What Will You Do?

One day, you’re going to stand at a crossroad. To the left, the life you know: the safe, the comfortable, the familiar. To the right, the life you might live: adventure, possibility, unknown.

Maybe you’re standing there now. Maybe you’ve stood here before and made the choice that ultimately brought you back around to the same crossroad. Nevertheless, here you are.

And it doesn’t matter if you’re a stay-at-home mom thinking about going back to work and presenting a new model of motherhood to your children or if you’re a business person trying to decide if you want to leave the safety of corporate to build a business on your own. The choice is really: Will I choose to continue on with good? Or will I roll the dice and gamble for great?

The problem with this choice is that great isn’t guaranteed . . . or is it?

Yes, you could lose your life savings. But, are you saving for fun or familiar?

Yes, that new relationship could leave you heartbroken.  But, is being single truly satisfying?

Yes, that trip abroad might not be as fun as you imagined it would be. But, wouldn’t you rather be enriched and enlightened than stay home and be bored?

What does that mean for your decision?

Does it mean that it’s better to wrap yourself in the comfortable conformity of life? I think it’s worth considering whether or not your life is really yours . . . one of your own choosing.

Your routine, your day in and day out, the spouse, the house, the job . . . are they all things that you actually want for yourself? Or are these the things that other people told you you should want? Did you buy into their dream or are you living your very own?

If you’re not really living the life that you want and you’re just going through the motions, how great would the loss really be if you rolled the dice and sought a life to love?

Let’s say you take the gamble and fail . . . exquisitely fail. It really wouldn’t be that hard to recreate mediocrity. I mean, look around you and take note of all the people excelling at ho-hum. It seems like you could rebuild a vanilla existence in about 15 minutes, 30 if you’re deliberately minding the details.

Now, all of this isn’t to say that your life is a waste if you’re not living in a mansion along the California coast. Your dream is distinct to you and different from everyone else’s. What it is to say is, “Are you awake in your living or are you sleepwalking through someone else’s dream?”

I ask this of you, because these are the questions I am asking of myself.

You see, I am once again at the crossroads.

Brene Brown writes about Theodore Roosevelt’s “daring greatly” quote and I know one thing for sure . . .  I want to be IN the arena, “face marred with sweat and blood.”

I want to wake up every morning and chase a dream with eyes wide open and heart beating hard. I want to breathe adventure deep into my lungs and run full speed into the unknown.

What I do NOT want is to die knowing that I rode shotgun in my own life, “knowing neither victory nor defeat,” because someone else was driving my car.

And, perhaps, this is how great IS guaranteed.

Yes, I have cried 1,000 tears, been beaten, bruised and pushed around by life. But I have also been fully supported, lifted up and encouraged. I have laughed from deep within my soul and let my light shine on friends and strangers. And, even when it felt bad, it felt good . . . because I’m living out loud and not just going through the motions, keeping a safe and friendly distance.

This is why I dare to stand at my crossroads today and say, “I’m hanging a right.”

It’s frightening to set out on an adventure without a map. To journey towards an idea that’s on the horizon without knowledge of the terrain that stands between. And, while I am certain that I will roll my ankle and meet with snakes . . . I am equally certain that I will keep the company of angels and dance among fireflies along the way.

Will you join me in the search for adventure? Will you dare to lead a bolder, brighter, happier life? I need a good travel companion or two.

So, take a moment to envision your best life.

What do you see?

What’s your dream?

What will you do?

 

Brandy Hammond7 Comments

Beach Blessings

I went to Girl Scout camp. I hated it.

I love NOT camping. Give me a comfy bed and electricity any day of the week!

So, to go away for a week in the middle of summer heat, sleeping in an XL tent with spiders and a communal shower was my idea of hell. Absolute hell. Even as a kid.

Naturally, the homesickness set in. And, being a resourceful little shit, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I plotted, lied and schemed to make my big break via a single wall phone outside the nurse’s office.

And it was a phenomenal success . . . until I got home. Then, I had chores as my punishment for lying to grown-ups. Oooooopie doooooo.

Homesickness is a funny beast. I visited family for weeks at a time, I had marathon sleepovers with my girlfriends, I went on vacations with and without my parents – without event. But, when I was outside of my “comfort zone,” (aka: Deliverance) my psyche absolutely rejected the experience.

“Danger, danger Will Robinson . . . abort mission . . . abort, abort!!!”

