Listless Laundry

Its a blink
a passing through
A whisper of a smile
fading to blue

A flicker of memories,
A fade out of sound
It's a slow rise to fall,
A short flight to ground

Capture each moment
a fictitious firefly
Glow like the dawn
Until the dew dries

Its a world of not
Not of this world
It's a paper plane
A ribbon to curl

Stay in my hand
so as to feel the flutter
a heartbeat of a dream
a word from a stutter

I can't keep it up
the race to the page
where the words drop off
and I am replaced

By a quiet hum
a drilling of a drum
a nothing in place
of an average of sums

A bright spot I find
and rub it to gold
knowing that work
is a life that I sold

Keep in mind
Its not all the same
Some days are good
this one's a game

Back and forth
on a checkered board
Two steps behind
a ring of a chord

Twist me up
in a bundle of okay
Since that is the goal
from day to day

It's not about hills
It's not about depth
it's not about losing
or keeping my breath

It's all for the song
the one chorus I create
a symphony of small hums
a rhythmic, swift gait

Breaking out
Some day I will
Freely be sweeping
the lands that I fill

Exhausting the path
dusting the shelf
It's all just a matter
of making oneself

Laundry is Listless
But chores make change
Consistently resistant
God take me away

To a place of ever sunset
to a home of never alone
to a place of rest
And of peace for my soul

Loss and the Power of a Chocolate Chip

Last night my husband's grandmother died.

What is even more sad is that this is the third grandparent in the last five months that has passed away. Which means that my mother-in-law has no parents left. Stephen, my husband, said that he heard that death in older generations happens in 3's. I am not sure where that statistic comes from, but it seems to be true.

I made chocolate chip cookies last night before I heard the news, and somehow burnt every single one of them by the time the news had gotten to me. So much for trying to feed my husband's soul with some comfort sweets.

There is nothing comforting about carcinogens.

Loss and death is such an unfortunate part of life. Even last week, a receptionist that works next door lost her dad. She came over to my office to ask if I would get any mail that may be delivered since she would be heading to the funeral. I said of course, and just tried to say whatever words of encouragement that I could. She teared up.

The pain was so fresh.

This morning as I got into work to fill out bereavement paperwork so that I could attend the funeral in St. Louis, the woman from the next office over, came by with an entire box of unburnt, gooey looking, delectable chocolate chip cookies.

She just nodded her head, letting me know with her eyes that this was about her dad. And she thickly whispered "thank you so much". It was one of the most sincere thank you's I had heard in a long time. It choked me up.

I am not sure what I had said to her that would motivate her to give me the cookies, I just remember telling her I was sorry and asked if it was unexpected, and she said that he had been sick for a long time. She even mentioned that is was almost a relief now that he was no longer in pain, but the absence of him was just as hard to deal with. Perhaps I was just a stranger to talk to when she really needed an ear. Maybe I said something that really helped her, or most likely, I just cared enough to listen.

I am not tooting my own, "I am so hospitable that every time I perform an act of kindness it warrants baked goods from people I don't know" horn, but this is more of a sincere "thank you" to the woman who has a broken heart for giving me the cookies. It was so kind, and it was so ironic in the light of our recent loss. Ironic isn't the right word, providential is better.

Also, this is a cultural "thank you" to the South. I know it seems a little strange to say.

But I was raised in Seattle. Seattle tends to be a closed-off culture to transplants. I had learned to avoid eye contact with people in the elevators, not to smile at people on the street, and to always bring a book anytime that I fly somewhere so that I wouldn't have to talk to the person next to me. This is of course a generalization of Sea-town culture, but for me it was true. This last year I have noticed a softening around my edges.

I allow men to open my door, since they always do. I even say good morning to people in elevators now, and don't break out in a sweat if a stranger asks me for directions (although I am the last person in the world to ask for directions, ever!). And today I found out that I now take time to listen to people when they are hurting, I think I used to be too busy with my own life to even notice.

