The Privilege of Waiting

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Last night I got the weekly email: I've sold 88 albums this week for a grand total of 3,863 albums sold since my release date on February 12th. I've basically just told you how much I weigh and every dirty little secret I have.

Unless you are celebrating CD sales with a gold record in your hand- there is really no need for anyone to strut their numbers, especially numbers this paltry.

I laid in bed- refusing to cry.

But then it occurred to me that one time, when I was doing a wrapping paper fundraiser for middle school choir, I was desperately trying to win a plastic helmet that had a fan and flashlight attached to the top and a swirly straw that wraps around your entire head and lands in your drink- and I am sure I sold way more than $3,860 then.

The tears came.

I've sold more boxes of girl scout cookies.

Yesterday I crunched numbers. How much it costs to travel to where I am going, how much I pay the people who play the music for me on stage, how much for a hotel room. I think I've already lost money well into September. How is that possible- you wonder with shock? Last summer I was asked to perform before the headlining artist at a festival. They raved about how many people would be there and who I would be exposed to. Plus opening for the biggest of the best. They could pay me $750. That didn't include travel or lodging. And it didn't include my personal cost: paying a guitarist. Paying 15% to the booking agency who would handle the contract, who gets 15% of every show no matter what. And 15% to the managers who so bravely manage me. I would have gone in the hole by over $750. The girl booking the event later told me the headlining act was paid $45,000. And that was rock bottom for the artist.

So I crunched numbers yesterday and realized that I won't make money until September and even then it's a gamble. Then I got the email telling me how many albums I haven't sold. And I laid in bed and refused to cry. And then the image of that hat. That twirly gig hat from the 5th grade came and ruined it all.

I laid in bed crying my eyes out.

Now what? What do you do when Plan A or B or C  (or plan Q in my case) just seems to be hitting a dead end? For those of you who have followed my journey the past few years- you should know- I am still in the middle of the becoming. Putting 38 minutes of music down on an album didn't fix it. Didn't tidy everything up. It wasn't the clear-cut, decisive, Ah-Ha moment at the end of the desert that I had hoped for. I am closer, to be sure. There are all sorts of slivers and glimmers of light and answers and new ways and new life- but nothing fully formed yet. Answers don't come quickly. And even when you endure being nine months pregnant- labor and give birth to the baby- it's still months before they smile and years before their personality is decisively theirs. Even after the new thing arrives- you are still waiting. Still nurturing every moment because it leads to the next.

You are not alone in your waiting. I've heard about this couple who wanted to have babies so bad and were basically dead by the time they finally got pregnant. Mind you- they ushered in the birth of an entire nation that would change history forever- but the WAITING. OH THE WAITING.

So I am still in between. Still trying to figure out what happens next. And when? And why doesn't the current gig seem to really be taking off? And was I created for something more? Something different? Something better? And when- oh when- will I see the finish line? And for God's sake don't tell me there isn't one until heaven. Really. You really think that is what a lost, waiting person wants to hear? It's just all wrong turns and deserts and half dreams till you die baby. All halfsies and everything. See you in the promised-land!

Just tell me it's coming. Like Jesus does. The next step is coming. The goodness of the Lord in the land of the living is real. Old people have babies and young people change the world and middle people- like me- dream new dreams and take new adventures and get used up and spilled out and re-created a million times before the other side of eternity. Tell me that.

***

Back to the bedroom last night. I cried. And then- like usual- decided it was time for me to fix it once and for all.

I got on Monster.Com followed by Indeed.com. For two hours last night I searched for a job. A real life grown-up person job.

Let me tell you what- if you are a phlebotomist, you're in luck.  Apparently we need about 800 of them in this city. I've ruled out the Staff Scientist position at Vanderbilt. What is that- your token scientist? All I could envision was a room full of English professors and regents and then one frizzy-haired, white coat, crazy-eyed scientist lady who was running around the room laughing an evil laugh. Dollar General needs a merchandise designer. I could totally color-coordinate that store like Charming Charlie's. Dave Ramsey is hiring lots of people right now. But I didn't see my ideal job. If I'm going to work for Dave Ramsey, I wanna be his hype man. Just dark glasses and a turn table and my head bobbing all gangster style. The church jobs stare at me. I give them the evil eye. I refuse! Still, I spent a good chunk of time studying churches all over the country who are hiring-specifically churches along the ocean- because someone has to do it.

My friend, who is having a similar life crisis said that the guy spraying for bugs in her house yesterday told her she is always welcome to come work the front desk at the pest control place. There is nothing wrong with pest control. Truly. But for 12 years she has pursued her life's dream- shall it all end with 'Do you want to add roach repellent to that? And how about a mouse trap with your order?'

I hope not.

