March 20, 2013 · 10:40 am

Captured.

The World Needs More Love Letters from Justin Marantz on Vimeo.

I had every intention in the world to publish a different blog post today.

It was typed. It was edited. It was going to be another one of the kind that socks you in the ribs and makes you search the skies for spare oxygen. Because that’s just the kind of poetry that sits in my bones most days.

But I have to be honest & truthful that I’ve been in a funk lately.

I’ve been a little sad. I’ve been questioning a lot of things. And I’ve just wanted to come onto this page and say, “It’s so dang hard to move forwards sometimes when you don’t know what you’re supposed to do next.” That’s the truth in following God’s Dream. You might never know where the next step is but He promises to make it worth it. & it always, always is.

Justin + Mary Marantz, two new friends of mine, contacted me two weeks ago, right before I headed off to St. Louis for a speaking engagement and asked if they could capture my story to share with their audience at WPPI in Las Vegas. I obliged.

I am a fan of their work. I am willing to share in an Always sort of way.

But truthfully, there is always this worry when someone else handles your story. When they take the inner workings of your heart into their own hands and they attempt to capture you. They have the potential to portray you right or wrong to the whole wide world. I was praying for right this time.

The video came out today. I held my breath and clicked “Play.” And slowly, slowly, the tears began streaming down my face. In the middle of a Starbucks, with a mug stained with red lips between my hands, I let the tears from the last few weeks, piled thick upon me, come and drizzle down my skin.

There are words living on my inside. I know there are. They are the words that will push me to write this memoir. They are the words that were there to start this story and they will be there to finish it out. I have to stop doubting them. I have to stop belittling my story… It is one for telling. This video has made me certain, so certain of that.

A good, good artist will capture you just as you are. They will get you in a way that makes you realize that you never truly knew how you wanted people to know your story until you became their muse. That’s how this video feels to me. Like I am speechless. Like I am overcome with gratitude. Like I wish people wouldn’t dig through Google to find and read my story… but that they would simply watch this.

Thank you Justin + Mary. You captured me. You really did.

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March 12, 2013 · 5:55 pm

Always, always, you are wondering, will I see this one again?

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When I graduated from college, there were people who said things that hurt me so.

They never intended to prick me. Their hope was never to harm me with their stacking of words. But me, I’ve always been too sensitive of a soul, skipping the heart-on-sleeve sewing to chuck my heart on the concrete for others like the throwing of candy at the St. Patrick’s Day Parade.

So when they told me I would be the kind of girl who walked in and out of others’ lives I simply told them no. No, I would be rooted. No, I would stay. And when they told me I would be the kind of girl to never look back at them I told them no. No, I would be turning my head back more than they could count. No, I would be spinning round & round to find them.

 

They were right.

I have become the kind of girl who walks in and out of others’ lives. I am there for moments. I am standing upon a stage and I am delivering some sort of message, mixed and mingled with poetry my Mama raised me on, before I am leaving, unhooking the microphone and walking away. I am finished in twenty minutes. And I am boarding a flight. And I am heading home. And I am going to do it all again next week.

What they never told me—when they said I’d be the girl to swoop in & then out, in & then out—is that I would be the one to hear the door slam the loudest. Always. I would be the one left standing by the door.

 

I’m sitting in a café with a friend, scraping my eggs across a plate because I don’t feel much like eating. And I don’t feel much like talking.

This was the first time that I felt a little broken while my plane was on the runway. This is the first time I have come home feeling a little bit hollow from walking away.

She asks me, “What do you think is the toughest part of your job?” She’s expecting something different than the answer I will give her. She’s expecting me to say finances, or delegation, or knowing what to charge for this or knowing how to balance that. She’s waiting for the nitty gritty details to splurge from my lips.

I say, “The hardest part is leaving.” There is a pregnant pause as I place down my fork and find the place to curl my hands around the coffee mug for comfort. “The hardest part is leaving a place when you only want to stay for a little while longer.”

It’s the thing that people never notice about my job. It’s the thing they never see when the Instagram is filled with travels and the Twitter is stocked up with 140-charactered fragments that tell of a girl living out her dreams. And while I never take my life for granted, it’s the oddest thing in the world to be singled out and set apart for your story. It’s the craziest feeling to spark people and push people with your words and then walk away to do it over again in another space and another place.

 

I crave connection wherever I am but it hurts to get to know the faces because always, always, you are wondering, will I see this one again?

And if the answer is no, if I never see you past the lights shining down on me and the theatre closing in all around my echoing voice, will I know how to let you go? Will I know how to want the very best for you? Will I know how to release this sadness that trembles in my throat at the thought of saying goodbye before there ever was a decent stack of hellos?

There’s a grey I can’t quite understand for moments that don’t last longer than our fingernails. There’s a sadness that thickens when I walk away from a place, or from good people. There is a loneliness only I know that comes from sharing a story to a room packed to the balconies with faces and knowing that not a single one of them can follow where you go.

 

“You can bring home the souvenirs,” I tell her. “But never the people. I think that’s the toughest part.”

And as we sit in silence there is irony dancing in the air as Rihanna’s latest song crawls through the speakers like a slow and mangled lullaby. I feel like crying. I feel like pursing my lips together and curling my hands into fists. I feel raw and sad to be living inside a Tuesday that hasn’t thought to schedule coffee dates with the sunlight all afternoon.

