What Is Hope?

It’s a grey day as I write this, warm and humid in a dispiriting sort of way, because it is October and all I want is to wear my plaid flannel and a scarf. And I’ve been thinking about seasons, and how fall has always been my favorite with the trees afire with color and the cool mornings that call for a sweater and the air that is fresh and clean.

Fall is a hopeful season, but in a somber sort of way, because there is a letting go involved—the leaves falling, the light fading, the chill in the air increasingly more unwelcoming. And when I think about hope, I realize that it too is beautiful, but in a somber sort of way, because it too requires letting go.

I don’t know all that much about hope and how exactly to define it. It’s one of those words like faith or love that you circle and circle with attempts at definition, but never quite capture its full meaning with mere words, like a dart that can never hit the bullseye. But I do know that for a long time, I didn’t have hope. There was a time in my life when hope seemed impossible—my desert period, as I like to call it. Hope seemed too heavy a weight to bear, not when my heart felt so lonely and lost.

The opposite of hope is despair—“the belief that tomorrow will be just like today.” A spiritual condition, as Brené Brown describes it. In my own desert season, I saw my future as endless sands of the same, assuming my feelings of inadequacy, loneliness, and lack of direction were now permanent guests in my life. As a new college grad, I had expected life to be a certain way, and when that vision of my life came crashing down in a mudslide of my own making, I had no hope that any of this could lead to good.

I think we're quick to define hope as expectation; we confuse the two. Because expectations are a human construct, created under the delusion that we can control the future (bad news: we can’t). And so we build up these ideas in our mind, much like the brilliant Expectations vs. Reality scene in (500) Days of Summer, and then we end up disappointed when life doesn’t meet these expectations. Broken expectations can break hearts.

Expectation damages. Hope restores.

I think hope is the the letting go of our expectations for how life should be, and rather, trusting that the season we are in is exactly where we need to be, even if it is grey and humid in October instead of the frolic-in-a-pumpkin-patch weather we’d expect.

The fact that hope requires letting go is such a drag for me, because my version of letting go is not poetic like the trees gently releasing its leaves, all golden and orange and red. No, my letting go is like trying to yank a contraband sock out of a puppy’s needle-sharp teeth. It’s a frustratingly reluctant process for me, because I like to be in control, and where’s the control in letting go of expectations that you’d much rather hang onto? There isn’t, and that’s why my control issues tend to go head to head with hope, who consistently and gently asks me to let go and simply trust.

The “simply” part of hope’s invitation seems to me a joke, because trust is not simple, not when anxiety is telling stories of how we are all doomed unless we get our shit together like, right this minute. Trust requires not letting our chaotic thoughts take center stage, and that requires a lot of self-control, and self-control requires a lot of effort, and, let’s be real, it’s a lot easier to worry and fret instead of trust. Anxiety and despair, in a twisted way, are more comfortable than hope, because hope requires this extra effort of letting go.

So maybe hope is this: watching the changing leaves fall from the trees, and though it is a death of sorts, knowing that it is still good and beautiful. Maybe hope is trusting that whatever season you may find yourself in, though it may feel like a letting go, a death of sorts, it is still good.

It is still beautiful.

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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.

LifeAlly WillisOctober 29, 2017FeaturedComment

What Is Hope?

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