In Friday’s post, I introduced you to Hannah Brencher. At 23, she’s figured out something that took me a decade in a career as a TV news anchor and reporter to realize. Today, I share the rest of my conversation with her.
In NYC, Hannah Brencher is known as the “love letter writer.” She understands that for her website & blog The World Needs More Love Letters to succeed, it has to look like and operate like a business. But dollar signs and the bottom line don’t drive this work. It’s fueled by the “compassion of others and my own faith that others will latch onto the cause at hand,” she says.
Hannah and her team write and mail notes to strangers all over the world. Encouraging them. Reminding them that their life is worth fighting for. Reminding them that they are loved. “I never thought to call it a movement but that is what everyone around me has called it. And to that I say, well if it is going to bring more love, more compassion, and more intentionality into the world, then let it move. Let it rock. Let it roll and plow the way that it’s meant to, and I will guide and steer it from the background.”
Brencher has a day job, working at a leading non-profit for children. “One day, it would be nice to move into a more full time role with the love letters or writing but, just as this whole thing has unfolded, I trust that this opportunity will also unfold in time.”
At 23, she already gets it. She understands she’s a person who can’t be fit into a box. “I cannot define what I want to do on a daily basis, much less my whole life.” But she knows this:
“I am successful. Without a doubt, I am successful. I would not have said that a few months ago, when I was defining success in terms of ladders and climbing them. Today, success, to me, is doing something each day that I know I will be proud of in one year from now. Success is finding a way to be a blessing to other people. If I get to the end of a day and I cannot look over the hours and say, I was good to that person or I found a way to value that person, then I better just head to sleep and try harder in the morning. I’ve found that when I wake up with that being my sole purpose, to be a blessing to other people, life is so much easier.“
The world needs more love letters. Yes. Yes it does. But it also needs more people like Hannah Brencher, don’t you think?

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And to the makers of the “Miracle Suit”, “Spanx” and various other body shapers: How is making me look like a sausage in a casing in any way more desirable than the natural curves of my 36-year-old body?

In short, wake up. The 11-21 year old age bracket may have a huge cache of expendable income, but don’t forget their mommies gave it to them. And we like to buy clothes, too.

End of rant.

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In my current incarnation, that knowledge has about as much bearing on my everyday life as knowing that the capital of Morocco is Rabat. My days are filled with the trials and tribulations, the jubilations and joys of four small boys. It’s a messy sort of life, and my job, for the most part, is to follow behind picking up, dusting off and generally tidying up. I’m not complaining. I chose this role above all others, and I genuinely enjoy it.

But there’s another woman living somewhere in the cobwebby corners of my mind — the fruit of the path not taken — and she tends to wander. Catch me staring into space, absently stirring whatever I’m currently referring to as dinner, and chances are she’s grabbed the reins and is galloping off to that future world called “Someday.”

Someday, her house is empty. All those spaces filled with “Did you see–? Did you sign–? Can you make–? Will you attend–?” are vacant, dusty, and ready to be stuffed to the rafters with beautiful, wonderful, pointless thoughts and feelings and imaginings. She’s a bit selfish and a bit stingy with her time, but doesn’t apologize. I envy her “take me as I am or not at all” brashness.

I am she and she is me, but like matter and anti-matter, we cannot occupy the same space at the same time. We’ve tried, and the one so diminishes the other as to make us both unrecognizable. So we remain — separate, disparate. A friendly sort of apartheid, but just as unsustainable.

Yet I know about the MFA program, and I cruise the internet for writing exercises and workshops. I read books with an eye on style as much as story. And the divide between us shrinks, the estrangement lessens. We even confer occasionally. We stage our characters and block our scenes. Then someone skins a knee, and it’s my privilege to kiss it and make everything better. I feel a bit sad for her then, as she retreats with her scribblings and I — I get to race outside to push people on swings and find pirate ships in the clouds. Mine is the lap they clamber into and I’m the one who shows them how to whistle low and soft, so the doves coo back a soft hello. I’m forever being reminded why I made the choices I did, and how I’d make them all again in a wink.