She sings about staying. About wanting someone to stay for reasons she can’t understand.  And for once, I feel like she is singing about something we all know. Her voice is slow. Her melody is lonely.

When she sings it, we all mean it, “I want you to stay.”

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March 5, 2013 · 6:16 pm

And when the rule book dies, so she must live.

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I’ve been living in the Land of Juicy Memoir Writing as of late.

When not traveling, or booking brews, or frolicking around with a mail crate, I’ve been hanging in a land where sleep barely ever scratches at the window. And unicorns don’t prance in chocolate fountains (I know, I’m shocked too!). And inspiration wakes you from a tousled mess of dreams at 2am. And you begin to wonder if your skin will ever know sunlight again or if you’ll just resort to prehistoric grunting when the last shreds of human interaction you hold run dry in your soul.

Some days you cry. Other days you ball your hands into fists and march around the room when you finish a chapter. And most days you have to schedule out slivers of 30 seconds to keep your sanity with the Harlem Shake.

But alas, it’s an amazing little blessing to catch your story on a page. To finally put it down to rest in some sort of peace and pieces. And I hold all the power in the world to make it look better than it actually is on Instagram. 

 

In purging the nitty-gritty of my existence, I stumbled upon my “Rules for Being a New Yorker.”

Yes, you may absolutely pause in your reading to point and laugh at me when I admit that I wrote this little ditty and all its awesome glory before I moved to New York in Summer 2010. People, this thang is thick. And it’s a no-messing-around Rule Book. The Do’s & Don’ts. The Yes and the No to City Slicker Habits. 

The Rules for Being a New Yorker, well, they shimmied their way into existence at the point in my life where I realized the rules had poofed and disappeared in the summer air… The diploma was passed, the leadership positions were gone, college had ended. And suddenly I was left to forge for myself in a world where no one cared if I showed up, if I brought my A-game or my G-game. And I couldn’t imagine a life that was Rule(less) and Wild. And so I forced the rigid boundaries. And I made the boxes to stuff myself inside. And I begged for the sanity that comes with saying Yes & No to yourself. 

 

I wonder what we are so afraid of when we construct these rules for our diets, and our dress codes, and our schedules. I wonder what we are really petrified will happen if there be a little less boundaries and more breathing room. Would we spiral out of control? Would we become carnivorous and start attacking the passing cars? Would we feel threatened by the freedom that mingled in our limbs? Do we need the flimsy little rules to convince us that we are too fragile for the alternative? That we will, in fact, break without self-inflicted restrictions?

 

I only write about this topic because it’s been all over my scattered, little brain these days. And I recognize myself as a girl who has often felt like she needed rules. Like she needed to be tamed. Like she needed someone to stop her. 

In tandem with the Rules of Being a New Yorker, I also inflicted another kind of rule book upon myself entirely. It was the rules that I would endure when it came to the plates placed before me. The calories I could consume. The meats I could eat. The sugars I could intake. And I set up a lifestyle that was very much fragile, and very much restrictive, and very much tethered to the rules that kept me in check.

“What would happen if you broke the rules?” My mother asked me one day over black coffees– as my life had been sucked dry of creamers and sugar.

I didn’t want to go there. I didn’t want to speak of the monster who would wreck through all the cabinets and chomp down all the cereal and eat & eat & eat until the sun came up. She was bad. So bad. And she needed to be told NO. And limits. And a muzzle on her mouth. And rules in her pockets. 

But the rules took out the joy. And the rules made me the counter in the corner. And the rules took the fat from my cheeks. And the rules turned me into a vapid little girl, shriveled and shrunk in the body of a woman who everyone else thought had all the world at her fingertips.

 

I’m breaking the rules these days.

I’m finding more joy. I’m trying to let the laughter in. I am wearing the red lipstick whenever I damn please. I am eating pastries with the sunrise & I am having wine to celebrate the fact that this life is turbulent but tremendous. I am being kinder to myself. I am touching my skin and repeating with a gusto, “That’s Ok… That’s Ok…” And, truth told, I am finding that I don’t really need the rules so much as I need to trust myself a little in the morning. And a little in the afternoon. And a little in the evening before I say my prayers and fall to sleep. 

And I don’t need to sabotage myself with the Do’s and Don’ts so much as I need to realize that “failing” just might mean “trying” with a little less frill and a bit of a harder crash.

You see, like all things– the flowers, the bees, the birds, and my sweet soul– the rule book dies eventually. She gets buried in the ground. She gets forgotten & remembered & reforgotten & reremembered. And she’ll be back one day. Oh, oh, certainly she will live again before my feet are propped up in a blue suede coffin.

But when she comes on back I will be ready. I’ll be know that she can be broken & she can be morphed & she can be rewritten. Rewritten & rewritten, with a soft velvet pen, like a melody that hasn’t learnt to be a love song just yet.

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February 28, 2013 · 6:16 pm

The “Brews” are back in town.

I have a gift.

Just a few months ago I would have believed it was boastful, or prideful, or arrogant to say that sort of thing out loud, but I’ve learned best most recently that we’re called to be confident & bold when it comes to the things we thrive at. So, I have a gift.

I was made to be a frizzy-haired, freckled, little creature who absolutely oozed with creativity. I have far too much creativity for my own good. I come up with solutions on the spot. I can make any brand, or load of copy, or organization stand out among the rest. I have an eye for things unseen and I am not afraid to get down & dirty to make something I love even better at the core and the fringes.

