Like a Fist in a Bucket of Water

There is this little voice that I ignore most days.

Today, I could not ignore it.

This voice tells me that I am replaceable. That I am nothing but a butt in a chair. I am nothing but a faceless being.

A forgettable happening.

I know where this voice comes from.

It comes from my biggest fear. My biggest fear is dressed in a black coat, her head hangs down shielded from visibility and her face is drawn- emaciated from missed opportunity.

My biggest fear sits on an empty park bench, convincing herself she wasn't meant for anything more.

I filmed an insurance commercial last week. I was cast as a bride who was waltzing with her father on her big day. The location was the Schermerhorn Nashville Symphony ballroom, complete with marble floors, stately pillars, and vintage chandeliers that drizzled down from various points of the cathedral ceiling.

It was beautiful.

The only problem was that my "dad" couldn't waltz.

Well, let me rephrase that.

He couldn't snap his fingers, clap his hands, tap his toes, or even nod in rhythm. He wouldn't know a beat from a basketball.

It was mortifying.

It took us a trillion takes to go in one succinct waltz circle.

The voice that I usually ignore was screaming inside my head, "This is your fault! If only you knew how to waltz you could lead this poor man, and you wouldn't be blacklisted from any and every Blue Cross Blue Shield job in the future. Why are you so unprepared?"

However, every single person in the room, the dance instructor, the directors, the PA's, and even the guy whose only job is to blot sweat off of people (yes that is a job)- told me over and over, LET HIM LEAD!

And so I did. The problem was that this guy had no idea how to lead. And yet I still had to wait for him to get it.

In application, I am not saying that God doesn't know how to lead me, but I certainly have a hard time letting Him.

After many failed attempts, we finally got the take- long after blisters had begun to appear and my temples were throbbing from frustration.

I gathered my things and left the shoot feeling deflated.

My biggest fear was staring me in the face. Who knows how much longer they would have gone without replacing me- or cutting me out of the commercial altogether. The truth is, they still may.

Awhile ago I had my boss tell me something that to this day still plays in my head. Usually I hear the playback in the moments when I doubt my life's direction, when my biggest fear is being most vocal.

I was standing at the edge of his desk, feeling hot and edgy from his undeniable gaze of his scrutiny. He doesn't judge you outwardly, you just feel this constant squashing- its an action that is hard to define but so definite.

"It is so amazing to me that people think they are irreplaceable."

I wasn't sure if he knew I was a person- a part of the "people", and that by default he was referring to me, but I swallowed hard and nodded my head in agreement.

To his credit, that day one of his employees had ran a backhoe into the city of Paducah's gas line and shut down an entire section of the city's gas.

I would prbably be in a bit of mood too.

"You know what I say? Go put your fist in a bucket of water. If you pull it out and there is still an imprint of your hand in the bucket, then you are irreplaceable. If not, well, you aren't."

The law of physics would say that he is right.

However, I disagree.

If only for a second, the fist made a difference, no matter how small or for how long. And while the fist didn't leave a permanent impression, it still made one in transition.

Granted, I wouldn't want my "fist time" in this hypothetical bucket of water to be marked by endangering a corner of a small Kentucky town, but you get the point.

We are all in transition. We are all fists in a bucket of water.

And if my God is the God I think He is, there is a purpose for it. However irrelevant it seems, however minute, however deprecating- he is leading us to something. He is leading us to our purpose. We just have to wait.

Nothing in this world is permanent, except for the irreplaceable call that God has given to each one of us.

The truth is I don't plan on having my fist in a bucket of water for the rest of my life. I don't want my worth to be determined by how long I can remain still in a motionless vat of time.

There is an ocean of opportunity out there, and while my biggest fear tells me just to settle for the stagnate water of some beat up container- my hand is shaped into a fist.

And I am ready to fight for the life God has planned for me.

Hopefully waltzing isn't a part of the program.

Incandescent Strategies and a Failure to Plan

I am not wealthy.

Not by any means.

Despite that fact, I somehow got talked into going to a financial planner last night to, shall we say, asses our assets.

I felt so strange sitting cross-legged from two men in suits- both of which were suffering from a severe case of "facial fidget". One raised his eyebrows to make a point. The other twisted his face every three minutes, looking as if he had popcorn lodged in every single one of his molars. While the florescent lights gleamed off of their sweaty brows I could see myself in the overly polished banquet table, my fingers fidgeting- my mouth dry from boredom.

I wondered if I looked as young and frugally clueless as I was. I wondered what they were truly thinking about their jobs. Were they happy? Did they buy into the product they were selling, or did they get home at night and down a six-pack to get the stink of desperation off their clothes.

I am not bad with finances, I just have no idea how to invest. I associate the word investment with risk, and I am not a risky person.

