Do you have any idea how much I appreciate you, my dear readers? You’re a bunch of little sweeties.

In the past couple of days, I have gotten so many amazing, caring, encouraging messages from so many of you – via blog comment, Facebook message, voicemail, email, text, or booty slap (okay, that’s just my roommate Julie). I am overwhelmed. Thank you for your words. Thank you for your support. Thank you for passing along job leads and treating me to wine and assuring me that I will not wind up homeless.

I’ve been a busy little bee, applying for jobs and researching companies and updating my resume. It’s actually been very fun. I was able to go running yesterday afternoon, and walked 6 miles through the woods in Percy Warner Park today. I’ve relished the quiet time in my sweats, and feel peaceful and hopeful and content.

Perhaps it is foolish for me to be hopeful right now. There are currently 50,000 people out of work in Nashville, and I know of individuals who remain jobless for months and months and months. But I am choosing to believe that there is not just some random position for me, but that there is an awesome fit.

It feels like it’s time.

But until then, this is where I’m spending my days. How could I complain?

JAM House from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

Yes, I realize that this video isn’t all that exciting, but it’s mostly for our parents – hello parentals! Bedroom #1 is Mel’s, bedroom #2 is Julie’s, and I reside in the Princess Tower upstairs. Things to notice: the washcloths on the staircase that are soaking up a red wine spill, the file cabinet built into my bedroom wall, and the grill on the deck covered with a camouflage tarp (not that you could see it?).

In a grand twist of events, I found myself dining last night at the Eastland Café with my two roommates, one of their mothers, and two strangers. I had the duck. I love duck.

The strangers quickly became friends. I fell in love with these women.

I heard their stories – what brought them to Nashville, what gives them joy, what they are learning at this stage in their lives. And in turn, they asked me insightful questions – ones that, when I answered, gave me a certain familiarity with myself that I didn’t have before.

Among other things, they asked me about my musical ambitions. I sighed, and told them what I have been thinking lately: I have been so tempted to just quit doing music. To “retire.” To stop frantically scrambling for ideas, and no longer have to answer the question, “So, do you have any shows coming up?” I’ve been discouraged, and creatively dry, and lacking inspiration. Nashville is a great place to enjoy music, but a daunting place to make it. Everyone is good. The mailman is good.

But, I know, I know. The comparison game is completely feckless and futile. I’m learning this. I may be slow, but I AM learning this.

And so I opened up with these women, and told them that I’ve quietly started work on an album – what will wind up being a 6-7 song EP. It’s my first “official” recording project beyond simple demos, and will take awhile to complete since it is self-funded. But the timing is right, and the cost is worth it to me.

I’ve been looking for “a reason” to make a record – a logical justification for it, like, “Oh, I’ll make some money,” or “Oh, this will help me get a publishing deal,” or “Oh, a CD will make me a legitimate songwriter.” But when it comes down to it, my main motivation is this:

I wrote some songs, and I think it’s time for them to be heard.

That’s all.

And in that moment, one of these women reiterated what my mom had said to me earlier in the day: “That makes you an artist.”

After all of my soul-searching and wheel-spinning and worrying that I don’t know what I am doing with my life. After months of despondency and sleepless nights. After a lack of direction, and a desire for definition. After a lot of prayers. I still don’t have all the answers, but…

Finally. A title that fits.

Stay tuned.

This weekend, I was overwhelmed with a wave of… I don’t know. Shame? Guilt? Regret? I was knocked off my feet a few days ago, and since then, it’s been a deluge of memories and hauntings and disappointments.

I don’t know why I was created the way that I was – wired to both express and share, even at the risk of rejection or judgment. A few people who are close to me have recently suggested that maybe I should be different. Maybe I shouldn’t share so much. Maybe I should present a different picture to those around me. Maybe I should keep a lid on the truth.

But I just don’t know how.

Throughout my life, I’ve struggled with trying to make people like me, to be something good, to convince others that I’m someone worth knowing – whether it be through acting a certain way, or looking a certain way, or doing something noteworthy, or being associated with All Things Awesome. We all want to be liked, right? But ultimately, it comes back to the fact that I just am who I am. It didn’t change when I moved 2,500 miles away. And no amount of finagling or maneuvering or tweaking of the Annie Parsons Package is going to change who I am – who I was created to be.

The people that I like the most are at rest with who they are. Contented, humble spirits. Quiet, unassuming souls who love easily. I want to be one of those people.

So. Stomping down insecurity. Being exactly who I am, and trusting that “Annie” is the best thing I could possibly be. Humbling myself. Praying for the grace to stand in truth, acceptance, and hope. And knowing that my ability to love others will be a direct overflow of the love and care lavished on me by a God who is always faithful. He’s ready and waiting to transform my heart, heal the things that I’m afraid are beyond healing, and give me rest.

(A word of caution:
Prepare yourself not for art, or beauty, or wisdom, or humor, or insight…
but simply for an explosion of my heart.)

Remember this mysterious, ambiguous entry?