For this reason, among many more, I started Brew Sessions this past summer. Brew Sessions were the remedy for the ache in my heart to connect with individuals from across the world who wanted to do good work and just needed the encouragement to step outside the box. Brew Sessions were my way to switch gears in my own brain and offer my advice & expertise & creative eye to folks who just needed some action steps, a solid cheerleader, & a bluntly honest friend.

The last year of my life has blown my mind… I’ve started a global company, I’ve quit my own steady 9-5 job to make a mark in the freelance world, I’ve bobbed & weaved through corporate partnerships and became a spokesperson for the Postal Service. I’ve gained international press and have began speaking around the country (including TED). I signed with a literary agency and I began helping companies– small and large– find their voice, their “why” in this big ol’ world through creative consulting. But all this experience just stacks up a desire within me to pass the know-how onto others. My heart still somersaults for the ones with big dreams. For the ones who want a fresh start. For the ones who want to break from the desk job or follow a passion, wherever it will lead. These are the people I want to connect with. Meet with. Dream with. Brainstorm with. If that’s you, come find me.

Come with your ideas. With your hopes. With your plans. And together, we’ll brew something beautiful.

–hb

For the next month, the following Brew Sessions will be offered as “Pay What You Can.” You propose the brewing price and we make it happen. Grab them up quick because they are very limited. The sessions will become set rate by mid-March.

So what’s a Brew Session?

Brew Sessions are one-hour long specialized creative brainstorming sessions. We meet together over Skype or phone and we lay ideas, goals, and hopes square in the center of the table. The 60 minutes is spent sifting & sorting & plotting action steps for the road ahead. We solve problems. We unblock the barriers. We get you thinking too creatively for your own good. We set goals. We create the “what’s next.” We get down to the nit & grit of something you’ve always wanted.

Brew Sessions are a time to focus on your dreams & what you really want out of life. They are a creative space. They are judgement-free. And they are incredibly invaluable to the ones who seek to reinvent themselves on new levels.

All Brew Sessions come with a PDF Brew Booklet & notes from the Session delivered within 24 hours of the Brew.

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Schedule your “Classic Brew” session today.

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Book your “Bold Brew” session today.

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Schedule your “Brink Brew” session today.

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Book your “Blogger Brew” session today.

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February 26, 2013 · 7:49 am

So give me something that gushes like a waterfall.

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If a weekend was delivered to my doorstep this past Friday then I didn’t seem to notice it.

Either I confused it for a never-ending Monday or decided that Friday and Saturday would just look a lot like thick, thick work instead of the play days they were designed to be. Regardless, I spent the last 48 hours amidst a pile of mail crates stacked high in my hallway. 

It’s been that kind of endless weekend. Of sorting mail. Of ripping open endless amounts of envelopes. Of gaining a headache quickly over the sadness some people pour into their letters. Of counting & recounting & resorting & straightening over 1,000 pieces of mail. And staying grateful the whole way through.

So yesterday at letter 700, just as my fingers were about to divorce the rest of my body, I decided to watch a movie that’s been tethered to my to-do list for some time now– The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I found out this past summer that More Love Letters is actually printed in the back of every new printed edition and eBook version of this classic novel so I naturally wanted to see what all the fluster was about.

So I watched.

And clutched my head. And cried a bit (when do I ever not cry?). And I got stuck– really, really stuck– on one of the quotes, “We accept the love we think we deserve.” 

Dang, if that quote is not a shovel made to dig up every past relationship we’ve ever had then I don’t know what is. Stephen Chbosky– you are an absolute BOSS for coming up with that pretty little ditty and leading an entire generation of readers to scavenge through their beings for worthiness & love. 

Without any real prompting, I started searching the curves of my heart for every incident, every relationship gone wrong & weary, every kiss stolen, every heart given back in shambles, to understand the truth in this quote.

We accept the love we think we deserve. We accept the love we think we deserve.

It must explain why so many of us are in broken relationships. Why we cannot walk away. Why we settle for less and just learn to be thankful that it is anything at all. Why we shirk away from compliments. Why we cling to others as if them, & their imperfect flesh, can actually fix us and concoct the sunshine in test tubes on days when nothing in the world can seem to go right.

This. Must. Be. Why. Because we think we are deserving of less. That we, ourselves, could never handle someone who thought us to be lovely & original & delicate all in one breath. And so we settle… and we chalk it up to what we think we deserve. It’s our fault, Baby, it all becomes our fault. 

This is the kind of quote that could make you dust off your hands from the chalkboard of your yesterdays and say, “That’s that… that is what I deserve and so that is what I should have.”

But no, I actually have to revolt against this quote. I actually have to believe that there exists an expiration date when it comes to accepting the love we think we deserve.

Either we keep ourselves stagnant in never moving, always draining relationships or we learn the truth: we deserve so much more than the little we give ourselves on a daily basis. And that there is a love that exists in this world that would adore marching right up to us and saying, “You know what? Screw your stupid limitations. I am bigger than you. I am stronger than you. And I have known you and what you deserve long before you ever started passing your heart out like the ice cream man– you are more precious than you will ever credit yourself for.  So. Let. Me. Lavish. Upon. You. Instead.” 

Love is so much bigger than we ever boxed it up to be.

Yet we strap our definitions and our limitations upon it after the very first day we realize that hearts break & grow rusty when we let another in. But still, still, it gushes like a waterfall on the day you decide you are worth more than the mediocre dripping faucet. Than the broken plates. Than the empty bed. Than the half-said apologies. Than the bruise left after the beating.

