Seasons Never Last Forever

It seemed like everywhere I turned these past few months I heard that I was entering the strangest year of my life.

I heard the word miserable more than a few times, confusing and wonderful used in the same sentences. Now, on the other side of this first untethered month, I get it. There’s no end date on my job description, no promise I’ll return to what’s been normal for the past four years. There’s only a gloomy office building, and the writing on the wood-paneled walls reads, “You won’t be here long.” I hope the walls aren’t lying.

The truth is, this season has felt so far like a free fall. I was warned about this: it’s not bad, but it’s different. I’m starting over, from the ground up, with new expectations and new routines and a new normal. Even the familiar bits of life are somehow changed. I am somehow changed.

All of that change tends to bring with it a significant dizziness. My days are often punctuated by the pounding drumbeat of an anxious heart. I have more questions than answers.

Growing is good work, but it’s hard work.

And some days, the good is harder to see. Weeks of thunderstorms start to wear on my soul, and the promise of Someday Soon feels like a dream better forgotten. Those are the rough days, days that drive me to solitude, to seasons of old sitcoms, to shutting down. Those are also the days that teach me the most.

Because on those days, when I feel dizzy and distrustful of my own ability to stand up, I stand up anyway. The truth rings clear that there are things in books that can’t be gained from Netflix. That there are relationships to cultivate and invest in and learn from. I spend days wanting to be somewhere important or somewhere new, but the big world I want so badly to inhabit already exists outside my quiet bedroom. So instead of retreating, I put on some real pants and drive my little silver car out into the world.

Out there I find quiet places filled with books or flowers or coffee.

I find friends and silly adventures and serious conversations.

I find a community of believers and doers and encouragers.

I seek out the things that fill me up, and I surround myself with them.

In the unpredictable beauty of living, I find the peace I would never have if I stayed in bed all day. I find the wonderful part of this weird year that everyone warned me about. And on the hardest days, I make sure to take time to breathe in the timid peace that comes with the knowledge that seasons never last forever.

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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?

Graduation, LifeAlexa JenkinsJune 27, 2017FeaturedComment

Seasons Never Last Forever

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