She is me, and I am she, and Someday we’ll be we.

But not today.

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But it’s helped in more ways than one. Up until this point, I thought I was the only person who had a mental script detailing exactly what I’d say if I:

1) Were suddenly invited to appear on David Letterman (or Conan, or Leno — Heck! I was prepared way back when there was only Carson!)

2) Unexpectedly ran into my favorite celebrity (Key: No gushing, but enough flattery to ensure I’m invited to their next wrap party).

3) Finally tracked down that girl who never failed to make me feel 3 inches tall in high school. Generally, this just consists of looking on in satisfaction while she totters past me on the sidewalk — obese, hirsute, and obviously syphilitic.

And it doesn’t stop there. I’ve taken the starring role in almost every one of my favorite movies. Or walked around as best supporting actress until I could figure out why she never took the lead. I’ve lived my entire life over — as a man, as a black woman, as a homosexual, as a vegetarian — and tried to picture which choices would have changed and which would have stayed the same. I’ve cast all my friends in Little Women or Steel Magnolias or Pride and Prejudice and marveled over how their personalities have changed the tone of each and every one. I’ve stolen snippets from their conversation and filed it away for eventual use. And I’ve pondered the magic involved in writing realistic dialogue, all the while marveling that Robin Cook has published novel after novel without ever managing it once.

And in all this time, I never imagined that other people might be walking down the street lost in Walter Mitty-esque musings — sometimes beautiful, sometimes grotesque, one moment devout, the other profane. But always, always tangible. So much so, that a return to reality often feels as jarring and unwelcome as a crash landing on Mars.

How many times have I heard, “Jodi’s not listening. She’s in her own little world,” and had to hold back from shouting, “Shows what you know! My world is HUGE!” Populated with people of all kinds, from all walks of life. They look like people I’ve known or met or simply saw once in the supermarket. They speak in stolen snatches of conversation. And they dance to the beat of their own drum — it just so happens I’m the one calling the tune. I literally cannot wait to introduce them to somebody.  Physically aching to bridge the gap between my head and my fingertips.

I know it will happen. I actually believe it now. I don’t know how long it will take, but one day the words are going to fly.

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Anyhow, I decide to dress up in my new, super-cute, burnt-orange, empire-waisted dress which I rocked with brown leggings, brown knee boots, and a little brown shrug. The piece de resistance was a handmade necklace with a wooden filigree heart pendant. I. Was. Smokin! Sure I got distracted by getting the kids ready, and maybe I was still feeling a little rocky from my viral illness earlier in the week — whatever the reason, I completely forgot to put on makeup, and didn’t realize it until we were arriving at our destination. So there was a small confidence drop while I came to grips with my drop from “Smokin’ hot” to “tepidly cute”. But it’s not like I was the one getting my picture made with Santa anyway. We rallied the troops and made our way inside where, after a few false starts, we finally found the end of the huge Santa Line.

Now nothing makes an interminably long wait better than having an insatiable talker queued up right behind you. Of course he noticed I had multiples, and thus began the long series of mind-numbing questions. How did we feed three at a time? Did we have to use our feet? How long did I carry them? Which one’s the oldest? Etc., etc.

It was bad. But if I’d known how much worse it was going to get, I think I would have turned around and left — even if it meant towing 4 screaming boys behind me.

It turns out “Captain Clueless” married his equal. Mrs. Clueless wanders up, is briefed by Captain Clueless as to our child status, then the female half of this dynamic duo turns to me and says, “So are you hoping for a girl this time?”

Imagine me stunned…gasping for air like a fish out of water…desperately trying to wrap my brain around the verbal assault that has just gone down.

“Umm…no. ‘Cause I’m not PREGNANT!” I snapped. Not really a clever rejoinder, but I had hoped the venom dripping from my fangs would fill in where my words failed.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Clueless. No blush. No stuttered apology. Just a simple ‘oh’, as if gutting a stranger were simply one more mundane task in an equally boring day.