So this weekend as I head to a funeral, the third one in a string of loss, I will remember that while death is a part of life, sometimes grief is an emotional bridge that connects people who may otherwise be closed off. Grief allows for the divine to take place, and for each of us to try and be the hands and feet of God- nothing grandiose, just something sincere.

I will never underestimate the power of a chocolate chip cookie again, or the innate power of giving just a second of your time to someone who needs it.


Image Courtesy of LC Photography

Bedspreads and Cold Coffee

This morning I woke up late, stumbled around the house trying to clean the kitchen, pay all the bills and get ready for work while drinking cold coffee and willing myself to have a good day. Throwing back the last of the lukewarm caffeine, I gritted my teeth clenching my moral determination, "I will get through this Thursday with a happy heart." To be honest, this week I have had the mirror of self analysis held up to me more than I would like- the refining process of marriage...so necessary and yet so aggravating.

My husband and I had one of our "talks". These usually revolve around my unhappiness in my artistic ambitions and his imploring that I try to find the good in the small things, the life we have now. I even get headaches now when we revisit this conversation because we have pounded this stretch of mental pavement into gravel.

Why is it that those who love us the most have the highest potential to make us the most mad and the most motivated? In a very kind way, he basically told me that I have been wearing my emotions on my sleeve this week- which I am always blithely unaware of. I imagine my emotions look something like a straggly patch of flimsy denim, worn down and faded- a dream soaked, reality marred square.

In this particular conversation, part 312 of a running series, he reminded me to zoom out a little. Of course I rolled my eyes, and rolled over. Thinking to myself, "Why don't you just zoom out!" After I let the rub of his comments subside, I tuned back in. He went on to explain that life is not dictated by our own scale, or own perception of our life's importance. The legacy and goals that we want to achieve does not affect the work God does but rather he is the One who gives us what we are supposed to do. So I was thinking, even now? Even at my day job? Even when I live such a small existence?

He said, I want you to be happy living our simple life. Which made me very sad to hear, since I truly do enjoy our life together. Very much so. Our love is the best thing in my life. I am just afraid I am not living up to my potential. Which is such a weird thing to say, as if someone has etched one of those height charts on the wall and I am just shy of where this hypothetical "living up to" stretches.  He summed up the conversation with this, "He hasn't forgotten about you."

And that's when I lost it. Because some days, that's exactly what it feels like. Forgotten.

I was thinking this conversation over as I was scurrying around this morning. I headed into the bedroom to make the bed. Everyday that I don't make the bed I feel like I am a little less prepared for the day. 

Messing with the sheets and pulling them this way and that, our cat Mojo sprung into action. He thinks that I am making the bed just so that he can dash back and forth on the bedspread, pulling strands of it loose with his nails  as he maniacally tries to catch the wind that comes when I lift the comforter.

I talk to my cat, quite a bit. Ahem. I know...

 

So I say, " Mojo, it's not all about you!"

I  shoo him off the bed, finger a few of the loose strands in frustration and pull the edges of the bedspread down, put the pillows in place, smooth out the wrinkles, and let my own words sink in.

If Mojo wouldn't run back and forth across the bed while I am trying to make it, it would take a lot less time to get the task done, and there would be a lot less loose strings. All because he wants to chase something he can never catch, my bedspread is on a steady path to it's rapid decline (when it becomes nothing but a big wad of silk strands and cat hair). Also his nonsensical darting makes the task of getting the bed made efficiently near impossible.

I am sure you are getting the parallelism.

Maybe if I just stood still, hung out around the sidelines of the "life bed" that is being made all around me, I wouldn't get so caught up in the loose ends and make so many mistakes. Maybe I wouldn't continually chase after something that isn't ever going to get caught.

And so, this is what I have to say about this: Life isn't perfect, but I love the bed I've made.

 

Hyperbole and Bologna

I exaggerate.

Sometimes.

We all do.

