johnny-come-lately

Have you ever stood in a crowd of people listening intently to a joke and when the punchline came you didn't get it? Behind your forced laughter you desperately hope no one notices how artificial it is. Or perhaps you arrive to a party and find that your frock is so last year. Maybe the people are too nice to say but you see their sly glances and the mocking comments made not quite in sotto voce.

I am not one to swim upstream. No, I'm more the type who hops out of the water and bushwhacks up the bank. Unfortunately, sitting on the edge of the river croaking (pun intended) is not the most comfortable place. It's nice to be one of the crowd, to have the Dufflepuds surround you with hearty agreement.

History exalts the very people who pioneer, who refuse to stop thinking in the face of mass stupidity, and who persevere when everyone else goes home. What history neglects to elucidate are the long days and nights when those trend-setters trudge wearily back to their home, barely fighting off the mounds of discouragement that build after yet another set-back, yet another chorus of nay-sayers, and yet another day without seeing dreams come true. History is mum on the dreamers who never made it; who, with the stars struck from their eyes, submitted to the burden of conformity and let others realize their ideas.

I've stood in that crowd of people whose eyes quickly glaze over as they cannot understand the passion that burns within another person. I've been called too intense, intimidating, just plain wrong. I must learn from my mistakes, yes as all must, but to not go gently into that great night. I must also accept that being present and stepping forward lacks the clarity of hindsight.

There are measures of success and there are books in which my name must be and others that matter not beyond this life of striving breaths. The types are not mutually exclusive but neither are they necessarily inclusive.

I don't fit. I never have. At times I do belong. Other times, not so much. Ofttimes I am suspended between wonder and stupefaction at the antics of my "fellow" humans, as if I were an alien. Standing on this stage of life and finding the script in my hand doesn't match those around me. My lines are off, I came in at the wrong cue, and I'm forever losing my place.

In my charade of confidence my favorite prop is semantics and my heart thrills when I meet with another soul who cherishes the nuance of a exquisite turn of phrase. They do exist, other ones climbing the bank at my side and I am eternally thankful when a good conversation reminds me.

does universal appeal mean it's bad?

Fresno, CA hosts the first franchised McDonald's (by Ray Kroc, recognized force behind making the brand the success it is today). The building is actually a replica on the original site since sometime in the past they tore down the original to modernize it, and then later opted for historical preservation and tore down the modern building to re-build the older version. But that is not the point I wish to make. McDonald's holds the current record as largest fast-food chain in the world. It can be found, with variations that cater to local palates, in 118 countries. Many discerning consumers of food (yes, you reading this) may at this point hold back a horrified scream that we should have so successfully exported such filth to the world at large.
The idea that because something cheap becomes widespread makes that something bad has become pervasive among many westerners. Starbucks is railed against (and to be fair, there's a lot more milk and sugar than coffee in most of their drinks) and when you nail people down (personal tastes aside) it seems that their popularity is indeed their crime. After all, they are not more expensive than your local hipster place, in fact, probably slightly cheaper. The local hipster place will have a similar disproportion of non-coffee ingredients and, sadly, the quality isn't that much better. Coffee, to some great extent, is a matter of taste. My taste lends to really dark SE Asia coffees. I can generally get that at Starbucks because I know what and how to order. But I digress.
What those critics seem to be saying is: Success means selling your soul. Yes, while we are all here in the gutter we dream of "making it big" but when someone does, the mud-slinging begins. Take Andrew Lloyd Webber, for example. For many, he IS Broadway. For the masses, that is. The rest whisper his name with a shudder, lambasting his music as "all sounding the same." I've heard the same charge directed at artists such as Taylor Swift, Mac Powell, Hillsong, etc.
Taste, quality, sound. All these are personal preferences to some extent. And had not McDonald's, Starbucks, and Webber hit upon something they would not be successful (and I didn't even mention Walmart!). Not everyone who enjoys their offerings are mindless. And perhaps those that rail need to take a harder look at what they themselves are offering: if it repels people and makes them feel stupid for not understanding than how is it good?
McDonald's took off when the founders saw that they did one thing good: the cheap hamburger. They stopped the bar-b-q and they focused on that. Starbucks focused on employee training so that, in the words of one of my friends, you can walk into any Starbucks in the world and be assured of the same quality. Universal appeal based on dependability. And simplicity. Maybe it is not always bad that most songs by an artist are in the same key and have similar cadences. It makes it easier to sing after all.
Maybe before the next comment about the "evil" that is _____ we could all take a moment to think critically--perhaps the very charge for which we are faulting their fans--and recognize that it's not all bad. 