Naturally, when I found myself among apocalyptic storms and the daytime hooker, my psyche gave a similar response. I desperately longed for a yard full of lightning bugs and my ears ached for the sound of katydids, tree frogs and crickets. The difference this time, however, was recognizing the source of discomfort and the consolation of knowing my ability to weather all with a little sidewalk therapy.

I set my morning alarm for 6 and sought to re-embrace my morning walk. I figured getting back into a routine would be the best thing for me. I needed something that felt familiar.

When I got to the beach, I heard the most amazing sound . . . a southern accent. I almost burst into tears.

I started a conversation and we fell into step. As it turns out, he was from Charlotte. Sparkles and stars and happiness!!! He shared the details of his work function and I told him I just moved away from North Carolina.

As we were chatting, a lovely woman with dark chocolate skin, light brown eyes and a head full of beautiful braids came up to us. “Excuse me, this is going to sound strange, but I felt called to come over here and speak a blessing over the two of you. I don’t believe it’s a coincidence we’re all on the beach together this morning.”

I almost burst into tears because I, too, stopped believing in coincidence.

I cupped my hands to receive her words of love, health, happiness, peace and abundance. I poured the words into my heart and thanked her for her generosity of spirit.

On my way back to the little pool cottage, my feet were lighter and my heart beat with a noticeable fullness.

It’s funny that, sometimes, it’s a tiny hit of home that helps ease homesickness – like an accent that wraps around your eardrums like a cashmere blanket.

And, other times, it’s a whole lot of God working through a wonderful Haitian woman speaking blessings over strangers on the beach.

Brandy Hammond1 Comment

The Daytime Hooker & Other Encounters

I moved to Florida sight unseen. Admittedly, not my best choice in the history of ever.

After a 10-hour drive, I got out of the car and burst into tears because I managed to land right in the middle of a “neighborhood in transition.” (Pro Tip: If anyone shares that phrase about an area you’re considering, run. Run like hell. Don’t look back.)

The house itself, gorgeous. I found a lovely compound that consisted of a main house, a pool cottage and the most charming tropical garden hugging the patio and pool area for wonderful privacy. As long as I stayed inside the fence, life was sweet.

However, living inside the safety bubble isn’t realistic. One must get out and about. So, I did what any good southern girl would do . . . I went to church. A 90-minute sermon and an overly-enthusiastic hug from a stranger later, I fought the urge to stop exploring.

Get out and try, get out and try, get out and try rang in my head. I wanted to learn to love the place I was planted.

Along the streets, rehabbers, junkies and dealers danced a dangerous waltz between sobriety and addiction.

At the grocery store, broken souls in shabby clothes shuffled outside, asking for money and help.

For the first time in my life, I looked around and realized that I was the minority.

These encounters served to illuminate my simple abundance – a place to live, a car to drive, a closet full of nice clothes and a wonderful job to fund it all. By comparison, I have nothing to complain about. I am not greeted as “different” or an “outsider” when I walk into most places . . . and most of these people have been labeled nothing but since moving to this country.

I tried out shops and restaurants, my friends and family came to visit and I took walks to soak it all in and figure it all out . . . but I wasn’t ready for the reality I had coming.

One Saturday morning, I woke up early with the distinct need for sidewalk time. I laced up, grabbed a bottle of water and popped in my earbuds. For the first time, I was a bit more at ease. I walked over to the beach and took in the salt air, smiling at faces of every age and heritage.

Then, she happened.

As I approached the drawbridge on my return home, a slip of a woman emerged from underneath and shimmied through hedges onto the sidewalk. She wobbled on weak, pencil-thin legs a few yards ahead of me, yelling over the guard rail to the man below. I slowed my pace and tried to assess what was happening in front of me.

Was she a junkie? Did she fail recovery? Was she yelling to her husband below?

When I got close enough to hear the words, she was definitely not yelling at her husband below. She was working.

Approaching, I tried to make plenty of noise so I wouldn’t startle her and be shoved into oncoming traffic.

Clothes-hanger shoulders balanced a mass of gnarly knotted hair . . . not quite colored, not quite not. It was evident she hadn’t had the luxury of a shower in several days, if not weeks. And, just as a deep-seated sympathy began to dance with fear of the unknown, I announced “Coming by on your left.”