However, I tend to exaggerate things in my life that are only microscopic flutterings in comparison to true tragedy. Since I don't have the ideal this-or-that, I don't have such-and-such, or look like so-and-so-, I bemoan, "my life is such a disappointment!" Is it? And then I wail with my head in my hands, "I thought I would be somewhere by now, and I'm not! I am a failure!" Am I?

Vanity is such a visceral entity within my heart. A sickness that feeds into the empty side of my soul- one that I am trying to fill with humility, contentedness, and in short- God.

Every morning when I drive to work, I hit the light that intersects between 12th South and 8th Ave. And every morning there is a gentlemen that I see walking to the bus stop. He is usually dressed in a flimsy gray t-shirt and jeans, unless it is bitterly rainy or cold, then he will have his black rain jacket on. He always wears thick glasses, ones that look as if they are going to slip right off his face and bulky white shoes. He walks with a severe limp, which is met by his twisted face and limp right arm. He literally drags himself across 8th Ave in a choppy meter of topple and twist.

He is extremely punctual. I can actually time myself by where he is at on the sidewalk. On days that I am running late, I see him flushed and fatigued, waiting on the bus stop bench. When I am running early I can see him two blocks away from the 12th and 8th light.

I have no idea how long he walks to get to the bus. I don't know if he just travels the stretch of street that I can see , or if he comes from a much further place. I don't know if something happened to him or if he was born with such physical disabilities. I don't know what is so imperative that he drags himself to that bus stop every day, but he is determined, strong, and an unlikely hero.

I imagine that he has a job that he takes pride in, one that others take for granted or consider undesirable. I imagine that people stare at him, make fun of him, or even worse look the other way. Yet he decides to walk the miles. I imagine that he has had to overcome a lot more in his life than a deflated dream, a waning bottom line or a broken heart. He lives his life in brokenness. He lives his life in a state of distortion. Yet, he may be more whole than I am.

There are days that I drag myself out of bed, hungover by life's letdowns and my own slip-ups, but there is no reason I should ever exaggerate my problems. That's just hyperbole bologna, a crock pot of crap that says nothing of the true gifts I have in my life.

Watching this man, for just a few seconds every day, calls me to conviction. I don't pity this man, I am inspired by him. I smile at him when I think he may see me, but I don't think he does. I don't know if he has a family that tells him how special he is. I don't know if he knows how his morning walk is a testament to all of the 9-5ers, one of which (me), is compelled to applaud his arduous journey.

I have an easy road. My morning commute is just a microcosm in the gridlock of my journey but if I can't find the simple pleasure in being on the path that I am, I will be forever paralyzed.

I can not imagine who I would be if I was faced with some real challenges. I know I would be ugly. I know I would just give up and stay in bed. There is no way my pride would allow me to step one foot out the door, let alone travel a long road in pain and ridicule.

If there is a place for exaggeration, it should be how blessed I am. I am not saying that if we aren't physically marred, or mentally disabled that we can't hurt. Of course we all hurt, life is sometimes unjust, sick, and evil.

But if its just the simple grate of monotony that skins our hope raw, maybe we should try a different approach. Maybe we should embrace another "one of those days". Some people, like my 8th avenue angel, would give anything to have one normal moment. Take just one step that wasn't riddled with stinging pain or burdened by a humiliating hobble. Live just one day not perceived as different. Feel just one second of acceptance instead of the daily ostracism.

Here I am trying to stand out, when some people's only wish may be to fit in.

While I am fully able physically, there are days (more than I would like to admit) where I am crippled by laziness, envy, anger, self-interest and pride.

And in all honesty, my 8th avenue angel and I are more the same than different.

We are just a couple of cripples.

Art Courtesy of David Band

Premonitions

So after my "missing home and mailer envy" blog yesterday, I got home to find a little brown envelope from my dad. It was a CD full of photos of the farm during this winter. It was as if he knew what I must have been feeling...and no he doesn't read my blog.

It was a little answered prayer, and even though I couldn't physically feel the snow crunch under my feet, or smell the damp air, or feel the bite of the chill against my skin, it was as close to the real thing as I am going to get for awhile.

