My first post at Paradise Uganda blog

I forgot to tell you that I posted my first post at the Paradise, Uganda blog. I actually posted it before my little musing the other day but it ironically touched on the same theme: being on the outside, looking in, and wondering why you’re there.

For the record, what I originally thought I was volunteering to write is nothing like where my blog posts are going – and with the blessing of my dear friends. Rather than help with the fundraising “rah rah”, I’m writing more about faith and life and … well, stuff that’s where I’m most comfortable. Yay!

Here’s the beginning of the post; there’s a link at the end that’ll take you to the Paradise, Uganda blog where you’ll also see a little video of Jesse in Africa:

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When my friend Jesse Sprinkle asked me if I wanted to be involved in a project he was working on, I didn’t ask what it was or what he needed from me. There are moments in your life when someone asks and you say yes and you know it’s exactly as it should be.

I’m not a musician. I’m not a missionary. I’m not a fundraiser or a world traveler. I’m not hip or cool or trendy.

I’m just a writer. For years I’ve written feature articles in magazines and websites on everything from entertainment to dog food. I love telling stories. So when Jesse asked me to join the team for Paradise, Uganda, I signed on for the one task I knew how to do: blog.

It’s never easy jumping into a project that’s already been moving along at mach speed. It’s difficult to find your place, to keep up, to feel part of the crowd. The things I’d originally planned to blog about … well, they just don’t seem like where I’m supposed to be. The ideas I had … someone else has them, too. The things I thought I brought to the table … not so helpful right now.

It would be easy to just back out, just say, “Gee, I don’t think I’m supposed to be here, I think I made a mistake” and go home and hide under a rock because I don’t fit in.

And yet I know I’m supposed to be here. I don’t know how or why I know, I just do. (Click here to finish reading on the Paradise, Uganda blog)

Three lessons I learned this month about following God

So I’m up at 7 AM because I need to write. Not want to write or have something I’d like to think about writing. I neeeeeed to write. Like, if I don’t write it, it’ll cause me great pain.

It’s about the concept of following God.

As you know, I’ve volunteered for a project recently. Without going into a lot of details, I was ready to work. Ready, willing, and able to do this and this and that, because I’m very experienced at this and this and that, and I’m very good at this and this and that, and the project needed this and this and that.

Perfect match, right? So I volunteered. And talked at length about doing this and this and that and thought I was part of the team and all was good.

Except – and if you’ve ever volunteered for something and God was in any way involved – this and this and that just wasn’t happening. That and that and this other thing were going full speed ahead, and a whole lot of other that and that and this other thing were happening and successful. Except me and my this and this and that were over on the sidelines by ourselves saying, “Hey, what about us?”

It’s frustrating, isn’t it?

The problem, of course, wasn’t the project. The problem was me. I was focused on what I’d volunteered to do, not on what was being done. Sure, I can do this and this and that, but maybe this and this and that isn’t needed any more. Or maybe someone else stepped up to do this and this and that and they do it just fine.

But I wanted to help. I wanted to be part of the whole thing. I offered and they said yes and then everything moved and I was left behind.

Really. Even I see how glaringly arrogant that sounds.

So lying in bed last night, feeling left out - boo hoo for poor me - it occurred to me that if I focused instead on what did happen instead of what didn’t, maybe I’d learn a lesson.

Or three.

Here goes …

From the column archives: Mind Reading Mommy

There’s more than a little mischief going on behind that charming smile …

I once had a conversation with my daughter where her contribution consisted almost entirely of the phrase, “What’s that?” I don’t know whether I should have felt honored, because she thought I was so powerful that I could read her mind, or frightened, because she’d found new way to systematically drive me insane.

Here’s the column I wrote about that experience, pulled from the archives of pieces that have appeared over the years in various newspapers and online. If you’ve got children, you can probably relate.

Mind Reading Mommy
By Joanne Brokaw

Parenting is a tough job. Not only are you expected to birth another human being, you have to feed, clothe, teach, bathe, chauffeur, discipline and otherwise raise the child so that they become a productive member of society.

Oh, and let’s not forget the mind reading.

I remember once when my daughter was about three years old, we were driving on the expressway, wrapped in our little automotive cocoon, when from the back seat I heard her sweet little voice ask, “Mommy, what’s that?”

“What’s what?” I asked.

“That.” I looked in the rearview mirror to see her sitting in her car seat pointing out the front windshield.

“Is it inside or outside the car?”

“It’s that thing, right there.”

I looked ahead as I drove and ventured a guess. “The windshield? This glass that we’re looking through?” I reached forward to tap the window.

From the column archives: Youth and Groceries

I’ve been going through some old columns, written over the years for a variety of community newspapers or niche magazines. Someone suggested I compile them into a book.