Her head whipped to face me. I met the hollow blue eyes that earlier spilled tears which turned her mascara into water color rivulets, pooled and puddled into the lines of her worn face. Red lipstick smeared from mouth to ear, temporarily distracting from the black and yellow snarl of rotted teeth.

Compassion and terror clashed at my core as a guttural growl escaped her sunken cheeks. On one hand, I wanted to take her for a Clorox shower and to feed her a decent meal. On the other hand, self-preservation urged my feet to take flight.

But not without paying a mental price.

What defined the desperation that drove her decisions and landed her there? How old was she? Who taught her her worth? And how far away are any of us from doing the things we think we would never do?

In my world of non-answers, I know one thing for sure . . . none of these people – the junkies, the dealers, the homeless or the hooker – none of them asked for this. Not a single one of them said they wanted to be these things when they grew up. They had dreams– to be teachers, astronauts, firemen and parents. Then, somewhere along the way, life happened.

Life happens.

And the life that happens outside the bubble is starling in contrast to the life of friendly neighbors, new cars and unlocked doors that I left behind in North Carolina.

Since my initial arrival I made another move to a town that gives me a greater sense of security and safety. But, those initial encounters will linger forever.

Where are you today? Have you offered thanks and shown your appreciation for the people and circumstances that brought you this far?

After all, you never know when the tide might change, running you into the rocky shore that bursts your safety bubble. And maybe having your bubble burst isn’t such a bad thing. Because seeing life, people and circumstances from a vulnerable perspective has a sneaky way of opening the heart and softening the mind.

So, to my family and friends – all of you who cheerlead me, listen to me and love me in spite of my truest self – I appreciate you. To those of you who let me swim in the bottomless pool of your sweet fellowship – thank you. I love you, I need you and I want you in my life. I know without doubt that I can’t do it solo.

Brandy Hammond22 Comments

Everyday an Adventure

I am a planner.

I wasn’t always this way, but life in Charlotte taught me that if you don’t fill out your social schedule, you’ll sit home alone on any day that ends in -y. So, I learned to make plans. At my most frantic, there was a two month waiting period.

(I was informed by two different men that my social schedule was far too daunting and there was no way they could keep up. I explained that they needed to stop being pussies. But that’s a different story for a different time.)

Point is, everything was hyper-planned. Until now.

When you don’t have a full network of people, the only thing you’re able to plan is a trip to the grocery store. And that’s about as fun as rolling naked in a briar patch.

So, I attempt to open myself to the possibilities – and embrace the unexpected.

Like, for example, coconuts in the road.

Yes. Coconuts. Rolling in the street. If one thought on it long enough, there could be an a-ha moment of sorts that, of course, palm trees are everywhere – so, a dropped coconut might, in fact, roll on down the road. (As do fallen palm fronds, which cause all manner of havoc because they’re truly not as light and airy as they look from the comfort of your chaise.)

There are also turtles and armadillos. Shelled and ready for shenanigans, these crazy creatures engage in a real-life Frogger that’s not for the faint of heart; leaving pacifists like me weighing the pros and cons of following suit to help them avoid a Game Over.

And, of course, there are the surprise people.

Bad surprise: catching the unloading of a dead body as I returned from a walk. (My real friends are rolling right now, because they know I don’t do dead.)  I blanched, broke out in a cold sweat and sprinted home.

Good surprise: My new friends from the Dominican Republic who speak much better English than I do Spanish – as you might expect from someone who studied French.

But my favorite surprise person popped up on one of my least favorite days.

My parents came to visit and we went to look for a new apartment in a different part of town. (Apartment hunting is my version of hell and I dreaded it from the moment I knew it was time to go.)

The week prior to their arrival, my phone bit the dust and sent me into a spinout of epic proportions. (Just so you know, everything seems far more unmanageable when you’re homesick, confused and in a brand new state. Because, yes, it was JUST a cell phone. Shut up.)

Fast forward to Saturday, new phone in hand. We saw a cute apartment and walked the neighborhood where we found another For Rent sign with a number. After breakfast at a local diner, I stepped outside with said brand new phone to call the realtor when I looked down with shock and horror as my new phone dialed my ex.

Time stopped.

Fuck.

Fuck.

FUCK!!!

I couldn’t process what was happening. How the hell??? Out of all the names in my contact list, how did that fucking thing dial him?!?!?

And, just in time, my brain managed make my finger hit END.