Sigh.

Blue Skies and Barns

So something very sad happened to me today.

At my day job, I have many important tasks. Perhaps the most esteemed of my daily duties is to get the mail from the 6th floor. And while getting the mail may seem like a post-modernistic chore for a female in the new millennium, not unlike transcribing in a tight sweater for a chauvinistic boss, I enjoy gathering the letters.

I have always been a fan of the written word, and even recall as a young girl writing letters to my next-door neighbor (yes, next door) with a calligraphy pen by candlelight. I would even seal the envelope with a wax seal...I was convinced for quite a while I was born in the wrong era, hence the obsession with riding horses bareback and dressing up in hoop skirts while watching Anne of Green Gables. Aside from that embarrassing reveal, I have always loved correspondence.

I love the romanticism that a letter carries. The way a thought flows from the bleeding point of a pen to the awaiting canvas of a blank page. It's spontaneous and provides proof of human existence. In a robotic age, less and less handwriting is to be found, making it more and more priceless. There is no back space or spell check with a note. It's genuine, unpolished, just what this culture needs- a little less perfection and a little more intention.

And how can we forget the importance of mail delivery and retrieval in United States history? The unofficial slogan goes, "Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail shall keep the postmen from their appointed rounds."

And on this sleet soaked, rain pelted, snow flurried Thursday- it is a testament to the wherewithal of the United States Postal workers. The mail was there for me to fetch. So what was so sad about that?

Well, I also have the task of sorting the mail, and throwing out the garbage, because we always get advertising mailers. We got one in particular from Whitehall Printing Company today, that had a picture of the mountains and a barn on it. And I felt a tensing in my throat. A prick of tears in the corner of my eyes.

Over some barn and a little blue sky...on a mailer!

I realized in that moment how desperately my soul is seeking wide open spaces. A little room to breathe. A mountain to make me feel small. Clean, rain-scented air tickling my nose. How badly my heart misses home.

I went on a hike the weekend before last at Radnor Lake and it was the first time in a long time I was surrounded by nature. I couldn't stop commenting on how beautiful it was. I couldn't stop smiling. I didn't want to leave (granted the hike was two hours long, so I got my fill), but the point is that my artistic drive gets so easily stuck in the gridlock of common day drab. Traffic noise, ringing phones, beeping texts, news alerts, stop lights, green lights, it's such a matrix of distraction. It's tiring.

I just need one weekend in the Cascade's wearing some frayed jeans driving down Highway 2, smoking a vanilla cigarette listening to the best of Patty Griffin, Kathleen Edwards, and Dido. But my open-space adventure will have to wait, because there is a reason I am here in Nashville. Everyday, I can see little stitches being sewn across the quilt of my life's common theme. God is recreating me. This era is a patch of necessity. I know that Nashville will also be a place I miss at some point. So I am going to truly enjoy everyday that I have here.

In the meantime, I will just stare at this mailer and hope that someday I get the chance to get back to the basics- blue sky and barns.

Someday.

Skip a Beat

Life is so short. (so much so, that I am not going to take the time to figure out how to remove that annoying little box!)

This is something I have always known, but try not to spend too much time thinking about. Why focus on the end when I am barely over my quarter-life crisis? Well...I think in order to truly enjoy today you have to realize how small our lives are in scope.

This is not a blog dedicated to morbidity, but more so a rambling about the simple truth of supply and demand. There is a HUGE demand for full life, but the supply of days well, it doesn't equate.

I consider myself a content person, despite how I was raised- basically tattooed with Dale Carnegie slogans, "Dream Big!" "Never Settle!" "Go the Extra Mile!" "Do Something Everyday You Don't Want to Do!"

But if I look at my life through that lens, there are things I am "settling" for out of responsibility. Does that make me a failure? I sure hope not.