We will always, always, always be the ones who cut ourselves off at the knees. That will never change.

We will always, always, always be the ones who cut ourselves off at the knees unless we are start accepting a love we don’t think we deserve… And hey, maybe it is a love that we will never actually deserve but it comes to us regardless and we’ve got the chance to get all wrapped up & tangled lovely in it.

We’ve got the chance to paint the world with it.

We’ve got the opportunity to tangle other people up in it and make them think, now what is this mystery and why do they love me so?

I’m not saying you will ever believe you actually deserve it. But do you accept a gift that’s given? I am not claiming I will ever believe it either. But regardless, I’ll accept it because it is so much better than any stingy kind of love I could make with my own two hands and a broken, broken heart.

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February 21, 2013 · 6:54 am

Your daddy is no Rumpelstiltskin and I’ve not got the Bones of Betsy Ross.

Like any normal child, I started writing letters to my One Day, Some Day daughter when I was 11-years-old. I’ve been writing her into the margins of my diaries for eleven years now in hopes that one day she’ll find these books buried somewhere in the attic and know, through the etchings of my messy cursive, that I wanted the most for her. Even when I’ve had no idea what to want for myself, I want the most for her. The following posts are for her, my One Day, Some Day Daughter. 

Dear Daughter of Mine with the neon pink nails,

Honesty sits square on the kitchen table in our home, somewhere between the salt shaker and the pan of brownies that I managed to burn. And so, I’ll just be honest and tell you straight: Your daddy is no Rumpelstiltskin and I’ve not got the Bones of Betsy Ross.

I’d be lying if I said I never thought how your life might be different if I’d been the girl all wrapped up in thoughts of red, white & blue while your daddy Rumpel watched me from across the roller rink. If I’d been thinking of stripes as he said to his fairy tale pals, “There’s my star.”

I’d be foolish not to tell you that some days I wonder what it would have been like if he and I had collided like a firework pent-up in the garage for far too long. And if the rest would have been just called History. If we would wrapped ourselves up in an American Flag and laugh up to the rafters about a One Day, Some Day Daughter: You.

Dear Daughter of Mine with the zebra-striped nails,

I would have started sewing early for you if I’d been a Betsy with a Rumpel by my side. While Sleeping Beauty snoozed in our recliner and the dwarves played Apples to Apples on the floor, I’d hold up the latest cloak for my gal pa Cinderella and she’d nod at me with approval.

“This one is Strength,” I’d say, folding the finished cloak and handing it to Little Boy Blue. “Can you run upstairs and hang it up for me? Right in the middle of Grace and Peace.”

“It’s a fine, fine collection you’ve got for her there,” Cinderella might’ve said. “I only wish my mother had been alive to knit me these kinds of cloaks, for the days when life gets tough and shoes don’t seem to fit right. But why are you knitting them all so early? She surely won’t fit into them until she is grown.”

“Cinder, Cinder, Cinder,” I’d tell her (because everyone knows her nickname was never Ella) “The sooner I make them, the sooner I can wear them. I’ll wear them Monday upon Monday so that no One Day, Some Day Daughter of Mine ever questions if my for her is like a well-worn sweater. She will feel me all around her, even when I’m no longer there.”

Dear Daughter of Mine with the pearly white nails,

I know there will be a day when life is going to hurt you, crush you, make you feel lik the magic has seeped out from your billowed sleeves. And what will I do? What will I do without a cloak of Strength to place around your shoulders? How will I manage without a closet full of Hope & Serendipity & Agape– hemlines of yellow & purple & silver– for the days when life starts showing you that she’s got teeth and she’s got bite?

Because I know I cant stop it. Cant stop the first boy who will break your heart. Cant stop the first time that you start to doubt the One who made the sunsets all for you. Cant stop you when you cry & spit & curl into a bucket of tears on the floor. No piece of silk will stop that. No cloak of gold will halt the sting.

Dear Daughter of Mine with the aqua blue nails,

I’ve come down to my knees for you nearly 1,000 times in hopes that He’ll give me what it takes to stitch it all within you. Because I’ve not got the fingers of a Weaver and I’ve not got knitting needles all up in my hair.

And so I tell Him everyday, “Break my heart and shatter my bones if it means I’ll have something to teach her when Growing Up hits her like a tidal wave. Place me into spots where I am weak, where I am hungry, where I am helpless.  Show me how to crawl instead of walk, walk instead of run.”

Dear Daughter of Mine with the red polished nails—my Some Day Daughter Sleeping Soundly Somewhere South of Saturn— there’s no closet full of cloaks waiting here for you. But I am waiting. Waiting for the day when your laughter becomes the soundtrack for my way to work, the lullaby for the sleepless nights.

And I am learning. Learning to go as Black and Blue as a Bob Dylan song to make you feel my love.

And I am stitching. Already stitching my heart into every sleeve you’ll ever own.

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February 12, 2013 · 8:00 am

Not no victory march.

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“It’s not going to be her,” I murmured.

“He said earlier that he could not get past a barrier with her… she never let her guard down.”

I sat curled up in a recliner, still enveloped by unplowed roads and blizzard conditions outside, as I watched four women stand side by side and wait to hear their name called. To be granted with a single stemmed rose and no thorns, offered by a man who keeps falling in love over & over again on TV.

