The Funny Thing About Chasing Butterflies...

In my laundry room, on a wall above the chest freezer, is a "vintage inspired" print.  It's bold with an orange butterfly dominating the 3 ft. by 3 ft area, and huge metallic letters that say, "Follow Your Dreams."  At the time I bought it, we had moved from CA to TN to do just that.  Back then, my dreams seemed crisp and defined - with each segment on my road to success clearly spelled out.  Segment 1 - move - check.  Segment 2 - finish degree - check, check.  Segment 3 - make appropriate connections and take the music business by storm...uh, hmmm.  Segment 4 - complete a breathtakingly perfect demo of my "A list" songs that will, of course, ultimately earn me a grammy for songwriter of the year...uh oh.

The butterfly taunts me every time I mundanely do laundry or dig a frozen pizza out for dinner (don't judge, it happens sometimes).  I remember when I first bought the print - still flushed with adrenalin and reeling with disbelief that we had actually moved all the way out here.  It glistened at me from the wall at Pier One, and I bought it.  It was my muse, the summation of what we were doing, and the mantra I quoted with giddy enthusiasm when people marveled at our bravery.  So how, in three years, did it go from a place of honor over my piano, to the wall space over the freezer, next to the detergent?

We are a culture who values the maverick, that dashing daredevil who takes mad risks - we love to watch their shows and cheer them on while sitting on the couch eating microwave popcorn.  We are bombarded with flickering images of what we should be "dreaming of," and we work ourselves to death chasing it.

I've chased this dream of being a hit songwriter through one of the top music publishing companies in the world, and one of the biggest artist management firms in Nashville.  But I'm discovering the marriage of the music business with my creative process, feels a lot like putting a heavy harness on a riding pony, and asking it to plow the back forty.  Its being crushed.

I suppose learning you don't love the music business is a good lesson.  But when it's the butterfly you've chased 2500 miles, only to discover it's not what you want - - it's hard to know what to chase next.  But thousands of years ago, a shepherd carried a harp so he could write songs as he tended his flock.  Inarguably, the book of Psalms is the all time #1 collection of hits.  No business, no pressure, no guts or glory, just honest vulnerability, and a heart completely dedicated to God.

So I guess I'm grateful for this maddening butterfly chase that has brought me to where I am.  I've become more refined and emptier of false illusions and wrong motivations. I don't know anymore what I'm supposed to "do" with my songwriting.  I will always write songs, because I love to - and maybe that's actually the point.  But no longer does a plastic coated canvas with a mass produced slogan, and a kite sized fake butterfly define how I feel about my life.  It's not that simple.  Following a dream implies you're asleep, maybe even sleepwalking?   I think I'm awake now, and waiting for what's next.  Perhaps in the quiet it will softly fly in an open window, land small and fragile on my hand, and slowly fan its powdery wings in the glistening sun.  Real.

The Potluck

I used to love church potlucks as a kid.  Surprise casserole, mac and cheese, au gratin potatos, and noodle salad bled into ambrosia and jello - all topped with a jaunty french bread beret and balanced on a flimsy paper plate.  It was a chaotic, double layered food lump that barely held together on the walk to the dining table.  I would dig into the pile with as much gusto as my doll sized spork would allow - and always managed to leave room for brownies and cake.  Plus, I got to be with all my friends (unless my mom made me sit and talk with the elderly missionaries who told odd stories, and smelled faintly of sandalwood).  After eating, my friends and I would play tag in the parking lot, sneak into the little kids classrooms, portray un-biblical scenes with the flannel felt story board people, and play chopsticks on the badly tuned piano.  It was glorious!

I'm not precisely sure when I became critical of this long standing staple of church culture.  It may have been when I got old enough to notice the food-height snotty noses of all the sneezing kids filling their plates ahead of me, or the people who would sometimes forgo serving utensils in favor of their noticeably dirty hands.  Maybe it was after a few surprise casseroles didn't turn out to be good surprises.  Regardless of what caused the tipping point, all of a sudden, potlucks made me feel vulnerable.  You can't control who shows up, what they bring, or how they behave in line at the community food table.  If you want control over these things, you're not talking about a potluck - you're talking about having dinner - by yourself.

Which, oddly enough, brings me to relationships.  After moving away from CA where we had a lifetime of friends and family, we moved to TN where we knew nobody.  We have been here three years.  During that time we've moved three times, bought and renovated two houses, my husband has started a new job, and I've finished my Bachelor's.  When we first got here, I had a rough start with a particularly nasty "southern church lady" type who hurt me deeply in a moment of great vulnerability. Since then, I turtle-shelled safely away in the armor of studies, going to school with kids half my age, and endless house projects - but it's been lonely.  When school ended and all my house projects started getting finished, my armor fell away leaving me with no more excuses to avoid reaching out and building close friendships again. 

So about six months ago, I began praying for God to weave us into a network of great friends - and four months ago He moved in Sergio and Jackie and their four kids right next door.  They are a big, rambunctious, bunch who are used to living "in the midst" of community.  When I made a miscellaneous FB post about being sick, I was surprised by a knock on the door and a hand delivery of chicken soup and crackers.  Who pays that kind of attention anymore?  A few weeks before, homemade cookies along with a hand signed card from their kids helped us welcome the Olympics.  When we needed help tearing out a brick patio, two pairs of extra hands showed up and shortened the job by half the time.

These precious new friends have now introduced us to Jason and Rachel and their kids.  Tonight, Rachel heard we were exhausted from a huge yard project and showed up with a full dinner for us.  I'm not used to needing people - it's a weakness of mine.  Turns out, admitting we need people is an important cultivated skill and requires vulnerability.  So I've opened my hands and asked God to connect me and Kraig to others, to help us be good givers AND receivers, and to make us and bring us great friends.  I'm praying for a scrumptious "friendship potluck" where everybody gets the joy of bringing not only their best - but also their most wounded parts, where love and acceptance are the main dish, where nobody is concerned with getting messy, we invite all sorts of people (including those who smell funny), and we learn to relish surprises and the joy of being together!   A potluck represents community living at its finest!  Where's my flimsy plate and spork...I'm going in!