So the fighting and the waiting and the angst of figuring it all out rages on.

***

Waiting is a privilege that only the rich enjoy. It is a luxury for those of us not fighting to feed, clothe and educate ourselves and our babies. So in the middle of the angst- there is this:

I recorded an album and some radio stations played my songs. That is what some girls around the world can only ever dream for while they hang on for dear life and fight to survive.

This whole 'Waiting on becoming who God has created you to be and do and become' it is a luxury that generations before us have not enjoyed and a reality that people living in poverty have no concept of. There is no "waiting" when you have to kill a chicken to feed your family or walk three miles to fill up jerry cans with water or wait in line for hours on end hoping to see a free doctor because your sick baby needs medicine.

If you have options on the table- you are among the world's most rich. So I will count myself as blessed beyond measure.

Blessed. Beyond. Measure.

We wait as privileged people. I wait as a privileged person. Refusing to get too lost in the narcissism of a life that only swirls around my own dreams. Refusing to be too pitiful over the privilege of waiting and figuring things out little by little. Refusing to be a phlebotomist. Refusing to hand too many nights over to the fact that I've sold more girl scout cookies than I have albums.

Refusing to do anything but get up each day- sit on this porch- have a cup of coffee- listen for God's voice- and then keep moving into the vast- privileged-unknown of this life.

 

 

 

 

There will be Twix Bars for Breakfast!

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I fed her a Twix bar in bed at 11:30 p.m. Everything hereafter reasons to be punishment for the fact that I fed my 4-year-old a Twix bar in bed at 11:30 p.m.

At 4:40 a.m., two nights ago, I woke up in a sweat. We were staying in an old, two-story home tucked away deep in the woods of a college campus in Rome, Georgia.  Earlier that day I saw a young, nerdy guy in his early 20's walk into the local Starbucks with an archaically long pistol holstered boastfully to the outside of his blue jeans. Followed by an old woman who was sure enough in a moo-moo with no undergarments. But that is neither here nor there. Just scenes that flashed through my head at 4:50 a.m.

But back to 4:40 a.m.

I woke up in a sweat. Nestled into a 4 poster bed with Annie, on the second floor of the house deep in the woods- I was tossing and turning- covered in sweat. I woke up. We were both on top of the covers. I felt Annie and she was hot too. In a sleep stupor, I cracked the door and went down the hallway of the old house. I remembered seeing a thermostat in the hallway. 78 degrees. 78 DEGREES?!?!? It's summer in the middle of Georgia. Old ladies wear m0o-moos to Starbucks without undies. Who set this thing on 78 degrees?!? Still in my sleep stupor, I cranked the dial down to an ungodly number.

And instantly it kicked on and the doors to the four rooms along the old hallway sucked shut.

I stumbled back to my room, numbered R3, to find a locked door.

You know the feeling when you nod off while driving and the sound of the rumble strips, or an 18-wheelers horn, snaps you out of it? It's an instant wake-up call.

Awake. Alert. Aware.

That was me at 4:40 a.m.

I tried coaxing the handle into not being locked. Jiggling it softly and then quickly turning to the left and right. Tricking it into thinking it was not locked. A girl has to try. It was clear this would not work. So I went to my band mate's room who was sleeping across the hall from us. I knocked. I knocked again. And again. And then I started calling her name. "ANNNIIIIEEEEE WAKE UP." Nothing. "ANNNNIIIIIEEEEE I'M LOCKED OUT." Nothing.

I learned something valuable about big-girl Annie (as little girl Annie likes to call her)... if there is a tornado in the middle of the night, I should rescue her. Otherwise SHE WILL DIE.

"OK Jenny. There has to be a way you can pick the lock. You can do this. Think like a criminal."

Next to my door was a writing desk of sorts. On it were cards advertising the camps summer marriage series. Next to the cards were 3 creepy glass cats who were staring at me. No pens. No paper. No hidden room keys. Just the cats who stared. And then- I saw what was in the middle of the table- an urn surrounded by flowers. My heart stopped. Seriously? An urn surrounded by flowers? What kind of sick person wants to die and be left at summer camp?!?

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Focus Jenny. There was nothing to pick the lock with. It was time to explore the old house in the woods but can I just say- I am not a thrill-seeker. I don't find any joy or sick pleasure in being in an old house, in the woods, in the dead of night, with glass cats and urns staring at me. I scoured the house. There weren't any phones. No TVs for that matter. No hidden keys. No kitchen where I can find utensils to pick the lock. Nothing. My car keys are in the bedroom. My cell phone is in the bedroom.

5:00 a.m. rolls around. It is raining. Soon there will be thunder. Soon Annie will wake up to the sound of the house shaking in the dark woods and I will not be there. She will be in a new room- on an old Victorian bed several feet off the ground- she might as well wake up in a death trap- and she will call my name and I won't be there.