Heart pounding, I text my Best. I’m going to call you and hang up, don’t answer. Then you tell me if my number shows on your missed calls list.

At the same moment we’re lamenting my mistake, a car pulls over. A man jumps out, hands me a rose, gets down on his knee and sings, “You are so beautiful to me . . . “

Wait, what? Is this happening?

First reaction – how fun and sweet!

Second reaction – where is the hidden camera???

Third reaction – this has gone on way too long and it’s getting creepy.

Which he might’ve heard, because he hopped up, hugged me, thanked me for being amazing, got in his car and drove away.

How strange . . .

and lovely . . .

and absolutely unexpected . . .

and completely memorable!!!

Wonderful things can happen when we put ourselves out into the world and release the focus on our screens . . . when we let go of schedules and open to the possibilities.

Some might say when we learn to expect the unexpected. But, I’m not there yet. I mean, I’m still trying to be okay with not having definitive plans for the next two months.

However, I am happy to loosen my grip just a little and let every single day be its own adventure.

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The Apocalypse Doesn’t Last Forever

Tammy’s words rolled in my head as I faced my first solo Friday in Florida. I said goodnight to my workmates, her voice chanting, “You can’t stay home. You have to go out. Even if you don’t feel like it! Sit at a bar solo, don’t look at your phone, talk to people, make friends!!!”

So, I made a plan with myself. I was going out.

“Self, we’re stopping by the grocery store, unloading at the apartment, then walking to a bar and having drinks and dinner with who knows who!”

I was psyched. (Let me not lie, I was not psyched. But, I was ready.)

Except . . .weather.

On my way to Publix I talked to one of my most favs – who hates storms as much as I do. “Byg, the sky is black on the horizon. No, no . . . black BLACK, like for real, jet black. Like, I’ll call you if/when I get home.”

Commence with a lightening round of errands. Lightening errands is the only kind of lightening I can tolerate because, THANKS  TO DOROTHY, I have an intense aversion of storms.

As promised, I did a storm-survival check-in when I returned home. “OMG, the sky just opened up.”

This is before I knew that my cellular service sucks inside my apartment . . . before I knew about the intensity and severity of Florida weather . . . before the storm of the century.

“Girl, I’m trying to like it, but . . . and WHY are the palm trees sideways?!?!?”

In North Carolina, we have some intense storms, but they come with plenty of warning so you can locate your thunder buddy and be okay!

So, Byg, in true bestie fashion held the phone singing, “Fuck you, Thunder, you can suck my dick.”

I started mentally packing my shit to go back home. “Okay . . . the shoe suitcase, the swimwear box, folding clothes go in space bags, hanging clothes on hangers and . . . OH DEAR LORT, WHAT?!?!?”

Hail the size of golf balls POUNDED the roof of my tiny cottage and rolled in the street.

Silence on the phone.

“Hello? Hellooooooooooooo? Hello??????”

Cell signal, gone.

Power, off.

Storm, ON.

Fuck me runnin’.

Tomorrow, I’mma pack my shit and go home. This is straight up bullshit!!! Oh HAIL NAW.”

And then, time happened.

As quickly as the black sky loomed, the clouds moved out and dazzling sun reappeared.

I walked to the mailbox, umbrella at the ready, and chatted with the neighbors who reassured me that the magnitude of the storm was unusual.

The power came back quickly, too. I cranked the AC on and called Bygie, “It finally passed, the power is back on, I think everything is okay.”

“Thank God, I was so worried you weren’t okay!!!”

“No, no . . . I’m okay. It seems that apocalypse DOESN’T REALLY last all day.”

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Since then, we’ve had several bad storms. And I can’t say that I’m friends with thunder and lightning yet. But, I am learning to breathe into the storm’s fury and let it pass, because the sun always shines again.

 

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The Tortoise Wins Again

People typically stereotype the South with sleepy little towns, Maw & Paw, sweet tea and drawls. Sure, there are stereotypes for a reason and those places do exist.

It’s just that Charlotte isn’t one of those places. And I’m not one of those people. (Well, okay, I have the drawl.)

I want things now, Now, NOW, dammit! When the light turns green, I drive like I mean it. North Carolina IS the home of Nascar, after all.

Back home, waiters and waitresses want to turn tables, so we’re greeted with water and back to the office in less than an hour.