That seems like a lot of work, so just for kicks (and to keep the blog fresh) I thought I’d start sharing them here. Up first: one of my favorites, written about the kid who checked out my groceries. I imagine Spencer now, drifting his way across the country and charming middle-aged moms from coast to coast. Keep the dream alive, kiddo …

Youth and Groceries
by Joanne Brokaw

At the grocery store today I watched Spencer, the checkout boy, as he talked a blue streak to the middle aged mom ahead of me in line, exuding youthful energy as he scanned broccoli and toilet paper, bantering with her young boy about how great it is to be sick because you get to miss school and watch cartoons all day.

When it was my turn in line, he greeted me with his usual “How’s it going? Did you find everything you were looking for?” and then suddenly said, “You have amazing eyes. What color are they? Blue? Green?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, a bit startled. “It kind of depends on what color I’m wearing, I guess.”

“You don’t know? Well, you’re wearing grey so today they’re blue. Piercing blue-green. Great eyes.” He flashed his surfer smile and shook his shaggy bangs out of his eyes as he stuffed my tilapia and cat food into a bag.

The grey he was referring to could have been the old grey hooded sweatshirt I was wearing, or the dark circles underneath my eyes that come from a lack of sun or sleep, or maybe from the stray grey hair that was poking out from my messy ponytail. Either way, it was clearly not a come on; I have leftovers in my refrigerator older than this kid. It’s just his natural personality, his ease with himself and with others, his ability to simply make conversation, unable to not converse.

The Summer Olympics, Arkansas and making memories

Bryan told me this week, “I remember sitting in Wayne Gretzky’s in Toronto and watching Canada’s Olympic hopeful in the hurdle race fall flat on her face after the first jump, to the dismay and groans of the patrons. It wasn’t funny, but it kinda was.” Here’s a picture of that moment.

I walked into the living room tonight and darling husband said, “Are you ready for Phelps/Lochte?”

“I don’t know what that is,” I replied. We already ate dinner and as far as I knew we didn’t have anything special on tap for dessert.

“Ryan Lochte and Michael Phelps?” darling husband asked. “You know? The kid from Rochester?”

“I didn’t know Michael Phelps was from Rochester,” I replied.

I get the open mouthed, dead stare, “Do you live under a rock” look.

For the record, Ryan Lochte was born in Rochester, NY and lived in Canandaiga, NY. I rarely watch the news and I don’t read the newspaper, and I’ve been on an ”as needed” status with Facebook. In other words, unless you came to my house and told me about the Olympics I wasn’t going to hear about any of it.

What can I say? I’m a little out of touch. I didn’t even know until yesterday that the Olympics were happening right now. But when I did find out, my first thought wasn’t about Michael Phelps or Ryan Lochte. My first thought was about a bunch of guys from Arkansas.

Thoughts on “The Alchemist”

“The boy felt jealous of the freedom of the wind, and saw that he could have the same freedom. There was nothing to hold him back except himself.” – The Alchemist

My new friend Pauline and I went out recently (she’s a writer, too; you can check out her blog here) and we got to talking about the book, “The Alchemist.” I’d started to read it a few years ago but couldn’t get into it. But after a tipsy conversation Pauline and I had at an Irish pub before she went home to Colorado, wherein she told me what effect the book had had on her life, I decided to pull it off the shelf and give it another shot.

I know now why I couldn’t read it before. I wasn’t ready for the message.

The book, which I’m only about 1/3 of the way through, is an allegory about a shepherd boy named Santiago who goes in search of his treasure. On the journey, he learns lessons about life, personal calling, and love.

In this new (scary, undefined) season of my life, it’s applicable because it not only holds a mirror to show me where I’ve been and what’s been holding me back, but also shows me that there is more beyond the reflection, and that I am the only one keeping me from stepping through the looking glass .

It got me thinking about what someone referred to as this security blanket of fear and insecurity that I seem to have wrapped myself in; this friend noted that it might make me feel safe but also holds me back, adding, ”We are running out of time in this great thing called life…if you don’t throw that security blanket away now then it will be never and that would be really sad…”

This friend is right. And it’s a little scary that, despite what has felt like progress these last months, someone still saw it. Because I’m not secure at all and I don’t want to be held back anymore.

But wanting to move and knowing where to go are not necessarily the same thing. Do I have dreams? If someone came to me today and said I could have one of my dreams come true, I don’t know that I’d even know what to ask for. I don’t have a dream job. I don’t have a passion. Do I?

God knows I tried to explore some of that last year. Dog training? Job at the animal hospital? Starting (and stopping) various writing projects? Not only did none of it make me happy, most of it made me feel miserable, because I failed at it all. Not because I’m bad at the things I tried, but because none of them are my dream and none of them made me feel fulfilled.

