at all.

“Deep calls to deep at the roar of your waterfalls; all your breakers and your waves have gone over me. By day the Lord commands his steadfast love, and at night his song is with me, a prayer to the God of my life.” Psalm 42:7-8

On Hope: The Waiting Game and Van Gogh

This time in my life is marked by a season of tremendous uncertainty. Working hard, applying, interviewing, singing, writing purpose statements, rehearsing, submitting resumes, applying some more. And then. The worst of all: the dreaded Wait.

This weekend, as I watched Knoxville Opera’s production of L’elisir d’amore, I wanted to cry as the beauty of the evening washed over me: the visceral voices, the stunning music, the passion and humor.

But mostly I wanted to cry because it made me ache.  Ache to be on stage too. Ache to sing so elegantly. Ache for beauty that words won’t describe.  Ache to be a part of something so transcendent.

Truth is: I may never get that in this life.

Isn’t this the risk that all of us artists take?

Surrounded by other creatives who are searching and working and aching, I keep returning to the same passage in a letter Van Gogh wrote to his friend.

A word about Van Gogh: he was emotionally unstable, he was difficult to be around, his work was never appreciated in his lifetime, he could not maintain a steady job, he could not support himself, he committed suicide, and he loved Jesus.  He trusted what Jesus offers to us.

And He painted with hope.

“Christ alone… has affirmed, as a principal certainty, eternal life, the infinity of time, the nothingness of death, the necessity and the raison d’etre of serenity and devotion.  He lived serenely, as a greater artist than all other artists, despising marble and clay as well as color, working in living flesh. That is to say, this matchless artist… loudly proclaimed that he made … living men, immortals….

“For look here: the earth has been thought to be flat.  It was true, so it still is today, for instance between Paris and Asnieres.  Which, however, does not prevent science from proving that the earth is principally round.  Which no one contradicts nowadays.

“But notwithstanding this they persist nowadays in believing that life is flat and runs from birth to death.  However, life too is probably round, and very superior in expanse and capacity to the hemisphere we know at present. …

“However this may be, the fact is that we are painters in real life, and that the important thing is to breathe as hard as ever we can breathe.”

For all of his neuroses and instabilities (or perhaps because of them), Van Gogh understood that life isn’t flat, but round.  And if life is round, then so is our creative vision.

“For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.” 1 Corinthians 13:12

On Grace: Chocolate Shops and Red Pumps

This evening, snow on the ground and cups of tea in hand, my roommate and I curled up to watch the movie Chocolat.

And I’m not exactly sure how, but I know that Jesus was in that movie.

Vianne, the mysterious and provocative heroine of the film, moves to a tranquil French village to open up a chocolate shop.  She is unlike any creature the town has ever encountered.  She is womanly, warm, and alive.  She has rosy cheeks and wears fantastic red pumps every day.  She rescues a woman from an abusive husband.  She befriends a dying widow. She falls in love with a pirate.

She makes her home among the misfits and outcasts.

Vianne is a disruption to this little town in so many ways.  She forces people to come to terms with their desires: for chocolate, for love, for sex, for freedom, for excitement, for honesty.

She is vivacious and interesting and unheard of.

The mayor of the town, a very righteous and religious man, is so very afraid of Vianne; and of freedom, in general.  He’s afraid of losing control, losing power, losing social clout. And so he invites the village to fear her, too. They mock and reject her.

That is, until they see how attractive her life is. Until they step into her shop and feel safe for the first time. Until they taste her chocolate.

Late one night, as his control over the village rapidly unravels, the mayor breaks in to her chocolate shop to put an end to this freedom once and for all.  While destroying her beautiful display, a small taste of the delicious treat lands seductively on his bottom lip.  He tastes it: it is even more delicious than he imagined.  Frenzied, he stuffs his face full of chocolates before collapsing in a heap of broken sobs.

The next morning, Vianne finds him asleep, stretched across her shop window with evidence of last night’s offenses all over his face and hands.  And then she does something so beautiful:

She offers him a glass of water.  She promises that it will refresh him.  She promises that she will not tell.

She offers him grace.

She undercuts his religion with love.