And, on occasion, a trip to the grocery more closely resembles an old episode of Supermarket Sweep (or an MMA cage match, depending on the holiday).

Point is, I was surprised – strike that, gobsmacked – to move to Florida and go slow. Not just slow . . . slllllooooooooooooooooooooooowwwww.

The speed limit is slow.

The people crossing the street are slow.

Chick-Fil-A is slow. (And, by the way, they don’t even say, “Thank you,” much less, “Our pleasure to serve you at the window.” Side eyes.)

Regular restaurant service is slow.

Even the wind is slow.

Is it the heat? Does the sun melt everyone into a syrupy stupor this close to the equator . . . arms and legs dripping and heavy with humidity, making it impossible to move with the quickness?

Or . . .

Is it me?

Moving to a new town shines an interrogation light on your personal attributes in a much brighter way than travel ever does.

I look around and don’t see other people yelling, “Oh for fuck’s sake, go!!!” (Maybe I’m just missing them???)

I also don’t see other people obsessing about schedules. It seems there’s just an, “I’ll get to it when I get to it,” attitude. And that might not be so bad.

Is it a small town thing? A beach town thing? A retiree thing?

Their faces are relaxed and body language easy. No one seems to be in any particular hurry to get anywhere. Where they are is just fine. And, upon consideration, that really doesn’t seem so bad.

Is it contagious?

Will I catch some of it if I start licking people’s faces? (Is that bad manners???)

The collective THEY say that we must be present in the present to truly experience joy and embrace happiness. That said, I should (perhaps) take a page from the Tortoise and retire my inner Hare.

Maybe I need to stop worrying about where I’m going and at what pace I’m getting there. Maybe I should learn to slow down and enjoy my current station.

Maybe I should park my car, buy a bike and some flip flops . . . and let life unfold gently.

One thing’s for sure, this move is changing me. I believe it’s for anything other than better. Otherwise, that would be a waste of time. (wink)

Even so . . . I want my nuggets now, Now, NOW, dammit!

Brandy Hammond7 Comments

Everybody’s an Asshole

I moved to Florida from North Carolina 6 weeks ago and, I’ll admit, it’s a bit of a challenge. I have to use GPS to find the grocery store . . . there’s always a weird film on my windshield . . . possums, alligators, tiny ants and no-see-ums. (Dear LORD, where did those things come from, because I’m fairly certain they could only be of the devil.)

Perhaps the most shocking revelation is other people’s reaction to finding out where I’m from.

Pleasantries are exchanged; my accent noted. “Where are you from? I hear a little Southern accent.” (A little? Like the Atlantic’s a LITTLE wet?)

“I just moved down from Charlotte, North Carolina,” I say with a smile.

My arm is grabbed, Momma-style. Eyes widen.

“OMG . . . be careful. Everybody here is an asshole.”

Now, just what the hot hell am I supposed to say to something like that?!?!? “Thank you soooooo much for your warning. I will promptly go home and lock the doors and stop trying to make friends and build a network in my new zip code.” What the what???

“It’s a cowboy state,” they say. “Don’t leave anything visible in your car. Always lock every door. Don’t talk to strangers. And DEFINITELY don’t collect any free puppies from the van.”

I only kid (a little) about that last one.

Perhaps I’m aggressive in my assessment. It isn’t EVERY Floridian I meet who says horrible things about their state & neighbors.

In my short time, I’ve met a number extraordinarily friendly, emotionally open and very inclusive people. These are the folks who have said, “Let me introduce you to some friends. Would you like to join us for dinner? Want to go to the beach? I’ll ask if any apartments are available.”

These are the people who get my number and actually call or text. These are the people who check in on my settling in. These are the people who are happy to share a little of their love and light with the new girl.

These people are the keepers.

And, when I think about it, I’m truly grateful the non-keepers make it readily apparent who they are by presenting negativity at every turn. I’m glad for the obvious visual assessment and categorization, the words of “warning” and offers to screen people so I know if they’re “socially acceptable to know” or not. (Not even exaggerating or making that up.)

These people are not my tribe.

I let them pass freely and send them a little light and love for their journey, so as to keep plenty of space open for those who do bring the bright and shiny into my life.

So, the next time someone says, “Brace yourself, everyone’s an asshole,” I’ll have to bite my tongue. Because I’ll be thinking, “Maybe that’s just what YOU bring to the table.”

Brandy Hammond21 Comments