Learning to Abide

“I’m waiting for resolve… but all I hear is abide.”

I wrote those words a year ago. Little did I know they would still be impacting my life today with even more intensity than they did back then. Little did I know that those were “the good times.”

Even now, I still haven’t figured out how to abide. Not even close. I haven’t learned to stay (even though I’ve been in the same geographic location for what seems like far too long). I haven’t learned to be present.

Instead, I’ve listened to repeated whispers that tell me, “There’s something more… there’s still so much more ”… the whispers that overpower the voices of family and friends who plead, “Your time will come” … “It will get better” … “Hang in there.”

Have you ever felt as if you’re always two steps behind the life you had planned? I’m tired. I’m tired of wet eyes and a dry spirit. I’m tired of the dreams that keep me awake at night. And most of all, I’m tired of the burden of the life I’m not living as I crumble under its tantalizing weight.

I’ve kept anger my constant companion these past few months. Time and time again I’ve compared myself to those who “have it all” (hello, No One). I’ve questioned what I did wrong to get HERE. Here, where my world is hazy and the fog never seems to lift.

The original plan: I was supposed to climb Kilimanjaro and walk the Camino de Santiago (I even bought new hiking sandals the other day in the hope they might bring me one step closer). I was supposed to live in a small house in the woods, a la Thoreau, and “suck out all the marrow” of life. I was supposed to leave my mark on the world.

I was supposed to do something… something more profound than graduating college with high honors, completing a year of international travel, and writing the first draft of a book. Disclaimer: I am grateful for the opportunities I’ve had; however, tidal waves of self-doubt and insecurity, combined with rivers of “what’s next?” from seemingly well-intentioned others, have left me gasping for air as I drown in a sea of worthlessness.

I was supposed to become something.

And that’s where the tension comes in. The tension between abiding and becoming, the tension that continually pulls me in two different directions and leaves me breathless.

Nevertheless, in this tension I am reminded: “A divine punishment is also a divine gift.”

Written by the ubiquitous author J.R.R. Tolkien in a letter to a fellow scholar, those words run deep. “A divine punishment is also a divine gift.”

Religion aside, I believe “punishments” are gifts in disguise--gifts of beauty, joy, and of course, freedom. And I know firsthand that freedom does not come without struggle. Freedom does not come without questioning. Freedom does not come without feelings of complete isolation and hopelessness.

Freedom doesn’t come without a price.

It reminds me of something I read about the changes that occur in gold as it’s refined. It’s a long and arduous process. Even when it seems to be complete, there are more impurities that rise to the surface and there’s likely more dross to burn.

I am that gold. You are that gold. Our dross is still being removed. At times, you may feel exposed. You may feel empty. You may even feel pain (burns do scar).

I have felt all of these. The process hurts. But I know the pain is necessary if I want to be refined, if I want to shine.

The moments of pain won’t last forever. I promise they won’t. This too shall pass.

How can I be so sure? Because this isn’t the first time I’ve gotten stuck in a moment.

I’ve felt pain when my voice was paralyzed and I sat silently in my classes, watching other students communicate freely.

I’ve felt pain when I was gripped by social anxiety and was too afraid to leave my college dorm room to enter the dining hall.

I’ve felt pain when I traveled the world and was forced to confide in and trust a group of strangers who were my only “family” for a year.

At the time, each of these things was the “hardest thing I ever experienced," the thing I was convinced I would never get through. But now, looking back, they were simply hard things I struggled with, but managed to successfully overcome.

I’m sure you can relate to these moments of pain. Remember the hard things you’ve struggled with. Remember when you didn’t have it all figured out. And now reflect on your accomplishments, the things you’ve done in spite of feeling stuck in a moment.

You are here, at this particular moment in time, for a reason. You took a turn, chose a path, and ended up right here.

I know that someday I’ll fulfill my dreams. I know that someday I’ll make that trek and climb those mountains. But fortunately, someday isn’t today. Because today, there is more refining to be done. And one day, someday will be more glorious than I ever could have imagined.

Today? Today, I can believe that a beautiful world exists even when I can only see the fog.

Today I can live in the now with my feet firmly planted. I can stay. I can abide.

No, I may not discover resolve (now or ever), but in the process, I may just discover freedom.

So I ask you, please be present. Please stay. Please abide. You’re not alone. I’m still here, figuring it all out too. One minute at a time.

[Photo by Juliette Kibodeaux.]

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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.

Dreams, LifeDanica CotovNovember 15, 2016Comment

Learning to Abide

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