And I thought to myself, while this happens, while girls throw themselves at one guy for a chance to be morphed Cinderellally into his wife for better or worse, a different kind of love is fraying at my sides. A different heartbreak is tearing at my eye sockets. The woman in the limo going home and I, we cannot relate tonight.

 

I found out just before I clicked the TV on that a love letter recipient passed away two days ago. Before she got her letters. Before she ever knew that hundreds of strangers did their best to hitch her up good with their strongest syllables.

It happened quicker than expected. Quicker than anyone expects a mother of two boys, growing like bean stalks, to slip out from the folds of this world. Her spirit slowly dancing away from the loves she grew high like prize-winning sunflowers in the middle of August. Quicker than expected but expected all the same.

Immediately I wonder about all the things I don’t want to know. Was she afraid? Was she ready? Was she angry? Was she whole? And yet, all I may ever know of this woman is what I’ve read from someone who requested dozens & dozens of letters be sent her way. That she was sick. But she was lovely. And she would do anything to make it so her family wouldn’t weep so hard when she was gone.

And, at any moment, that could become a person’s purpose– to make it easier for others when they’re gone. Because life is harder than we ever anticipated. & unpredictable. & often not tidy. & it does not tie easily into bows. & it is not always symphonic. A lot of times the melody gets sucked straight out, and we all forget the words, and the purpose behind the tune we’re humming.

 

When the tragedy struck in Haiti and the houses crumbled and schools fell into the dust, Justin Timblerlake covered a strange & beautiful song that the world has already classified as one of the greatest. Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah was perched on my lips for weeks & weeks after. It was the only song I wanted to hear. The only melody I felt like perking my ears for. I loved the brokenness of that little song.

When I told my Mama I was writing about this song today, she spoke slowly, “I’ve already got 9 pages of research on that song. And I don’t know what it means… but it does a really good job of talking about love.”

She means this line:

“I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch / Love is not a victory march / It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.”

It’s not a victory march. It’s not sealed with a kiss. It’s not filtered out through Instagram. It’s gritty. It’s broken. It needs fixing. And we never get perfect at it. And we don’t always get the chance so we might as well just do it to the best of our ability. It costs surrender. And a lot of days it’s hard to believe that it truly conquers all.

 

It’s funny to be the girl who easily gets labeled as the one who thinks love letters can fix the world. I don’t think that. I never have. And if I thought that brokenness could be mended with twine & stamps then I would have started something else. But never this.

Tragedies like this one remind me why I started this journey. Why I feel stitched to live a life that stands close to the seams of stories that have already broken, and dig out the fragile & cracked Hallelujahs.

And God must have saw me fit for this. My inbox is absolutely unbearable. Not because I’ve slipped from the graces of organization but because people come to it daily to pour out their hearts and their imperfect love to me. And God must have wanted this. To grant me with an inbox that is bursting at the seams with desperation and a life story that He is tenderly stamping with “Lover. Lover. Lover.“

It hurts on days like this. It gets harder to breathe on days like this. It gets more & more obvious that I am just human on days like these.

We are all just humans. & we will never get it perfectly. & we may never understand all of life or love or tragedy.  But I think sometimes that love is the only measure of what we know how to do and somehow manage to do it right once in a while.

And even when we can hurt one another. And break one another. And stray. And leave. Love is what makes this whole thing somehow redeemable. It keeps us dancing. It keeps us on our knees. It keeps dirt beneath our fingernails. It keeps us in awe of creation. It keeps us aware that we are not so much in control as we think.

& so we love until we are gone. Until the heart stops pounding. Until we feel less broken. And the sun seeps back into our skin. Until we find the courage to say to one another,

“I might not always treat you like the precious piece of flesh & human that you are, but I am trying. It’s hard and I’m trying. And I love you deeper than any kind of yesterday. So forgive me for my brokenness in loving you. But I will only want to love you harder in the morning.”  

 

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February 4, 2013 · 11:29 am

How to network like a B.O.S.S. (pronounced ‘bauss’)

Nothing to do with networking but you probably needed to read this anyway....

Nothing to do with networking but you probably needed to read this anyway….

“Now, in just a few minutes these doors are going to open and you’ll have the opportunity to put all the things you learned today into action… does everyone have their resumes ready?”

I was standing in the middle of a hotel lobby in Newport, Rhode Island, surrounded by a slew of undergraduates wearing bad khakis and ballet flats and praying for the life of me that I might disappear. That the roof might cave in. That anything would transpire to keep me from heading into the gauntlet to “network.”

I was attending a leadership conference. I was a senior in college and all sorts of antsy about my future and the “real world.” Networking would be the creme brulee of the evening and we’d be unleashed into a room full of professionals who were “supposedly” interested in what we had to say.

We’d spent the afternoon learning how to balance cups and dishes at swanky cocktail parties while keeping a hand free to spit out resumes and business cards like ammo. I’d cringed & cowered, feeling fake and phony as I presented my budding skills to a business professional who already knew I might as well be saying, “I want you to give me a job… a connection… a lead… Give. Me. Give. Me. Give. Me.”

Perhaps I stink at networking.

Perhaps my only craving has ever been to sit Indian-style in the middle of an open room with you and talk about what kinds of things keep you up at night. Perhaps that is my version of connection. Perhaps it has gotten me exactly where I am today. And perhaps the world doesn’t quite agree.