I received an email this morning:

Annie,
Congratulations! You’ve passed our audition process…

And on June 21, 2009, I’ll be fulfilling one of my biggest dreams and playing at the Bluebird Café.

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!! YOU GUYS!!!!!!!!!!!

I am completely speechless.

I wish I could say that I rocked my audition, but… I didn’t. No, really – I DIDN’T. I was certain – sure – POSITIVE – that I wasn’t going to make it. I have never felt nerves like I felt that day; I could barely play my guitar, which is bad since I can barely play my guitar ANYWAY. I messed up the words to my song. I was freezing cold. I was shaking so badly that I couldn’t think straight. I have been nervous before, but have always been able to reason myself out of it. This time, I was completely out of control – no amount of self-talk or deep breathing or sheer force of will could calm me down.

I never in a million years expected to have made the cut. To some one else, this might not feel like a big deal. To me, it’s an answer. It’s confirmation. It’s hope. It’s the entire world.

I cannot believe it.

Dream your dreams, kids.

Sometimes, life feels really hard. Whether it’s tedious or tumultuous, uneventful or unrelenting, it’s difficult to keep focused on what I know to be true. I become distracted by my circumstances, and let whatever way I currently feel dictate my beliefs.

I give up.
I give in.
I lose hope.
I lay down.
I stop trying.

I once heard someone say that if the devil can’t have our salvation, he’ll settle for our lives. Ain’t that the truth.

But so often, I believe the flip-side to be true, as well: that if God can’t have our lives, he’ll simply settle for our salvation. This is a lie. God does not “settle” when it comes to his children – he doesn’t give up on us, he doesn’t lose hope, and he never, ever stops pursuing us.

We come into this world vessels of beauty, pre-packed with purpose and potential. We are full of hope, full of possibility. But eventually, the various shapes and colors inside of us begin to shake around like a jigsaw puzzle, rattling our brains, and we long to make sense of the chaos. So we begin to unpack the contents of our hearts.

A green triangle. A red square. A yellow diamond.

We spread them out on the kitchen table, and attempt to arrange a mosaic that makes sense – pairing pieces together, turning them this way and that, feeling frustration at the bits that just don’t seem to fit. We focus on individual colors, scrutinizing and criticizing them for being purple, for being orange – for being exactly what they were meant to be. We want the shapes to combine and form a flower, a mountain, a rainbow – but no matter how hard we try, we cannot arrange them into something lovely. Our attempts yield us with nothing but a dull and flat sprawl of plastic chips and pebbles. And so we hang our heads.

We are disappointed and disheartened. Our high hopes have crashed. We believe that we will never achieve anything worth noticing. We have tried, but cannot come up with a lovely or worthwhile picture.

So we scoop up the pieces, and pour them back into the can.

But sometimes, our resignation is the opportunity for someone else to get a hold of us. Someone who made all of the colors, and the vessel that holds them. Someone who knows that the value is not in the doing, but in the simplicity of being. Someone who understood that life would be ever-shifting, but, wonder of wonders, designed us for beauty even when turned upside down – tumbling masterpieces.

All I must do is hold my face to the light, and turn.

Some days, it’s easy to wake up and be excited about life. There are things happening. There’s stuff going on. There is a resolve, and a hope, and an expectation. There is the possibility that this might be the day that changes the rest of your life.

But a lot of days feel like today. Just another Wednesday. Just another daily grind. Just another wake up, go to work, eat lunch, back to work, go home, feed the dogs, go on a walk, take a shower, go to sleep. I would venture to say that most of the time, we experience days like this.

The “big moments” are few and far between.

Yesterday I mentioned that “adventure isn’t always exciting” – and I am currently experiencing that first-hand. We live in a world so conditioned for the thrill, the adrenaline, the fireworks, and it makes it hard to be satisfied during the quiet stretches. I want something amazing to happen – something that will act as an injection of joy and achievement and fulfillment.

But you can’t win a gold medal every day. You can’t land your dream job every day. You can’t fall in love every day.

Ultimately, I think that the “big moments” feel good because of the little moments. The gold medal feels good because of the thousands of hours invested in the hard work of training. The dream job feels good because of the misery felt in the former cubicle. The new love feels good because of the prior loneliness and longing. The “big moment” is the result of the often monotonous momentum leading up to it.

But all of our moments, big and small, exciting and tedious, are a part of the same thing: the only life we’ve been given. And as Jack Kerouac wrote, “Believe in the holy contour of life.”

I believe that there is shape and significance to our lives, even in the silence.

When people ask me what it was that brought me to Nashville – how I got here – the story sounds very bohemian and romantic. I was following a dream, I sold everything that I owned, I lived a nomadic existence for 4 months, I drove all over the country, I landed here without a penny to my name, armed with nothing but a broken heart and a Martin guitar.