I turned my back on them and tried to rearrange my face. I was successful for a minute or two, but finally I had to excuse myself to the nearby restroom. And what did I do once I got there? I locked myself in a stall and cried.

CRIED!!

Me!!!! She who does not shed tears except for Hallmark commercials and funerals. And sometimes that whole funeral thing is even a bit dodgy, as I only have a finite supply and sometimes unwisely use one too many during a chick flick. Finally I pulled it together, and was able to rejoin my family in line. The olive on top of my sh%t sandwich was the fact that Santa had chosen this moment to take a 15 minute break, so I was stuck with Captain Clueless who, despite his wife’s glaring faux pas, continued to try and force conversation. The whole. Entire. Time.

On a good note, the boys’ picture turned out to be completely adorable. And my husband says I look great and not at all pregnant. Of course, he HAS to say that, but it was appreciated nonetheless. Why was Mrs. Captain Clueless able to get to me when pestilence and death leaves me unmoved? I chalk it up to hormones and perfect timing. That and the fact that I desperately need to lose 15 pounds and I know it. I know it!!! See lady?!?! I’m aware!!! So keep your comments to yourself!

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So be forewarned…there will be more crummy posts coming. Posts that don’t make sense. Posts that might offend. Posts that are just plain, self-indulgent @#$%. Because I’m done waiting for the laundry basket to be empty, or for the kids to be in school, or for my thighs to be thin. All my excuses are out the window, and it’s time to bare all.

My name is Jodi. And I am a writer.

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Honestly, I don’t even know where to begin. It might be a shorter catalogue if we just discuss what DOESN’T hurt tonight. And for a change it has nothing to do with having had 4 kids in 19 months, or being 36 or even just because I’m a clumsy ox and always have been. Well…I’m sure all those things factor in, but they’re not THE reason.

I’m finally ready to come out in the open and admit that I’m training for a 5K. Seriously. Despite the bursitic hip and the trick knee and the … well, you name it. Despite all the really great reasons to snuggle into my comfy chair with my kindle or my knitting or the remote control, I decided to throw caution to the wind and just see what I could do.

Answer? Very little without hurting myself. But I was prepared for this eventuality and had laid in a mind boggling supply of ibuprofen as a defense. Two weeks ago, I took a couple of 30 minute walks. My tush got sore after the first one. Instead of falling back on my usual excuses — too busy, too old, too out of shape  – I realized that right now, today, is as good as it’s gonna get physically. I’m not getting any younger or more coordinated sitting around on my now tender tush. And so I embarked on Week 1 of a real-live, honest-to-goodness training program. Appropriately, it’s one designed for Couch Potatoes.

Week one consisted of three workouts, each consisting of a 5 minute warmup walk followed by alternating 60 seconds of running with 90 seconds of walking for a total of 20 minutes. Monday, I ran outside, taking care to appreciate the gorgeous fall weather, the birds singing, the ragweed. Ragweed? I finished my workout, drug myself into the kitchen for a big glass of water and a nice Sudafed/Advil cocktail.

Wednesday, I wimped out a little and did my workout on a treadmill. Indoors. With air conditioning. I couldn’t believe how much of a cheat this was. Apparently, the treadmill absorbs a lot of the impact. Perhaps because it’s propelling your feet backward, there’s just not as much effort involved. Workout #2 was a breeze.

Friday, Sam…no wait, Will…or was it Tom? In any case, somebody had a fever (definitely Will now that I think about it), so I missed my scheduled workout. But did that stop me? No, it did NOT! I finished my final workout of Week One on Saturday…OUTSIDE no less. Can I get a hallelujah?

Today, I started Week 2. Unfortunately, I mis-remembered the directions and gave myself a MUCH harder workout than I intended. But I survived! I’d love to tell you more about it, but I’m going munch on some more Advil now. If you’d like to join me on the road to a 5k, check out the plan here.

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Let’s see…I know there was something else. Oh, yeah! That whole “when you pray for patience, you’ll receive opportunities to practice it” thing? I don’t think that’s actually in the Bible, so could we stop practicing it so regularly? Like…instead of me actually having to be patient all the time, I could just meditate on it while I knit. I really think I could nail that one, God — as long as it’s not a lace pattern.