Either way, our culture has done a lot to jack up this concept of Networking. We think of stale suits and girls with their hair all stiffened into buns. Cardboard interactions. Awkward conversations as one fumbles to find a connecting point and we all just agree that there are no job outs there (that’s a lie… there are plenty of jobs out there. Please stop listening to the people who say there isn’t.).

Networking, when you get down to the bones of it, looks a lot like friendship. A lot like actual connections. A lot like dream sharing. A lot like something I would actually do if taught right. And so I’ve dedicated this blog post to the best practices I’ve learned while networking. I’ve appropriately entitled it “How to Network Like a B.O.S.S.”

I might be raw. I might be point blank honest. But folks, I just want to be real with you. You down? Cool!

Quit treating it like it’s a dang game.

We are human beings. We go through similar things. Life is tough. Am I right?

At one point you need something. At another point I need something. Get down to the grit of me, care about how I am doing, get to know me, see how I could really help you. 

Networking is not a game. It’s not a savvy straight line to the job of your dreams.  It’s about conversation. It’s about collaboration. It’s about stepping outside the lines of “do this” and “do that” to just talk to someone openly and honestly. It’s about opening up to someone, “Listen… I’ve got this dream… I’m wondering what you think of it…”

So… um… What do you want?

Be clear on it. Know it better than you know the freckles on your knuckles (maybe I am the only one with freckles on my knuckles?). No one can put the words of what you need into your own mouth so you best get comfortable with speaking on it yourself.

Y’all should meet the young lady (and one of my very best friends) who changed the face of networking for me forever. I believe Tammy Tibbetts is the muse behind Alicia Key’s “Girl on Fire” song. She is on point. She is focused. She is a star connector. And Tammy looks me in the eye every time we meet, and asks, “Ok, how can I help you?” 

I’ve learned this with Tammy: I need to be ready for this question. I need to already know my answers. Because she wants to help. And I should be open to knowing where I need the help. 

She & I jet furiously into a list of what’s been right and what’s been wrong. And who could help. And who could connect. And who could add this or take away this. It might have started out as networking but it has morphed into a solid friendship where she and I are able to swap skills, laugh together, and get down the bones of our deepest dreams.

But it all began with this: What. Do. You. Want? & How. Do. I. Help. Make. This. Happen?

And what can you give?

Know thyself. Know thyself. Know thyself. What are you good at? What kind of expertise can you offer someone else?

Networking is a symbiotic relationship. It is, “I serve you and you serve me.” It is boosting another higher. It is knowing when you can step back in and return the favor. Your mindset going into an email intro or a conversation with someone you’ve long admired should not just be “What do I need?” but rather, “What do I have to offer?” 

And please, don’t sit here whining that you don’t have any skills. You gotz mad skillz and if you don’t then sit down NOW and really ask yourself, “What do I want to be good at?” Focus on that. Get better at that. And then prep yourself to give it back into the world.

Errday, Errday

I am noticing there is a gangsta twang to most of my language here but maybe that’s cuzzzzz all of seeing your dreams into reality is about HUSTLING. Always & always, baby. 

Meeting people, connecting with people, finding common ground– none of it ever shuts down. The beauty of this world is that you are constantly apt to meet other interesting souls, whether you crash into them in the grocery store or intentionally meet them for coffee. 

Please, if you take anything away from this post then let it be this: You need to pull networking out of the stale, cardboard box your college business department tries to shove it in. Networking is not about resumes on the cuff and recommendations. It is about being an open soul wherever you’re walking and being very aware of what kind of big things you want to do in this world…

Don’t you go all Tin man on me.

I am not your most conventional business person.  I don’t really play by many of the rules because I don’t even really care about the rules. But I do want to know your heart… and that has worked for me just fine.

I went to a networking event in NYC in the summer and I nearly fell out of my skin in humiliation for the whole thing. I felt out of place. I felt so uncomfortable. I hated having business cards ready in my pocket. So I said, “Eh, screw it” and just started to be myself.

Before long, there was a crowd of folks around me and we were talking digital communications & love letters & generosity. And it was real conversation. And one person started weeping. And another grabbed a napkin to wipe up the tears tsunami. DANGG, that. is. my. kind. of. networking.

The point is this: I really don’t need you to size me up. Or place value on my connections. I have no interest in knowing you want to climb a ladder. I want to know if you are passionate. I want to know if you are ready for sleepless nights and a celebration that does not always come when you expect it. I want to know that passing your name on to one of my connections will reflect back on me. I want to know that you will be gracious. I want to know that you are the real deal and I don’t need a resume to confirm that. 

Follow up.

Oh goodness, this one is a doozy. You must be dedicated to following up with people. Even if a connection does not work out or a partnership does not pan, you should always draft an email or a thank you note to the person who first made the initial contact. It’s cordial. It’s sane. It’s quite human of you. 

We want to know that our match up meant something to you. We want to know that we opened the door for potential collaboration. We want to see that our resources were well spread, so come back to me! Tell me what happened! Tell me if I can help a little more!

Find the courage… and then pay it forward.

I left this point for last. It matters most to me. It’s like the fortune in the cookie, baby.

When I was 22 years old, with empty hands and a full heart, I stumbled into a breakfast full of leading ladies at Tammy’s apartment. We sat & laughed & collaborated for two hours and I met a beautiful soul named Selena Soo there.

Selena Soo exudes grace. & know-how. & eloquence in her speech and her work. She is truly a marvel to watch & know.