I was at my happiest 8 or 9 years ago, when I was doing publicity for a local band, mentoring a few musicians (including John, my son I never had), volunteering for local causes, and even going on that trip to Mexico. (Yes, friends, for those of you who don’t know this story, I – who hated to fly, couldn’t speak Spanish, didn’t know sign language and once almost killed myself with a folding chair - flew to Mexico to do construction at a school for deaf children. Twice.)

I was giving and giving and giving, and it was the act of giving that renewed me. It was a wonderful season in my life.

So what happened?  The season changed – the band moved to LA; John died; my work in Christian music became empty; the volunteer projects changed; the well started to run dry and rather than stand back and refill, I kept giving.

I tried to find another band to work with, I volunteered for other projects, I started a writing group with a friend, but in truth I was exhausted. Eventually I was starting to feel annoyed in the company of other people. But rather than taking time to reflect on why that was or the dangers of not addressing it, I simply redirected my (exhausted) energies. 

Somehow, I had convinced myself that helping other people was not enough; that I had to turn it into something with my fingerprints on it. A book, an article, a … whatever, as long as it was something that would prove to the world that I had been here and made a difference.

I tried desperately to bring in income through my writing, but when it was financially successful it exhausted me creatively, and when it was creatively fulfilling I felt like I was writing in a vacuum.

Other areas of my life were also struggling, and while I recognized it I had no ability to change it. Fortunately, when most of your life is fulfilling and positive, you’re able to manage the parts that aren’t much more easily. But when you let failure and defeat creep in, you begin to see the dark shadows that have been lingering in the corners, and rather than shed light on them you invite them to take up residence.

In the introduction to “The Alchemist”, Coelho writes:

“I have known a lot of people who, when their personal calling was within their grasp, went on to commit a series of stupid mistakes and never reached their goal – when it was only a step away.”

Yup, that was me. I had forgotten my calling. I had forgotten that the ability to make people laugh is a gift, or that being able to introduce Person A to Person B so that they can make their dreams come true is, in itself, priceless. I was blind to the fact that I lived in every dream I made come true for someone else.

I have this quote written down in my notebook; I don’t know who Sonny Melendez is or where I saw a video, but here’s what he said:

“Our job is to first find our gift … then when you use that gift to give back, without asking or needing anything in return, that’s when you’ve really arrived. That’s what makes you who you are rather than what your title is.”

Perhaps, like me, you’re trying to find out who you are. Perhaps, like me, you convinced yourself for too long that a dark cave was the safest place to be. 

Perhaps, like me, you’ve recently decided that, consequences be damned, you will not just exist but live, and that while you’re still not sure which direction to move, you’re willing to just move in order to simply feel the sun on your face and the wind at your back.

If so, consider this: ”To realize one’s destiny is a person’s only real obligation.” It really may be that simple.

This is a new season. My drought is over, washed away by laughter and love and renewing of the spirit. And I believe, as Coelho writes, that the Universe is conspiring in my favor.

It’s a quarter after one …

It’s a quarter after one, I’m not the least bit drunk and the only thing I really need right now is a slice of Pontillo’s pizza.

I’m a simple girl with simple needs.

I went out tonight with my sister and her friends to Richmonds, a bar/restaurant owned by a friend from high school. I confess: I was excited to go out. I mean, how often do I go out in public and talk and have fun? (We figured it out tonight: not counting the reunion and McGraws last week, my last venture out was last July 2011, when we went to Shamrock Jacks to see my uncle play.)

I know, I know. I talk a big social butterfly talk. But I’m really just a little caterpillar who prefers to be snuggled in a cocoon.

Don’t get me wrong. I had fun tonight. It was fabulous to see our friends who own the bar; they’re fun, gracious hosts. I got to spend some time with someone I haven’t spent actual time (as opposed to Facebook time) with since … well, last summer. And my sister’s friends are also fun, and we had some laughs with (well, at the expense of) a group holding a get together in the bar.

What I learned at my 30th year high school reunion

Yup, that’s me! At my reunion, with classmate and fellow writer Pauline. Awesome doesn’t begin to describe us.

Hold onto your hats, my friends: at the last minute I made the decision go to my 30th year high school reunion.

I know, I know. I bitched about not going. But in the end, my writing instincts kicked in and I realized that this was going to be a once in a lifetime (or at least decade) opportunity to really get some good column material.

Add “opportunist” to my resume.

Once I decided to go I jumped in with both feet. I connected with the girl coordinating the event and offered to help with check in/collecting information.  I convinced a few other people to go. Then I went spent money I didn’t really have on a dress that made me feel fabulous.

And guess what? I had fun. Honest!

