When You Lose Your Head in the Clouds

For as long as I can remember, my school reports nearly always said the same thing: good student, does her work, but she is constantly lost in daydreams; her head is always in the clouds. And I grew out of a lot of things but never that.

When I was studying I loved my degree. I finally felt like I had found my academic niche, found what I was good at. But despite feeling content, I could never stop daydreaming, planning and hoping for the next stage, the next thing. I was always, always, always, trying to tread the line between enjoying where I was and dreaming for what could be next; usually I was failing pretty spectacularly. I sometimes worry that I was so focused on what I would do after graduation that I didn’t stop often enough to appreciate that my education was a gift and that I would never be able to live quite like that again.

And now I’m finally where I’ve wanted to be for so long and doing what I hoped for as a post-grad: I’m living in a city that I fell in love with, I’m surrounded by people who make me laugh every day, and I have a pot plant I haven’t killed yet.

But unsurprisingly, this stage of life is sometimes hard and occasionally just boring, so I’m living up to the standard I’ve created for myself over the last however-many years—the second that life isn’t fun and exciting and everything I imagined, I’m clocking out and my head’s in the clouds again. Regardless of my best efforts and despite every naive hope I had that this time in my life would be the one I could actually stop and enjoy, it’s proving difficult to ever feel like I’m where I really want to be. I’m finding myself so overrun by my tendency to dream that I’m forgetting that this wonderful life, hard as it is sometimes, is the one I selected for myself.

Sometimes I become overwhelmed by the feeling that life is a competition and I’m losing. I am as far away from a steady and realistic career trajectory as I was when I left high school, I have less money than I did when I was a student, and it feels like everything I turn my hand to, someone else has done better or sooner. My plans for my ideal future life are still far away; I never feel as accomplished as everyone around me; I get stressed about failures before they even happen; and every attempt to be bolder, stronger, better, seems to go unnoticed.

The truth, of course, is that life is never perfect and will inevitably fail to be the idyllic dream we hope for it to be, but that doesn’t make rejection, failure, and disappointment any less painful. And maybe the hardest part of being a graduate is that enduring all this somehow seems lonelier than it ever did before, now that we’re all in the real world and making our own ways in life.

My epiphanies, my constantly sought-after, sweet moments of clarity, tend to come when I’m walking. Walking to work, walking to the shops, walking for the joy of walking.

Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left.

Life is not a competition. And a head in the clouds is not a cure for dissatisfaction.

Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left.

Though not my natural tendency, I’m learning that a head constantly in the clouds is just… not that useful.

This reality check came rushing into a tired mind and a bad mood and into the middle of a meander through town. Yet-to-be-achieved dreams are hard, and can be both heavy burdens and huge sources of hope, but mostly they are just everyday weights we all inevitably carry. Swallowing pride isn’t easy when it feels like choking on bile, and disappointment can prick like angry tears, but there is still work to be done even when it seems fruitless.

I have learned that when I feel like there isn’t a space for me in life, when it feels like everyone else has their place and they’re thriving in it, nothing will solve my problem apart from carving out a space of my own. Blood, sweat, and tears are a lot less dramatic and glamorous than they sound when it feels like no one sees your effort and when your achievement seems like a goal everyone else has reached already, but every day of work can become something worth celebrating.

Often, the work is boring. It’s practicing self-discipline and forcing myself to stick to a budget when I’m doing my weekly shop; it’s forcing myself to leave the house and get some fresh air on my days off because I know I’ll be cranky otherwise; it’s making sure I go to bed on time because I have work the next day I can’t be late for. It’s repetitive and mundane, but the uninteresting work is what makes me better. Getting lost in dreams of what’s next is pretty much inevitable for me, but even harder than being unsatisfied is being unable to reach my dreams because I haven’t put in the work for them. At the end of the day, feet on the ground will take me further than a head in the clouds.

[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, CareerEmily AllsoppNovember 2, 2016Comment

When You Lose Your Head in the Clouds

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