I know those types of motivational slurs are intentioned to inspire, but the truth is they tire me. I have done so many things in my life that I didn't want to do that I got to the point that if I was relaxing or enjoying myself I was worried I must be missing out on some big opportunity. Since being in Nashville, I have learned to slow my roll. I have learned to sip ice tea...not sweet tea, but I am getting the sipping part down.

My Seattle self was always in a hurry, impatient as all get out, and somewhat of a perfectionist. I needed to enjoy life more.

Because it's not about the doing, the pushing, the getting ahead- it is more so about taking a deep breath and enjoying the view while you can.

Truth be told, I was raised in a family where I thought I was special. Different. Going places. And, while I have "gone" places, there is a suffocating danger in that mentality. In retrospect, I spent the majority of my early twenties always peering over the horizon to see what tomorrow might bring, and today just became a stepping stone to that next rung, that next accomplishment, that next quantum leap. The next city.

Let me tell you what I have learned by exhausting myself in that way...it's meaningless.

Sharing wine with friends, watching shows, playing shows, writing thoughts, creating art, napping, talking, singing, laughing, playing games, meeting new people, reaching out to old friends...not for cash, not for pats on the back, but for the sheer joy and fulfillment that comes along with finishing and the complete renewal that comes from beginning.

For the first time in my life, I am enjoying every day. Not because everyday is wonderful- last night I ripped my favorite sweater, my expensive laptop crashed, and I am working more than full time- but I am truly enjoying the little gifts that life has for me.

I do think about the unlived lives that I still have in my veins, the dreams that still are hanging on that star I wished upon like 10 years ago, but that doesn't depress or discourage me, it makes me think that even though today may not be the best that there will always be moments of beauty to look forward to. Life hasn't let me down yet, it drops me on my head every now and then, but there is always something redemptive about the crash. Always.

I am now going to go for a run in this beautiful Nashville weather and then off to drink beer and hang out with my husband. And that my friends makes my heart skip a beat every time.

Blanket Statements

I just read one of my favorite blogs, Hootenannie, and was struck by something she wrote. Aside from the enjoyable list of why Pinocchio is the worst movie ever (agreed) it was her "plan or lack thereof" entry that gave me pause.

Recently she was let go from her job, I think all of us on some level have been singed by the boiling ball of America's economic blunders. The constant questioning is exhausting. How will I make ends meet? When will I get another job? What do I do while I wait for another job to come around? My husband and I just rode this merry-go-round for two months before we got some relief, and a new job came through.

I went to a neighbor's house last night for some red wine and steak (which I actually ate, since there was no other option....I haven't had red meat in like.... well wait does beef jerky count?) anyway, we were by far the youngest people there, with the average age being 50 but, we got in where we fit in and had a great time.

I got in a conversation with a gentleman who had some thoughts on our present state as a nation, particularly the job market. He was convinced that it would get worse, especially for the older generation, since there is a smaller margin of jobs and more people trying to get them. He said that small business owners are the ones who are getting hit the hardest since there is no bail out plan for the less than corporate. True.

In the middle of that conversation, another one of his friends came over and said that the nation is going under and that he was glad he had just bought an AK-47 for when the war breaks out in the streets. For some reason he thought that Detroit would be the first place that the interpersonal dis-United States brawl would bust out. I just chewed my steak.

And then another voice chimed in from across the table, one of the chaps that I was most fond of, and he said "You know maybe I am an eternal optimist, to the point of foolishness, but you have to get up and go on. If you don't fight for a good life, what is there to live for? It will get better in time, and while we are waiting for that we should just enjoy nice nights like these and be thankful that we will make it through."

I swallowed my steak and murmured my agreement.

The thing is that this isn't an economic issue. It's a point of view issue. Each one of those men are dealing with the same problem but are approaching it from varying points of view. The reason that I was inspired to write this after reading Hootenannie was because of this line:
After being let go she said, "I have felt a burden lifted – a heavy weight that I didn’t recognize was there, since I was too busy convincing myself to be grateful for a job at all. But once I walked out of those heavy glass doors, box of possessions in hand, I felt it: I could breathe."