OK, dear readers, I know what you’re waiting for … here are a few things I learned (or was reminded of) at my high school reunion:

Dead squirrels and wormy birds (no wonder my head aches)

Bailey – she certainly keeps life interesting.

We’ve had an ongoing prediction here at The Funny Farm, that someday Bailey is going to catch a squirrel. Not only is she a fast runner, she has a super sniffer. If a critter is in the yard, she can sniff him out faster than he can find a place to hide.

Sometimes when I let the dogs out, the bolt to the back and I can hear squirrels scratching up the trees. Bailey once trapped a squirrel at the top of the 8′ high fence. The squirrel would run left; Bailey was there. He’d run right;  Bailey was there. Not that she could catch him up that high. She’s just intimidating, what with that bark.

If there’s something unusual – or dead – in the yard, Bailey will find it. Poop, peanut shells from the neighbor’s feeder, trash blown from the other side of the fence. I once saw Bailey chewing on what I thought was a stick. It turned out to be an entire dead bird. A whole bird! She had the entire thing in her mouth! I had to pry open those jaws and literally reach in to remove the intact bird.

Talk about gross.

Anyway, I had gone out to run an errand. When I came home, I let Bailey out and stayed inside for a minute to be welcomed home by Bandit. Things were quiet outside – no barking, no yipping, not a sound. That’s a good sign, usually. I went out to switch dogs – and that’s when I saw Bailey in the driveway standing over what looked like an old stuffed toy.

Except it wasn’t a toy. It was a squirrel.

Bailey had the squirrel pinned down, then she’d let it up. The squirrel would try to get away, Bailey would paw at it, it would squeak, she’d paw at it, and on and on. Bailey was strangely calm, as if she wasn’t really sure what she’s caught or what she wanted to do with it. And the squirrel was clearly in distress but seemed to know that if he stayed still Bailey was more likely to just stare, rather than cause him further harm.

I knew that freaking out would send Bailey over the edge – she’s reactively weird that way. A screetch from me and the squirrel would be toast. So I ran into the house, grabbed some biscuits and started calling Bailey, tossing biscuits in an attempt to lure her from the squirrel just long enough so I could grab her collar while avoiding a scratch from the squirrel.

It took a second or two, but I got Bailey in the house, and hoped that the squirrel would run away to wherever it is that injured squirrels go.

I called the vet – Bailey is up to date on her shots, she didn’t appear to be injured at all, so there wasn’t any worry in that regard. But when I looked outside, there was the squirrel. Dying, right outside the screen door.

The squirrel crawled up there in the middle of the garden hose tangle. And died. Sort of.

So I called the village animal control office (which in our town is also the building inspector). Not surprisingly, the clerk told me that animal control really doesn’t do anything and that usually in this situation, the critter will crawl away on its own. (This is actually a very, very common policy.) But when I told her the critter was … Eeeeww!! Right at my door!!! … Dead in the hot sun!! …. she sent over Dave, the building inspector/animal control officer.

Dave thought that the squirrel had a broken back, and that it was entirely possible that the critter was already injured when Bailey found it. I tend to agree; Bailey wasn’t worked up into a frenzy, and she didn’t seem bent on shaking or chewing or otherwise causing the critter harm. She was much more curious than murdurous about her little pal.

Thankfully, Dave removed the squirrel – it was still alive so he had to … let’s say … humanely remedy the situation. He was so nice and he took care of the situation so calmly. I will never complain about how high my taxes are again.

As I watched him drive away, I looked down, and there was a dead bird in the front yard. A gross, wormy, ant-covered dead bird.

Seriously, what is going on over here?

Lessons learned when the lights go out

The gas and electric guys who shut off our service left a note on the door and some pieces of cable and plastic in the driveway to let us know they’d been there.

I was surprised to learn yesterday that when the gas and electric company threatens to terminate your service if you don’t respond to the notice to terminate your service, they actually will terminate your service.

It was a surprising  lesson because a) I had no idea that I was behind on my gas and electric payment, seeing as how my list of “bills paid” notes the gas and electric company paid and current as of last month; and b) I hadn’t received a termination of service notice.

I’m not saying they didn’t send one. I just haven’t gotten any mail from the RG&E in May. At all.  Not even a bill for May, yet. So I had no clue we weren’t on the same page, payment-wise.

But that’s neither here nor there, because the bill wasn’t paid (oops) and they had issued their threat, which they assumed I had ignored. So the power guys came yesterday and shut off the service – while I left the house for about 20 minutes to run to the store to get cat food. When I came home, there was a notice hanging on the door and two pieces of cut cable and some plastic pieces in the driveway, letting me know they’d been there and I was now powerless (literally and figuratively).

But that’s OK. I’m a writer. So I cried for a few hours and decided to make a list of the lessons I learned from the experience: