A Little More of Both

“The fact that you got a little happier today doesn’t change the fact that you also become a little sadder. Every day you become a little more of both, which means that right now, at this exact moment, you’re the happiest and the saddest you’ve ever been in your whole life.”

~Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

On Monday, I am happy because I visited my college this past weekend. I walked around campus and remembered lots of little things—who I sat on that bench with, where I ate the most deliciously unhealthy meals, what sidewalks got to eavesdrop on my heartbreak. It’s all still there and so are my friends and everything about it is as beautiful as I left it.

And then I am sad, because I had to come back here and wake up early and go to work. College has gone on existing. It is difficult to fathom my campus without me, me without it. There used to be a hole in the Boston College atmosphere where I fit perfectly, and I am afraid that pockets of me are still left behind there, in those gaps. I’m afraid that there are holes in me now that I won’t know how to fill.

***

On Tuesday, I am happy because Bon Iver has recently released a new album. I listen to it straight through on my commute. It’s perfect sleeping music, but I stay awake to hear it all. The first word of my favorite track is “philosophize” and I hope there’s a meaning in that.

And then I am sad, because this song is so sad. This song is loneliness and heartbreak and dreams given up on and streetlights in the rain when you’re driving by yourself. I haven’t philosophized much lately; I used to try in college, as a philosophy major. I used to spend hours every day talking about the greatest human good, or the definition of excellence, or staying long after the bell rang talking to professors and classmates about the craziest things. I haven’t had a conversation like that in awhile. I haven’t found meaning that deep since leaving the classroom for a cubicle. I wonder if I ever will.

***

On Wednesday, I am happy because I wake up early to work out, and stay out late to meet up with an old friend. The morning is for me—dark, 5 am, my headphones loud and my brain somewhere else as I did just one more one more one more. I eat a healthy breakfast, and I dress warmly, and I catch my train. And then it is 5 p.m., and I take the train home, and I am met at the station with a big hug and a big smile and a chance to share stories. It’s a good day.

And then I am sad, because good days feel different now. Good days involve a lot more alone time than they used to. Good days are the ones when I see a friend at all. Good days now are on a separate plane from the good days I had before. I’m in a strange after, and it’s only been a few months, but I feel like I’m still waiting—like I’ve been waiting forever—to feel at home again.

***

On Thursday, I am happy because I see a sunset. October must have called up all the other months and said “hey, if you’re going to make me sacrifice summer to winter, then I get to leave the most beautiful remnants behind.” The sunsets I see on my way home from New York City are stunning. They kiss the Chrysler Building and peek down cross streets and are pink one minute and orange the next, before you can blink.

And then I am sad, because I leave my house when it’s dark and re-enter my house when it’s dark again, and darkness makes me tired, and being tired makes me go right to bed instead of going out, making friends, being young or whatever. Sunsets bring dark. Beautiful things end in darkness that has to absorb you for awhile, before the next sun gets to rise.

***

On Friday, I am happy because I watch Good Will Hunting tonight, and I still can’t quite get over that I come home at night and don’t have homework to do. I eat a good dinner, I take a shower (even shave my legs!), and I curl up on the couch as my cleanest, happiest self, watching my favorite movie and still laughing at the same parts I’ve always thought are funny.

And then I am sad, because I’m not sharing it with anyone this time. This movie is better shared with my roommates, as we piece together a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle. Or with my best friend, who always shouts out “Reeeeeetaaaaaiiiiner!” when Ben Affleck does. Or my dad, who made me watch it for the first time before Boston became home to me, too. Matt Damon is still cute and Robin Williams is still funny, but they sound different when their voices fall on my ears alone. I turn it off before the ending can make me cry.

***

In this post-grad life, I am happy. I am so lucky and grateful and glad to be happy. People tell me I should be, that I have worked so hard to be where I am, and those people are right. I am happy and I deserve to be happy.

In this post-grad life, I am sad. I am so lonely and exhausted and uncertain, and every little thing makes me think of the things I’ve left behind, the chapter of life I’ve just closed. People tell me it gets better, that this is normal, that I’m not alone, and those people are also right. I am sad and it’s okay that I’m sad.

Every day, I am this much happier and that much sadder. Every day, I am a little more of both.

I love my job and also miss my college. I relish being alone and making my own way, but still long for all my friends around me and wonder if I’m doing okay at keeping in touch without them. I’ve fallen in love with autumn in New York, yet I practically tear up at every Instagram of football season in Boston. I am fiercely happy in my new life—and I am painfully sad over leaving my old one behind.

More happiness does not always mean less sadness. Sad days don’t exclude beautiful things. I am reminding myself of this all the time. Sometimes I don’t buy it; other times, it’s the truest thing I know. Today, I’m not sure which one I believe.

***

Tomorrow is a new day, and it is going to bring both happiness and sadness, both familiar and brand-new. And then it will be a new week, full of good days and not-so-good ones. Sunsets and sunrises. Feeling empty, feeling full. Looking back and looking forward, with more to look forward to than I ever expected, and more to be grateful for than I could have ever imagined.

I don’t know which moments will be happy or sad. But I know I will have both, and I will try and feel all of it down to my core—happier and sadder in every moment, alive and learning and thankful, with my whole life ahead.

[Photo by Julie Bloom.]

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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.

Life, RelationshipsMelissa WartenOctober 17, 2016FeaturedComment

A Little More of Both

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