At the Place Where Work and Magic Meet

There is a place in Nashville called the Loveless Café. The Loveless is less of a restaurant and more of an all-inclusive, southern cooking and hospitality experience. It’s on every tourist list you can find about things to do in Music City and to get in for breakfast on a Sunday morning would either take an act of God or sharing a bloodline with Mr. and Mrs. Loveless themselves. The property that houses the café is also home to an array of gift shops, a small event space and one large barn that sits at the back of the parking lot. The barn most often hosts weddings and receptions and is maintained by a catering team employed by the Loveless. I have been working for the catering team for a little over two years.

People want to have their weddings at the Loveless because it possesses a sort of magical charm that doesn’t exist everywhere. The space is beautiful, especially when adorned with twinkling lights and a chandelier that hangs from the middle of the room, and the biscuits and jam never fail to draw a crowd that is well acquainted with the hype of the Loveless’ recipe.

It is magical because it maintains a certain amount of mystery. The behind the scenes work of putting on an event is hidden from its attendees, the way the sweat and tears and lousy run-throughs of a theater production are hidden from its audience opening night.

But I have been backstage. I know that underneath those silky tablecloths are worn, folding tables. I know the place where all the dirty dishes and wine glasses and utensils get taken to, and it is grungy and unappealing. I have poured packaged orange juice into a pitcher to maintain the appearance of being fresh, and I know that the jams actually come out of a plastic bag. It’s like pulling back the velvet curtain and realizing that the Wizard of Oz isn’t actually a great and powerful wizard, he’s just some guy with a microphone and impressive sound system. Working at the Loveless has drained it of all its magic.

I have never worked a job that didn’t take the magic out of the experience for me. For all the jobs I’ve had, I would much rather just be an audience member, popcorn in hand, pretending that I don’t see the stage ropes that are holding the flying actor up. This thought has brought a lot of questions up for me over the last year of post-graduation. Will work always take the magic out of the experience and leave me feeling like a disappointed Dorothy who just realized the Oz can’t grant her wish? Should I always be looking for jobs that won’t break my heart to find out about the behind the scenes work of them, the way I have always avoided working at Starbucks because, Lord knows, I don’t need to know what’s in those drinks? Is part of adulthood coming to terms with the disheartening realization that work and magic can’t coexist?

But then I had a thought pop into my head this week. There are some jobs that deplete the magic source, but there are some jobs that we must keep doing because the work is the magic. I love when it is 11 am on my day off and the coffee I made earlier that morning is growing cold in a mug, and I am wracking my brain to put together the final paragraph of a writing piece. I love the fifty open notes on my phone filled with random thoughts and the chicken-scratched, indecipherable journals I keep and how finishing a draft of writing is like solving a puzzle. It is about as glamorous as strawberry jam being poured from a plastic bag, but it makes me come alive like nothing else. The magic is not the finished piece for me, the magic is the process—it exists not despite of the work, but because of it.

It makes me think of those actors in the theater production that I keep referring to. As hard and drilling and chaotic as the work is to put on a show, that is what they live for. They are drawn to the memorization of lines and the dress rehearsals and the tech week days that all end at 3 am. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t do it. If they were just drawn to the finish product they would be avid theatergoers but never performers.

I don’t know what it is for you, but if you don’t already know I would spend some time wondering. What do you lose track of time doing? Where is the place where magic and work meet for you? I might almost deem that place our truest calling. I don’t know that I’ve lived enough years in adulthood to make such a bold statement, but it is a thought that I’ve been wrestling with lately. I don’t think the answer is to quit all the jobs that don’t give you a warm, butterfly feeling in the pit of your stomach, but is instead to know that work and magic can coexist (and there are ways to nurture that place without being sustained monetarily by it just yet). Instead of constantly being disappointed by pulling back the velvet curtain, find the place where it makes you come alive to be backstage.

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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.

DreamsChelsey SatterleeDecember 11, 2016FeaturedComment

At the Place Where Work and Magic Meet

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