I’ll admit that even I bought into the rosy mystique of it all, and I could not wait to arrive here in Nashville completely anonymously. I had the rare chance to reinvent myself, and to become whoever I wanted to be. No longer would I need to be known as “Annie Parsons – pastor’s daughter,” or “Annie Parsons – worship leader at UPC,” or “Annie Parsons – awkward girl who says really embarrassing things,” or “Annie Parsons – used to date so-and-so,” or “Annie Parsons – didn’t she drink too much at that wedding?”

I could change my name. I could be “Annie Parsons – songwriter,” or “Annie Parsons – callously courageous,” or “Annie Parsons – never deals with insecurity,” or “Annie Parsons – sparkly wonder child that everyone loves and adores, and we TOTALLY need to invite her to our party!” I could wriggle out of that old skin that was feeling so heavy and ugly, and emerge something new and exciting and different. I could be like Cinderella, and magically transform into the beautiful soul I’ve always hoped I might be – and won’t they all be amazed?

The truth is far from glamorous. The truth is that I arrived in a puddle of tears. The truth is that it’s been lonely and hard. The truth is that even as I watch my Facebook friend-count grow with every new person I encounter, I am so tired of meeting new people. The truth is that I wonder if I’d be better off back in Seattle. The truth is that I’m still just as introverted as I ever was. The truth is that I deal with all the same stuff: insecurity, regretful words, body image issues, pessimism, awkward moments, selfishness and pride, lack of discipline, empty bank account.

Different town, same girl.

On my own, I am stuck in the same old patterns that I’ve always dealt with. I am facing the familiar struggles with no real hope of anything changing. I am just me, just Annie, and what could I possibly do to tear down the heavy, solid walls of “what has always been” and start over – become something new?

Different town, same girl. But luckily, different town, same God.

And lately, I have been learning that God can take anything – loaves and fish, two coins given by a destitute widow, a barren womb in Sarah, a swindling tax collector named Zacchaeus, a rugged cross, and yes, even me – and transform it into something worthwhile, something big, something of consequence.

All I have to say is “yes.”

Some things have happened lately – some things that have left me feeling really lousy. Worse than lousy. I would say “shitty,” except then some people might get upset. So I’ll just leave it at lousy.

What are these “things” that have happened? Well, take your pick – there’s a panoply. But I don’t want to talk about them, because then you’ll know how lousy I am. And that would only make me feel lousier. But they involve miscommunication, and pride, and fear, and insecurity, and rejection. Aren’t those the worst things ever? Maybe not worse than war and famine and death. But still, pretty bad feelings.

Times like this make me want to throw in the towel. I feel like throwing my hands up in exasperation, and saying, “Fine, I GIVE UP.” I’m tired of trying, tired of tripping, tired of failing, tired of disappointing.

Sometimes I wish that Jesus would just come back.

I feel lousy. But today, I’m going to try to choose hope instead. I’m only a little ragamuffin, making my way as best as I know how. None of us will escape the hard times and the pain and the quiet moments where we question the value of who we are at our very core. But we are called to a long obedience in the same direction, day after day, no matter what. So…

Courage. Onward. And praise the Lord, really.

I spend a lot of time in the past and in the future. I think back on how things once were, and I look ahead in anticipation of what might eventually come. It’s hard work to dwell in the present.

I am often tempted to look at my “present” as being on a merry-go-round. Life can be so daily, round and round it goes, and the humdrum nature of the mundane lulls me into a daze. I walk around like I am only half-alive, simply going through the motions: driving to work, answering emails, shopping for groceries, eating, walking, sleeping. And then I wake up the next day and do it all over again – trudging on the treadmill of life.

It’s so much easier to dwell in the concrete, already-happened reality of the past, or to dream about the limitless possibilities of the future. When it comes to my thought life, I often adopt the mindset of “Anywhere But Here.”

But the present is the only time that we can experience God’s love. The present is the only time that we can forgive. The present is the only time that we can accept grace. We can remember God’s faithfulness in the past, and look forward to it in the future with great expectation, but this moment is all that we really have. It is all that we are really promised.

Today, I am thinking about things in my past – the good, the bad, and the very, very ugly. I am tempted to allow these things to dictate my present state of mind – whether it is longing for the way that things once were, or harboring un-forgiveness for a time that I was wronged, or wishing to reverse some major regrets. But God says, “Behold, I am doing a new thing” (Isaiah 43:19). I want to open my eyes to the new thing – the now.

I am also thinking about things in my future – the hopes and dreams, as well as the fears. It’s tempting to immerse myself in the unknown, and spend up all of my energy attempting to anticipate things that I really have no control over. I want to figure out what my future holds, and then plan for it – emotionally, mentally, physically, spiritually, financially. I want to have it all mapped out, so I won’t be thrown for a loop. But Jesus says, “Don’t be anxious for tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself” (Matthew 6:34). I want to take the energy that I have been spending on worrying and planning, and devote it to living fully in this present moment.

The present is not a waste of time. The present – this moment, what I am doing today, my tasks and activities and relationships and interactions – hold huge, miraculous meaning. And I want to start living like it.