I ran upstairs and took the camp's marriage cards with 3 annoyingly happy looking couples and began to whittle them away. I would pick the lock. I had to. There may not be a single piece of metal in the entire house but by God I will try and re-create it. With slivers of card-stock I wriggle and wrestle with the lock.

The 3 creepy glass cats cheer me on! The urn person becomes my cheer-ghost! The annoyingly happy couples slide in and out, in and out. You can do it! With hard work and therapy and Jesus and a getaway to this magical house- you can do it! I try the happy white couple. Then I try the happy Hispanic couple. Then I try the happy bi-racial couple. None of them work. None. I try my fingernails. I try waking the other Annie again. No use. That girl might be dead. I turn my thoughts back to Annie. Poor little thing. She couldn't get into the bed by herself and she was afraid to get out of it because it was so high. My only option now was to wait by the door until she woke up and then tell her to jump. OK, slide. But I might as well be telling her to jump off Niagara.

I lay down with my nose touching the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move. A furry black spider. Awesome and of course. I stand up in fear. I don't have a shoe- all I have are my glossy couples on card stock- and they have failed miserably to save the day.

All I can do is wait.

Finally- thunder claps so hard she wakes up crying "Mommy. Mommy. I'm scared."  And I am trapped on the other side of the door. I feel sick to my stomach. It's just a door. It's just an old house in the woods. But- oh my gosh- this is what it feels like to not be able to take care of your baby when they are scared. To try everything in your power and still not be able to reach them. Literally- every mom or dad or grandma or grandpa or lover who has ever wanted to protect their person, but couldn't, ran through my head. And now it's 5:30 and I am crying for Annie and for the whole world. And the cats are staring at me and judging me and the dead person in the urn is crying too. Want to break my heart? Make it impossible for me to be with my little girl when she is scared.

"ANNIE. Baby. Listen to me. Mommy's locked out of the room!!! Isn't that silly? And I need you to come rescue me!!! Can you be my hero and come rescue me?"

"MOOOMMMMY."

"Annie. Can you hear me?"

"Yes, Mom."

"I need you to be brave and slide off the bed and come unlock the door for mommy. Can you do that?"

Nothing. Silence.

SHE FELL BACK ASLEEP.

Seriously?!?

I knock on the bedroom door. "ANNIE. BABY you have to come rescue me. Wake up! You can do it! Come save mommy!"

"I'm sleeping mom. Just open the bathroom door."

"I'm not in the bathroom baby. I'm in the hallway and there is a SPIDER AND I NEED YOU TO RESCUE ME."

Spider is a trigger word in our family. It leads to screams-tears-convulsions.  I saved it until I absolutely had to. And it worked. It was her rumble strip. Instantly Awake. Alert. Aware.

"I'm a little bit scared mom but I'm gonna be brave!"

"OK baby- I'm so proud of you! You can do this! You're my HEEEERRRROOOOOO."

I hear a thud followed by "whoa!".

Little feet running to the door. I coached her through unlocking the tiny lock. She didn't think she could do it. She had never done it before.There were a few moments I was a little unsure myself. And then- she flung the door open with as much pride as she could muster.

She was wide awake and squealed with joy. "I SAVED YOU!!!!!!!"

I picked her up and put her back in the bad and thanked her for being my hero.

"Mom. I thought you were in the bathroom so I just went back to sleep."

"I know baby- it's OK. It was confusing."

"Yeah, but then I realized you were locked outside like a pet."

That line still makes me giggle. Her eyes were getting heavy. And I couldn't stop smiling. I was so proud of her.

"Mom- can I have the other part of that Twix bar for breakfast since I rescued you?"

This is the smartest child alive.

Even at 5:30 a.m. She snuggled close.

"Yes baby- you're my hero and heroes get whatever they want for breakfast."  She smiled. And we fell back asleep knowing

 there will be Twix bars for breakfast.

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My hero.

 

 

 

 

 

Running, Birds and an Evil Hawk

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It is 6:59 a.m. and I am sitting on my front porch watching birds. Annie, my four-year-old, is still sound asleep. I'll admit. She sleeps in late everyday. Most days I have to wake her at about 9:00 a.m. But if you have a child, please don't be jealous. In her waking hours she runs laps across parks and fields for fun. Then she does it again and again. Then she doesn't nap. She doesn't even honor "quiet time." Instead, she sings at the top of her lungs in character voices. Strange characters that she has made up. Then, when quiet time is over, she runs more laps. And she always, always wants me to run with her. And I do. Because I don't have a desire to produce a sibling for her to run with. So I run more laps out of guilt that she's not going to get a real-life-sister-in-a-cage for Christmas like she really wants. And I dance. And sing in character voices and then run some more.