Talk about a refreshing point of view.

No matter if you have a job, no job or want to get out of your job, its your point of view that is going to say how successful or unsuccessful you really are. Our jobs don't define us, however our frame of mind sure does change how we view the world.

PS- The title of this blog has nothing to do with the content, I just love the phrase "blanket statements"

CRS and the Queen of the Name Droppers

For those who are not country music fans, this blog will mean nothing more to you than it should.

In the last three days I have seen the following people within a 3 foot proximity to myself:

Jamie O'Neal
Julianne Hough
Darryl Worley
Trent Tomlinson
Jason Michael Carrol
Jack Ingram

This week is CRS, which is a huge country radio shindig (my interpretation of the abbreviation), where everyone gathers to get or give interviews, be seen by anyone and everyone, look like they should be seen by anyone and everyone, and make big deals out of the deals they don't have. Hey, I'm not knocking it, I am one of those "big deals with no deal" , and let me just say it is exhausting, pretending to be way cooler than I really am.

Do not get me wrong, I like interviews and talking to people in the music industry and seeing Julianne Hough in a pair of white jeans...I hope they are making a comeback because I still have a pair of bedazzled ones in the back of the closet. However, something tells me I couldn't make them look as good as she did.

But perhaps the most exciting thing for me is seeing how much these "names" that we all like to drop, are just like us, except with better clothes, better make up and better jeweled jeans- and don't get me started on the women!

They had dreams just like mine, but theirs are coming true. They probably worked really, really hard and now are making the rounds and working the rooms, much better than I ever could.

For CRS I have been running down to the convention center on my lunch breaks and even after work to smuggle in a radio or TV interview. While I am waiting in the star-studded lobby I spend my time reading a book with a highlighter in the corner instead of jumping in the Kool-aid and swapping business cards and head shots with the so-and-so's. I am a very bad self-promoter, always have been.

Perhaps I should be getting in on the action, right? Only the squeaky mouse gets the cheese.

I assume that anyone smart and driven, would try and take advantage of such a rich, ripe room full of industry folks, radio DJ's, journalists and rising stars....but truth be told I am content to observe. I am content to do my interviews, make my appointments on time, and then walk back up 4th street in my heels and sit at my desk in my office with this little smile on my face, because I feel so Clark Kent-ish with my double life.

Maybe someday I will be one of those names that people drop, but to be honest what would that change about me?

To become a name worthy of being dropped there are quite a few sacrifices you have to make, it takes a lot of time and effort. People need your face time to remember you. The bittersweet thing for me is I have to say, I am questioning the worth of the exchange rate. I am fully aware that I made only a pithy fraction of the sacrifices that the "names" have had to made this week and in their lives- but here they are:

My pithy sacrifices:

I skipped on some morning devotions while preparing for online scripts, liners, and "shout outs". When I did finally get home after working full time and inserting interviews and tapings, I had to run straight to the computer to work on my free-lance writing gig (20 pages in two days), ignoring my husband to the point where I think he made himself Top Ramen for dinner every night, so sad. I have not been able to go on one run this week...not one! Do you know what that means for me....gosh, I can't even really believe it. I haven't been able to read one word of the two books that I have been dying to start, let alone write one lyric.

And so I wonder...for me, is it a healthy exchange?

There are those people here in Nashville who are trying to break into the business that would say, "You are such spoiled brat, you are complaining that you are getting traction with your record and you aren't even taking advantage of the media coverage and the opportunity? Don't you know there are people in this town that would give anything to gain a single inch in the direction of their dreams???"

Yes, I do know that. And I am very grateful for all of the great things that have happened for me in 2009 so far, that is why I moved my entire life 2000 miles away from home. But the truth is, if it came down to it I wouldn't give anything to be successful in music. There are things in my life that are far superior to becoming a "name". Maybe that makes me a fake, a media-attention tease, maybe that makes me less committed to my craft.

