The Reluctant Autumn

I swore off writing about the seasons on my 23rd birthday. I had exhausted the topic in my personal journals and poetry. I stubbornly confided in my best friend that I could no longer glean a unique thought from the melting snow or tiny blooms that wrought so much of my early adulthood. I was trading in these clichés for the real stuff writers write about.

Yet here I am—three days into autumn and I feel I must break this petty fast. A story hangs in my heart. I try to bat it away, but it is pesky and demands to be shared. It began when a friend asked me to go on a pilgrimage together. We were to travel through Colorado to observe the fall leaves on one of the best Saturdays of the season.

When that morning arrived, I woke up early, just like you do on your birthday. As we wound our way through the mountains, I felt a little bit of my old Jack Kerourac spirit perk up. Unlike Jack, I can admit with sureness that I said the word “magical” thirteen times within the first hour of our journey. We began to ooh and aah at the slightest ombré. We marveled and then marveled again and then talked about our marvel until we spotted the next patch of trees we would pull over and goggle at.

And while the magic was in full force, I could not shake a thought that apprehended just about everything else for me that day. I was haunted by a simple and unfair question: Why do we embrace change in nature, yet find ourselves reluctant to accept change in each other?

As we continued to gaze at the aureate foliage, I fell silent. I consider my response to change in people. Do I ooh and aah and celebrate with ease when someone I love shifts gears? Am I steeped in grace when surrounded by difference? Do I applaud the change—marvelous, beautiful, and so very natural—in those I love, just as I do for the aspens?

My wrestling soon turned to frustration as I thought of those who throw their fists to their God, fighting to keep an old season around. I fear for those who are unwilling to recognize the honor in letting go. Here I am, a glorious and transformed being. I am not who I was last year. I am not who I was last week. I have shed so many skins that I am not sure who I am any more. But will I, new and changed, be embraced by others with the same homecoming as fall leaves?

As I write, I think of how I have been taught to hold on to my leaves. I think of how I am chary to change colors, of how I can finally admit that staying can be running.

Who taught me this reluctant autumn?

I ponder the long summer and the bookends marked by change in time and light. Though we may fight it, letting go and embracing the new is perhaps the most natural thing in the world. To keep going, I recall that each season gives way to the next. And that is called growing, the very thing we were created to do.

***

In a rare form of #vulnerability, I posed the question, “Why do we embrace change in nature yet find ourselves reluctant to accept it in others?” to my followers on Instagram. The responses were beautiful.

Maybe because we are familiar with nature and know what to expect?

Change in nature is predictable; each year we have the same for seasons. However, that’s not the case when dealing with people. The ambiguity of their change precipitates anxiety.

We love to admire it in nature because it takes no effort from us to do so…

We can see the change happening in nature, but change in humans is often internal…Us humans tend to believe what we see. We usually know when personal change is happening, but because we can’t see it, we demonize it.

I wonder what it would look like if we anticipated change and the growth in people the same way we do with the excitement of the seasons.

Who is Windrose for?

These are words for those who are wandering and wondering through the open spaces of young adulthood, words for those navigating the unchartered seas of a life all your own. Whether starting a new job or investing more in your current one, moving to a new city or creating a home where you already are, making new friends or feeling the loss of your old ones, booking that trip to Europe or only staring at a calendar void of vacation days, Windrose is for YOU.

Where do you ship?

We can only ship within the United States. Sorry to our international friends! We still love you! But you can still get your digital copy of Windrose!

When can I expect to receive my copy of Windrose?

You can expect to receive your Windrose copy (or copies... order more than one!) by mid-to-late October. We will update you if this changes.

How will you be shipping these magazines?

We will be mailing your magazine via United States Postal Service. You will receive a tracking number once your magazine has been shipped.

Anything else I should know?

No returns; all sales final.

I still have questions...

Just shoot us an email at info@thatfirstyearblog.com and we'll respond as quickly as we can!

Featured

The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

LifeErika OakvikSeptember 28, 2017FeaturedComment