Small Fish, Big Pond

Here's the thing about moving to Washington DC: I am no longer as fashionable or as accomplished or as thin or as smart as I used to be.  You're waiting for the punch-line, but it's true.  Somewhere between the Smoky Mountains and the Washington Monument, I got stupider. 

It's unnerving.

And it's a little humiliating to admit to myself how much stock I put in those things.  My home town is small.  The people are friendly and laid back: everything you think of when you hear the word 'Southern', only with a special twang that comes from the mountains alone.  They are lovely, and I miss them.  But again, it's a small town, and it turns out that means that a very little flash shines a long way.

I've been told back home that I am brilliant and a cut above the rest; that I am classy and I stand out; that I am witty and articulate and creative.  In short, that I would arrive at my destination and everything would fall together at my feet because ― how could it not?  I would always respond with appropriate humility, but it's only now that I realize how much I looked around, sized up my competition, and agreed with the praise.  "My goodness, yes, look at the shininess of me!"

There's a whole post to be written here about how "those who compare themselves among themselves are not wise", but not right now.  Today the struggle is not with a false modesty, but with honest ego.  Be careful how you perch, little bird, because here comes the bump.

Within my first week, I stood on the outer edges of at least three different conversations that I could barely follow; certainly I couldn't offer any contribution.  Politics and religion and the economy, subjects in which I considered myself reasonably proficient, all herded together and cheerfully bucked me off.   

I glance surreptitiously at city girls on the metro and am amazed by their easy fashion sense ― I can't even figure out what the pieces are, only that the whole looks fabulous. 

My pride in my vocabulary and ability to communicate falters in the face of practiced diction and professional clarity ― and as much as I love complex words, too often I can't lay my brain on the one I want.  Even more embarrassingly: all synonyms elude me.

I arrive reveling in my own ambition and nerve, and within days it is so clear: this is the city that lives and breathes ambition.  It draws talent and beauty and brilliance to itself like filings to a magnet.   For everything I do, there is someone else in easy reach who does it better ― outstripping me without apparent effort.  My ego gives a faint cough and succumbs to the inevitable.  I'm still me, but plainer and simpler and more ordinary than I ever used to think.

So here I sit, and I ask God with dazed curiosity and wounded pride, "What do you want me for?  I'm not half so useful to you here as I was back home.  Then, I had all these things to offer, and look at me now…"

And He answers me, with a gentle chuckle, "My beloved girl, why do you think I brought you here?  There's no room for me in a life that you already consider to be full.  I cannot give you gifts when you don't know what you're lacking.  I can't direct you when you think you know where you're going.  What use is a superior intellect or stunning creativity or arresting beauty if the heart doesn't have me at the center?  I notice I'm hearing from you a lot more these days.  You are beautiful because I made you; creative because I inspire you; worthwhile because I love you.  Remember when I said I used the weak things and the foolish things and the base things to do my work in this world?  Now go, my daughter: be full of grace, embrace your gifts, and be useful."

I have been created to be me, and to live my life.  My Creator gave me everything I need to do that and be that.  I can and should strive to improve, but my sense of success cannot be based on how I compare to those around me, or it will never be enough.  I'm not God's gift to mankind, Someone else was. 

And that, as my old pastor used to say, is why we call it Good News.