lean in

the sickening crack
as the tree trunk snaps
and the tempest mounts
lean in, my child, lean in

driving rain now blinds
the world grows grey and dim
one step is all that's left
lean in, my child, lean in

when you cannot hear
when you cannot see
when you feel despair
lean in, my child, lean in

though the night is dark
and the way unclear
as you fight the fears
lean in, my child, lean in

invisible arms
will carry you on
when your strength is gone
lean in, my child, lean in

this storm will break
new days will dawn
you will breathe again
lean in, my child, lean in

in a dry and weary land

There is something about not having it that makes you want it all the more. I had heard about the drought in California; heard tales hearkening back to Steinbeck-esque days. The hushed chatter in the supermarkets in lush Willamette Valley spoke of wine prices soaring and oranges becoming treats for stockings once again. But somehow when late winter rains drench the soggy ground with yet another soaking, dry and sunny can seem like a tale out of school.
Then I moved here.
The highway miles slipped away like drops of water in a stream, broken only by the slow-down for a border crossing more difficult than entry into some countries. After assuring the efficient officer that the last thing I was doing was smuggling lemons into the state I sped on to find a rest area to enjoy some lunch and fill up my water bottle.
Did I mention they have a drought going on in this state?
The welcoming rest area sat beside a scenic wetland. Well, according to the sign it was a wetland. Now it was more of a dry-land. The worst was yet to come when, thirsty from lunch and miles of driving I optimistically pushed on the drinking fountain. Dry. Completely and utterly dry. Enormous signs in the WC proclaimed danger to anyone attempting to drink the water coming out of the tab as it was somehow clean enough to wash your hands but too dirty to drink.
I soldiered on to the next major town and drove through a fast-food joint to buy a drink as an excuse to get a big water as well. They informed me that the water, should I desire it in anything other than the 2-sip size, cost just as much as the soda pop. Dry.
Signs line the highway in the central valley; farmers protesting the lack of water. As if the government could make it rain. Reservoirs look like muddy valleys (see the above picture). I jealously guard my water bottle and keep it near me often. Even when a rainy day cleans the air and breathes just a sigh of hope, someone reminds me it is not enough. Here they need years of rain to undo the dry days.
I long for the rain, for drenching downpours and water to drink until I thirst no more. Once you have lived in lush, green wetness you can never be satisfied with dry. I have tasted and seen. The marvel is that in spite of the dry, flowers bloom. Even in the midst of hardship He brings blessings, and unlike nature He never fails.

that stupid dress

i recently learnt, much to my dismay, that i do not see as well as i thought. yes, i'm in good company with 70% of the population but, to one whose personality is only 2% shared, that is not a comfort. it's a little bit akin to the first time you step into a room of people who are all communicating in a language you do not speak. you feel frustrated that you cannot understand and you feel compelled to try as hard as possible to do so. unlike the colors that i see, it is possible to overcome the feeling of being an outsider and learn to grow and belong. you can master the customs and the language, learn to enjoy the food and culture. yet, as with the limitations of my eyesight, i must remember that i can only go so far.
today i stepped into a local shopping chain geared toward hispanic cuisine and felt wonderfully whisked away to another country in which people actually knew what a cherimoya was. as i reveled in the narrow aisles and the language i could understand all around me i felt at home. being a gypsy means you have no home, and so, ironically, you feel most content when that is most apparent.
as my bag grew heavier a sad thought pushed in, marring the experience. i do not see as well as i thought. i am used to being stared at when i look different, but it is most often a look of interest and curiosity. here, in the land where i am judged to be the majority by color of my skin, i felt a bit of hostility coming from some of the people. perhaps merely my perception--no one was rude or anything. but it was as if i did not belong. instead of that not-belonging being welcomed, as my sight cleared i realized that i was viewed a bit as a trespasser--trying to speak a language not my own, enjoy the fruits of another land, marvel at new sights; in short, i was viewed as a tourist.
tourism is all well and good, but i resist that label even when it fits. i like to think that i adapt more, see the culture as it is more, live like a local more. but maybe i do not see as well as i thought. maybe i am blind to my inability to relate to those who feel judged and insulted by people that look like me. and that makes me think all the more that the answer to racism is not being color-blind: it is love. love of a world full of different people with different tastes and experiences. love of a Savior who loves us all regardless.

lead on

the way is long and dark
my legs are weary too
but with my trusty light
i will help guide you

i'm learning as i go
i'm not too far ahead
but all i know i'll share
this faithful daily bread

and when you stumble hard
as i am sure you will
i'll share the time i fell
or wait beside you still

you see though i seem strong
my strength is not my own
i lead because i know
the One upon the throne

the way He led on earth
was serving those around
and so i help you now
on the path we both have found

the way is getting brighter
though my feet are cold and sore
any help i gladly offer
'til we reach the other shore

You complete me

click. with a simple press of a button a shimmering screen transports me to a world where a girl at the end of hope finds her prince has come to rescue her. where the girl who has nothing somehow, against all odds, attracts the the man who has everything. lines like, "i've been looking for you all night. i think, somehow, i've been looking for you all my life," thrill the heart of millions of girls hoping that this imaginary man exists somewhere, apart from the smelly breath, insensitive comments, gamer boys all around. she hopes that he will come, be the one to complete her, to sweep her into his arms, to repair the wounds that a world at war with beauty has made, and above all to love her.
click. the movie or television show always ends. before the dirty dishes and chores left undone. before the words spoken in haste that cannot be erased. before the failures that not only he but she will make. before real life unfolds.
so what then? do we as women throw out the ideal, the belief that some man exists who will hold us, never let us go and always, always love us? do we embrace cynicism tinged with feminism that while it will not keep us warm at night at least it will keep us right? in such a dichotomy my generation balances with frightening efficacy: either we chase an illusion ignoring reality or we accept defeat ignoring hope and both blind us to truth.
the truth is we were made to desire love and when we realise that His love completes, endures, and transforms us we can accept that like us, all whom we love will make mistakes. should we find "true love" in this life we can aspire to be a picture of the One whose arms encompass His bride, and yet we can also offer mercy and grace to each other as well recognise the imperfect world in which we live.