In Ecclesiastes it says that life is but a vapor so drink, eat and be merry for the days are few. you know what? There is always work to be done, clients to clinch, songs to sing, charts to climb, people to leverage, lies to tell, sugar to coat, smiles to fake...but there is also real life to live.

No, my life isn't glamorous, but when I find myself truly content it happens to be those moments of simplicity that ground me. I feel rooted in peace, when I have time to create a culinary masterpiece and drink wine with my husband (ok, maybe not masterpiece), curl up with a good book and learn more about God. Clean my house, while sipping on coffee and hearing the rumble of the dryer hypnotize me into a "I love my home" coma.

I am not going to lie, I get a buzz from doing the press stuff. I like putting the tool that I have honed for the last 10 years to use, it makes it feel like less of a waste. But like any buzz, if you are always looking for the next one you will find yourself unhappy, listless and hungover for life.

I am still learning it all, but I have been to the circus (not big tent circus, but you know small peanuts circus, BUT circus nonetheless) enough times to know that when the make up comes off, and the lights go down, and the crowds go home...there has to be a sober moment when the "names" ask themselves, "What am I doing this for?", and those that don't ask that are doing it for only one reason, themselves.

I am not saying that I am Mother Theresa, the selfless wanna be country singer who de-worms orphans in Somalia, I would never pontificate such humbleness, but I do know that my biggest reservations attached to pursuing music are directly bound to the motivation that progresses me forward.

I am called to create. Art is my gift, and unless it is used to bring into focus the beauty of other people's art and encourage them to continuing responding to the call of that type of worship, I am nothing but noise.

A German journalist asked me during this CRS week, "Why should people listen to you what makes you different than everybody else?"

I didn't have a good enough answer for him, and he basically told me that I was not that worth listening to if I didn't have one sentence in which I could sum that answer up. The thing is that I am not one of those people that can promote those kinds of "me-istic" answers like, "My music is so uber-amazing, that if throngs of people all over the globe don't go out and buy it they will be missing a cultural timestamp in the passport of their lives."

Not a chance, I am not that important.

Does anyone else find the question, "what makes you unique?" a little off-putting?

Maybe it makes me feel that way, because I don't think I am as unique as I am the same. Since I have started blogging I have noticed that I am not unique in my struggles or my joys. Which is a good thing! There are a lot of people who feel the same way I do, have the same dreams, have the same excitements and breakthroughs.

Community is developed through our similarities.

Having different backgrounds, interests, passions, cultures, and families does make us interesting, but not unique. We all have different lives, but we all feel the same emotions. Which is the bulk of what I write my music for, to promote community with strangers. Stories bring people together.

Let me sum it up by saying this, I love making music and I love being a little whisper in the shouting game of self-promotion and publicity.

But I am still searching for what God has for me to do, and the more I learn about him the less and less I realize it is never, nor ever will be, about me.

I am grateful to:
Steve Martin- Lex Broadcast
Dan Steber- Navy PSA Director
Lee Richey- WCJW Radio
Cyndi Bock- Give a Living Rose
Barry Shaheen- AFB Radio
Brett Dennen- KLMJ Radio

All of you made my CRS week fun, and I have to say I am still a little buzzed. : )

Crazy Little Thang

It's constant.

The surge of suspicion that perhaps where I am going isn't where I am supposed to end up.

It's never ending.

The second guessing of a first love.

It's looming.

The time when I will choose right or left.

It's daunting.

Knowing that the answers lie outside of myself, but the worldly noise is drowning out the whisper of wisdom.

It's rusty.

The confidence in my well oiled transportation is waning.

It's a crazy little thang.

My passions unevenly distributed with my ability.

It's stressful.

A bound ball of uneven cords, that twist and strangle divine opportunity by a brazen pay off.

It's a subtle art.

Trying to find what it is that will glorify the cause.

It's a burden.

Trying to make all ends meets, let alone have enough to tie a bow.

It's my life.

And I keep on running on the wheel, wondering when I can stop the momentum or at least match the cadence.

Peace.

I pray.

Give I take.