After these two gentleman had spent enough time placating us about our interests- feigning attentiveness to my dwindling music career and offering unduly inquisitiveness to Stephen's small and antiquated portfolio- I heard him ask me, "So, where do you see yourself in 3-5 years? What's most important to you?"

This is where I have two answers. One I think. And one I say.

My mind reacts first and rushes to answer.

"Honestly, I see myself further immersed and ever-exhausted from the never ending march that is growing up. I am sure I will have some kind of job change- elation followed by disappointment. Which will be subsequent to a round of writings that I attempt- yet never finish. Reinventing myself by means of regression, I suppose. We will still be getting by, but we won't be getting anywhere."

But instead of being so dark, so brash, so frank- I bat my eyelashes, grab my husband's hand and say what I know they want to hear.

"Well I want to be a mother soon and work from home. So I am hoping to have a book published by then, or at least a steady freelance gig. I know that is never a reliable profession, especially with little ones pattering about. So I am most interested in security. Security and reliability."

Really?

And it all sounds so neutered. It all sounds so benign- what of adventure?

I remember a movie in the '80s called The Adventures in Babysitting. I believe Elizabeth Shue was in it. Anyway, somehow they get wrapped up in some kind of Mafia deal, since they venture out of the 'burbs and head to the Big City.

What I find most strange about these types of films, is their definition of adventure.

Let's see, any other examples?

The Adventures of Indiana Jones, hmm...drinking snake's blood? Yep. Dangerous.

How about, Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure? Time travel in a phone booth is very dangerous- there are no inflatable flotation devices or lights that lead to exits.

And of course Mark Twain's Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Being a revolutionary vying for tolerance in the throes of a racist society at the age of thirteen? While I reckon you could get hanged for that, son.

Adventure is always associated with danger in Hollywood- it's the same in life. That's why so many of us don't take one.

I guess my point is this.

I don't have any fool-proof strategy for my finances, or for my life. All of those air tight approaches, like IRA's, 401K's and mutual funds, or job securities, insurances for your insurance, kids on leashes, and swallowing all of your wants in the bitter name of need- it isn't the way we were meant to live.

The idea of planning is flawed. Because we plan ourselves right into skepticism. We plan our lives around the hope that wealth will replace the natural appetite for invention and ingenuity. We are all given the tools to create our own adventure from birth, and yet we choose to set it aside for a time when the risk is lower- a time when the people who we don't want to disappoint won't be.

If we are planning for a plan- that is what we will get. The blueprint of a life- without building one.

This isn't entirely remediable, unfortunately.

We do not live in a two dimensional world.

We live in a world that is hinged upon any and every person we see, meet, love and avoid. Our summation of day-to-day viability is a complex math problem that is divided by an infinite amount of variables.

Turn left? You get the kids.

Turn right? You get the job.

Forge ahead? Who knows.

Maybe we shouldn't worry about sticking to the plan. Maybe we all need to stand on the edge of reason now and then- just to be reminded how far we would have to fall to fail.

The truth is- plans are what fail.

But adventure?

Now that is a strategy.

Going Home but Staying Gone

I just returned from Seattle to Nashville.

To be honest, I am relieved to be home.

And not home in the sense, that this is where I belong forever- home as in the distinct, yet foggy feeling that something just isn't quite right with the person I am underneath the hood of the forever overcast.

I have some evolving still to do.

I have built a life here in Nashville.

Despite renouncing my musical dreams and trading them in for a dozen pairs of cat-hair covered slacks and the endless possibilities of excel spread sheet combinations, I love the person I have become and am becoming. It was my hope that I would go home, and people would take stock- that they would notice that I've changed.

I am no longer so insecure. No longer so headstrong and selfish, no longer the weak girl who would waver to please anyone who showed interest.

Nobody noticed a single shred of difference in me.

But I don't blame them.

Instead of being the new me, I quickly fell into patterns of the old me.

It was a strange observation, since I was mostly watching myself outside of myself, but I was feeling oppressed by the ghost of the former me.

It sounds spookier than it actually was.

The reason for the trip was to go to my husband's 10 year high school reunion. I was not much into high school myself and actually decided to graduate from a small sect of online-learners as opposed to the whole to-do of public education matriculation.

He, on the other hand, was very involved and was very much looking forward to the whole she-bang.

I was a nervous wreck. I spent hours getting ready, hated the way I looked, couldn't find my lucky earrings, downed a couple glasses of wine and tried to hold it together.

The reason is that more than anything in the world, I hate being judged. As the former homecoming king and class president's wife I felt this strange pressure to live up to expectation, and vainly I wanted to exceed them.

The truth is, that as someone who preaches that we should find our worth in God, this last weekend I was tested and failed.

I put my worth in how I looked.

I put my worth in the compliments I did or didn't get.

I put my worth in drinking wine, and later found myself howling at the moon.

The truth is, I was humbled.

I have a long way to go before I become who I want. I have a long way to travel before I make the final trek home.