I scrounged deep in my pockets for the big courage to email Selena and ask her for maybe 10 minutes of her time. I was looking for my first “real person job” and I was seeking guidance on the job hunt. Selena took the time to talk with me one early morning for 30 minutes. She gave me advice. She steered me right. And it was all because of my openness and honesty with her– I told her dreams, desires, hopes and loves.

Selena doubled back with worksheets and exercises to help me nail my dream job. She checked in with me often. We developed a closeness between us. And I always thought, “Wow, all of this– the following my dreams, the going out on a limb– all of it is because Selena gave me 30 minutes of her time.” 

If you admire someone, if you want to know more, if you just have an ache to meet them for coffee and spill your guts then do me a favor and tell them. Don’t cry all over your shirt. Don’t be a hot mess. But be gutsy enough to just send an email and propose a conversation… it might just change your life. 

Selena is the reason behind my first “big girl” job. The reason I quit my full-time job to pursue my dreams. The reason I am now a freelancer at 24 and eating my work like it’s decadent chocolate cake (I lick my fingers and everything). But best of all, Selena and I skype every month now. We formed a remarkable friendship over the simple act of networking. We pour into one another. It’s quite beautiful. And it’s not anything you would pent up into a business brochure.

In my own networking & connecting experiences, I want to be like Selena Soo. I want to be the person who gives someone with little experience and a big heart the advice they truly need to push forward. I think we should all strive to be like that:  genuine givers, with big hearts, and a lot of grace. 

The moral of my little story.

Networking should not be something we all try to “get good” at. If you want to be good in this world then focus on forming relationships, establishing connections, being better to other people and helping where you can. Those are the things that count. Those are the things that build up character as opposed to just a resume.

You ain’t your accomplishments. You ain’t your titles. You are a human being with real dreams & a need for others. People need you. You need others..

Figure out why and just go. 

Can we swap networking tips like play cards now? Please, oh please, share in the comments below.

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January 31, 2013 · 10:58 am

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see.

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I catapulted into the passenger seat of the car wearing the most convincing grin I could find before leaving the house.

I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t wanted her to accuse me. I didn’t want the argument. I wanted to ramble about the things I was sure of: the weather. My shoe size. My craving for the evening entree: Mexican. Definitely Mexican. 

“So, how…” she started to speak.

“We had a really great day,” I cut her off quickly. “We spent it hiking. And we didn’t fight at all. It was like we were starting all over again. It was great.”

We sat in silence for a tiny eternity before she pressed her hand to the gear and pushed it into reverse. “Hannah,” she whispered.

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

“One day does not change the last year of your life.” 

 

Hi, my name is Hannah Brencher and I am a retired member of the “I Tried to Fix You” Club. I’ve resigned from my position as secretary of the “Please, Just Change” Club. I’ve stopped knocking my gavel at the “Tomorrow Things Will Be Different” Club.

I’ve been there, floating on the dang door in the icy ocean, holding tight to someone who is dying right in front of me. I’ve been the one to say, “I’ll never let go.” And I’ve learned the pain that comes in loosening the grip simply because we don’t always stumble into the people who ask us to hold on. Some people have never wanted that of us.

Sometimes we stumble, crash, collide, and even fall in love with people that walk away. It happens. That’s life. Cue Frank Sinatra.

But that story of mine goes back to a bad year. A year full of fighting. A year full of tumult & tears. A year spent wondering what it would cost to walk away. How would things turn? How would they tumble? And could we stand on our own anymore? And where, oh, where was the guidebook– the handbook, the dictionary, the Wikipedia site– for all of us who got so tangled in Another Soul that we forgot who we were apart from another pair of hands. Another pair of arms. Two eyes that always saw us through?

 

I used to put my whole body into relationships.

I used to turn to a speck, a glitter, beside someone else.

I’d be sucked dry of self esteem and left hanging on the every word of boys who should have never needed to validate me like a Taylor Swift ballad. I cried at night after parties, my tiny body on the floor wondering how vodka brought so much honesty & heartbreak through my bloodstream, imagining the day in which I would take the concrete shoes off. The day I would walk away finally. The day I would finally face the mirror and ask, “And who are you, girl?” Who. Are. You?

I never wanted my fingerprints on that question. I never wanted to dance with the Ugly I found inside of me. I’d rather pour my energy into fixing someone. And healing someone else. And be a big ol’ bandage to anyone who ever came to me with their heart in their hands. And staying in relationships as flimsy as scotch tape houses if it meant I could focus on holding up anything other than me.

 

It was nearing 2am.

Her words kept rubbing against me as I crossed and uncrossed my legs on the floor.

“One day does not change the last year of your life.” 

“One day does not change the last year of your life.” 

I was alone now.

And I’d stayed up to plow through India and learn to love in Bali.

I was reaching the edge of “Eat, Pray, Love.” In a quiet house that held the snores of my parents somewhere within it, I was reaching the point in the journey where Elizabeth Gilbert would dot her last sentence. Leave me there. To start my own path towards fixing whatever was broken. Replacing whatever was lost.

I was alone now. The texts weren’t coming any longer. There were no goodnight kisses or someone to battle with over who loved who more. And I felt aloneness for the first time. It was the first sense of knowing that I was on my own. It would stay that way.

And it was strange but lovely to feel like, for the first time, it was time for my own repairs. The fog was clearing and it was just fine to learn the art of putting myself back together again. Without all the king’s horsemen. Or all the king’s men. 