So anyhow…great talking to you. We should do this more often.

What’s that?

You’re open 24/7?

I’m picking up on your sarcasm, God. Well played.

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So I’m reading a book called Vanilla Ride by a guy called Joe R. Lansdale. And I’m thinking of it as a mostly southern novel (any novel that incorporates the word peckerwood appropriately in a sentence is a winner for me), until I found the believability grinding to a screeching halt over a minor yet crucial detail. The lead characters are out fishing and they’ve brought bologna sandwiches with mayonnaise for their trip. Not feelin’ me? I said bologna with MAYONNAISE — a combination that simply does not exist in nature, or at least not in Southern culture as I know it.

Mayonnaise is useful for only one of three things: 1) Tomato sandwiches on white bread (brings you closer to God) 2) Potato Salad (a crowd pleaser, particularly when you add mustard, dill pickle relish and pimento stuffed olives) and 3) Deviled Eggs (although sight of an egg plate always begs the question “Who died?”). If you dip into the mayonnaise jar for any reason outside these three you could be tried for heresy in 3 out of four Southern towns.

Let’s face it. When you grow up in the South, particularly when you grow up in a financial tier well below that bright, shiny “middle-class”, you learn pretty quickly the value of masking the inherent flavor of whatever it is you happen to be eating at the time — hence our heartfelt appreciation of a nice bottle of yellow mustard.

Mustard’s good on meatloaf sandwiches, can even make leftover canned SPAM sandwiches palatable (sort of, as long as you can consume the entire portion without actually looking at it or questioning what that particularly chewy bit might have been), and is absolutely the only appropriate condiment for bologna (pronounced baloney, ’cause who are you trying to impress, peckerwood?) –preferably stick bologna from a roadside store that also sells bait, kerosene and pit barbecue from a giant black drum out back. Not that I’ve ever turned my nose up at the pre-sliced stuff, but I’m just sharing with you the bologna ideal here.

So, back to Vanilla Ride — once the mayonnaise-on-bologna detail forced me to suspend my suspended disbelief (did I lose you on that one?), I began to contemplate what his characters really should have carried with them on their trip, and it came to me without effort, memories of rented flat-bottom boats or just good ol’ bank side fishing trips rushing to the fore.

1) Vienna sausages (canned with a pop-top, easy to get to when you need them and completely temperature stable)

2) Saltine crackers (salty, delicious, and hard enough so you can pretend the bait funk isn’t rubbing off your fingers onto your lunch)

3) Bottle of mustard (see above)

4) Styrofoam ice chest filled with your soda of choice (ours always included Grapico, Orangico or Peach Nehi — we did like our sugar-laden, artificially fruit-flavored drinks way back when — RC cola was usually present, but I have to admit, I hated the stuff)

5) Moon Pies and Little Debbie Cakes!!! (temperature stable and delicious. Plus, they’re individually wrapped for your protection –see “Bait Funk” above)

Now that I’ve cleared up this small but troubling matter, I’m off to read a bit more of Vanilla Ride as I’m kind of a fan of this Texas-based author. Maybe that’s the whole problem. Texas really isn’t all that Southern in the traditional sense. More South-western. Maybe they do things a bit differently over there. I’m willing to extend them the benefit of the doubt. Just don’t ask me to eat  mayonnaise on my bologna, okay?

For my next food rant, we’ll discuss the importance and appropriate usage of hot sauce. Hint — Tabasco Brand hot sauce is a lie only yankees believe. Much love to ya!

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And Holy Hannah, the humidity!!! How can you have 99.9% humidity? Isn’t that pretty much rain? Oh, well. At least it’s not a dry heat. Arizonans can tout that advantage all they want, but lifetime residents look like they’ve been freeze dried. At least in the south, we may be sweaty, but we’re relatively wrinkle free.

Now I’m off to try and entertain the kids for the rest of the day. If we swim in chlorinated water, does it count as a bath? Not that I’d ever DO that of course. I was just checking…for a friend.

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