And she unfolds this way with gusto, passion and slightly creepy superhuman energy each and every day. She is a freak of nature.

So don't be envious that she is still asleep. Soon she will wake. The giant will awaken from her slumber.

Until then- I sit and cherish the silly, mindlessness of watching the birds in the trees directly across from my front porch.

There are millions of birds, if not hundreds, who live in these trees. I know. Because they wake me up every morning. Whoever the ring leader is, he starts his yapping each morning around 4:00 a.m. when it is still dark and still night time. By 5:45 a.m. they are in full swing.

*Side note: My new neighbor just walked out and got in his car with a metal Star Wars lunch pail. There is no kid in sight. Please tell me this isn't a thing grown men do? Is it?

There are three birds who are clearly in love with each other. They bicker and fly around each other and chase one another. There is definitely some tension between two of the birds. They are clearly both chasing the other bird. And the other bird (it has to be a sassy pants girls) is clearly enjoying leading them on a chase. She is not making it easy for them. She is weaving in and out of trees like a wild woman. I think she is trying see which of the other two birds will die first. One of them- oh my gosh- yep, one of them is going to smash into a tree branch any second now and die. Then I will have to have a small service and bury it so the neighborhood cat doesn't get it and drag it around and leave it on my stairs for me to explain to my hysterical four-year-old why there is a dead bird head on our front porch.

I was so unprepared for a bird funeral today. Why can't they just try polygamy?

There are about ten birds playing chase or follow the leader or some sort of game like that. They are free like children. I follow their patterns as they follow each other around power lines, up trees, swirling around a squirrel and resting on tree branches for mere nano-seconds before taking off after the next leader. This is their version of summer fun.

There are two birds sitting in the little tree to my right. They must be the elder of the birds. They are buried in the branches, perched and sometimes talking. Mostly resting. Mostly just being. A cluster of birds fly by to occasionally taunt these elders, perhaps begging them to come play, but they are not shaken. They have done their fair share of playing. Now they rest. I look at them and I wonder- will I ever rest?

They look back at me. Curious. Still. The breeze slightly swaying their branch. The breeze slightly blowing through my hair.

You are resting, child.

A host of birds chase a hawk. Every single morning this happens. This enormous hawk with vulture like wings and midnight black, leathery skin swoops down to the tops of our trees. I think he is after our baby birds. And we will have no part of that. No, we won't.

The birds rally the troops and begin to dive bomb the hawk from every direction. I take it upon myself to narrate. "That way!" "Left" "He's back peddling! Quick! "RIIIIGGHHHT" "YOU SON OF A"  "FREAKING BIRD EATER- GET HIM!!!!!!"

I gasp.

He appears to have gotten one. They press in harder. Making noises that sound more like wild baboons than birds.

"Birds unite!" "CHARGE!!!!"  "KILL HIIIIIMMMMM," I say with gusto.

OUT. LOUD.

I freeze.

Oh my gosh. I just said that out loud. I just narrated that out loud didn't I?

I quickly scan the other front porches in my row of condos to see if anyone else may have heard me narrate the epic battle. With overwhelming relief, I see no one. But I'm sure my neighbor, whose front door is wide open heard me. I am sure she is thinking, "Please tell me this isn't a thing grown women do? Narrate bird battles while their child sleeps to an ungodly hour each morning."

What goes around comes around.

The two grand-momma birds are still sitting on the branches to my right. Unmoved by the epic battle. Or the flirting birds. Or the group of birds relentless in their quest for worms in my flower beds. Or the ones who are just flying to fly. Just to move. No. The grand-momma birds just sit. Knowing they will face those other responsibilities soon enough.  Knowing that cool, breezy mornings only happen for a few minutes each day. Knowing that the world will not stop while they sit and they will not get too far behind in their duties. What is truly all that pressing?

I hear Annie yelling my name now. She never wakes up gently. It is always with full gusto and passion. Soon she will say, "Hi mom. Should I tell you my dreams now or later? Do you want to play? I was thinking we could play princess and we can BOTH be princesses! What are we having for breakfast? When are we going outside? Do I HAVE to go to school today? Mom, I just want to run."

I know you do baby.

And the talking will not stop for the next twelve hours. And I am grateful for the moments on my porch. And I am grateful for her. And I am grateful for the old lady birds who speak Jesus to me. Reminding me of what rest truly is. And I am grateful I didn't have to bury a dead bird this morning. And I am grateful my neighbors don't judge me for being the bird lady. And I am grateful that we haven't caught the evil hawk yet. It gives me something to look forward to.

Tomorrow morning.

Here- where I find rest.