I felt more worth it in that moment than ever before.

I sucked the last line in deep. I closed the book and folded my legs up around me. I whispered to the spaces that always hold God at night, “I don’t know what I was made for.”

I didn’t know what God was scratching his chin about on the day He decided that there’d be a little girl with freckled limbs & wild red hair. I didn’t know if He sang. If He danced. If He wrote a poem and sat in a cloud of a canopy for the rest of the afternoon.

But He had gone through the trouble & the tumble to make me. And I was a being who cried separately, who dreamed apart, who could walk away. It might take a few steps, a few falls, a few mistakes, but I could walk away. And stand alone. And learn to fix the wings so stitched for flight.

And, in that moment, knowing just that was enough.

It was enough to start over. It was enough to stay walking on the path towards Away.

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January 24, 2013 · 4:17 pm

I want to be more human than that.

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Courageous statuses that take a lot of guts & courage to admit warrant a record number of “likes” if you sculpt them right.

People dig the honesty. They well up at their computers. They support you fiercely with a “thumbs up.”

Just below those gritty statuses comes the powerful quotes. People can’t resist them. They “like” to say “Here, here! Thanks for glittering my webs with positivity.” People always approve of the status that gives them the vacation away from the person who uses Facebook as a diary to welp about bad service at TGIF and traffic jams.

Good news will herd in all the friends you forgot to unfriend two years ago. And selfies… don’t. Please. One per month if we must.

A “like” means Yes. I approve. Okay. Sure. Good quote! I’m sorry. That truly stinks. You go girl. Hoot rah. Better luck next time. The definition morphs like the skinnier skins of a chameleon on adrenaline, depending, of course,  on what kind of verbs & nouns you  hitch it beside.

 

I am almost embarrassed to unearth this Facebook Status Science that I’ve discovered in the last year or so. I blame it on the fact that I’ve always geeked out over social norms via social networks and I am a closeted sociology nerd who has yet to use her degree.

I am lost in admitting the harder truths: we’ve gone an extra step in sacrificing privacy to pedestal our own lives. We’ve pulled ourselves from moments, more sacred than we’ll ever know in this little lifetime, to arrange the coffee cups and share our presence at the indy bookstore with the world. We’ve fragmented our lives and boiled down each other’s feelings through likes & pokes & retweets & favorites.

Jeepers, I just wanna tell you this in my little corner of the internet: There has been nothing so glamorous about today. About eating cake because I have no groceries. And getting ice off the car with a tea kettle and shovel because it is lethally cold in these parts of the world and I am inept when it comes to actual “real people practical stuff”.

I love social media and how it cranks up our world but I still crave the moments that are for keeps. The conversations I know won’t translate straight into sound bites and book content. The moments when phones buzz from inside our heavy coats and we don’t even hear them. Because, yes,  your pupils look that dang pretty and I was never very good at taking my eyes off of you.

I crave the people who know me enough to ask me about my day. I need that. I really need that. Otherwise, you go for days & days only talking about work and the weather. And maybe a Kardashian. And you forget that there are actual bodies, actual souls with feelings, that have always validated your existence in this world with their unfailing love & presence. It was never about numbers or platforms for them.

 

I am afraid of becoming a performer.

Afraid that the beauty of networking through social will streamline into  a desperate need for approval by others, all of us governed by a “like” button that has become more of a “yes, life. well. done.” button.

I lose a little faith and then my mom walks in the room. She tells me she is headed for  drumming circle tonight to drum in the New Year while I am scrambling to schedule the tweets so I can see girlfriends tonight. And laugh a little. And remember to be 24 a little.

But my mama, she wears red flip flops in the winter and never fails to carry a kazoo. And she doesn’t believe in technology. Or punctuation. (Off, sorry mama.) And I have to be so envious that she has learnt to grow old without the unnecessary pressure of people who don’t matter.

My mama asks me how I’m doing. She’s never liked a status and yet she’s loved me deeply in an always sort of way. And her world is not cluttered by strangers and kids we all met in middle school who still take to “liking” our sepia-toned photos of wine and Thai food.

And, when she asks me what all this social media stuff means, I tell her true.

“It doesn’t mean anything. When it comes to real life, and real problems, the ones who care will call. Or text. Or find a way to extend beyond 140 characters to rise up and meet you at eye level. They press into you until you speak.”

And you have to be really careful with those folks. You have to make sure that you don’t get so sucked into performing that you forget the reliable ones. The good ones. The ones who stood by before we ever determined that 600 followers was a very good thing.

And. I’ve. Grown. Tired. Of the mindset that I must shine for the world through perfect glimpses of cropped images & fragmented dialogue that I pulled from a girls’ night on Tuesday. I want to be more human than that. i want to toast to a reality that ain’t so poetic or an actual status that is true for today:

I didn’t buy any groceries yet. I should have gotten them last week. My hair is a bundled mess and, left unkempt by a comb for more than three days, it will dread. I didn’t feel comfortable in my jeans this morning so I opted for a dress. And red lipstick. And rain boots that shine. Because I feel like rain boots should never be designated for days with just puddles;  They is just too fun not wear on a perfect little Thursday where the sun breaks through the clouds in all the right spaces. My dishes are dirty. My laundry is crying and weeping on the floor. My inbox looks like no one has ever loved it before.  And I realized just yesterday how people can break your heart just by staying who they are.

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