It Will Be Okay

When I was growing up, my mom often quoted her favorite movie. “When the Lord closes a door,” she said, channeling Maria Von Trapp, “somewhere he opens a window.” Though I’m not one to live my life based on corny lines from The Sound of Music, I do think that there’s something wise about this particular platitude.

I am not a very spiritual or superstitious person. But I do believe in reasons and balance and meant-to-be’s and some great cosmic order dictated by the universe. This vague belief in some regulatory force saves me from writing life off as a chaotic and cruel mess and stokes some hope in me. It keeps me believing that no matter what, things will be okay. I am not naïve enough to think that life will be perfect. But I firmly believe that it will be okay.

Last December, I had my heart broken and landed my first job in the same week. I was grappling with a profound loss, feeling directionless and gutted and crushed. Something—someone—I loved had suddenly disappeared from my life and the absence was excruciating. Door closed. Then, just as suddenly, the career I had been striving toward for so many months materialized in the form of a dream job offer. Window open.

The universe took some love but gave some purpose, took my best friend but gave me the best job. It countered suffering with success. Balance was returned to my life.

Life won’t be all right. But it will be alright. I know that I won’t have every piece in its perfect place—the friends, the guy, the job, the accomplishments. But I will—I do—have enough beautiful pieces to cobble together a good life. Maybe not the one I dreamed of in my striving millennial imagination, with its gorgeous Instagrams and kickass resume and perfect boyfriend, all flawlessly actualized. But a life that is enough. The universe will make it so. It will slam doors in your face but it will open windows and let the world in.

So on the days that feel impossibly dark, I try to think like Maria Von Trapp. I trust that the world will give me what I need, that it will balance the good with the bad, that it will not break my heart without fixing me in some other way.

Coming home from the first day of my new job, I wanted nothing more than to celebrate with the person I loved. His absence was conspicuous that night, but my life held a thousand other wonderful things that filled me up. Making dinner with my roommates, fielding excited calls from my family, eating the cookies my friends had sent to my door, I was okay. Not perfect, but happily and gratefully okay.

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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?

Life, Career, RelationshipsLiz DeadrickMay 16, 2017FeaturedComment

It Will Be Okay

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