Deciding Who I'll Be

One day after kindergarten, my five-year-old self sat watching a new episode of The Busy World of Richard Scarry. The episode revolved around career day when students in a classroom greatly resembling my own brought in friends and relatives to explain different careers available in the world. I watched, attentive enough, as a chef, a banker, a firefighter, and a construction worker gave their animated presentations. Suddenly, I jumped up with a smile bigger than the one I always wore at snack time. I ran into my mom’s room and announced: “I know what I want to be when I grow up!” My mom put down her book and looked at me expectantly. I proudly exclaimed, “A travel agent!” You see, I had never heard of a travel agent until that episode introduced it to me. A travel agent could plan vacations and make people excited about the world! A travel agent could work in their own office and coordinate fun activities! A travel agent could spend all day talking about exotic locations! But, most importantly, none of my friends wanted to be a travel agent; just me.

Time passed and I was soon dissuaded from this profession because of the supposed obligation to travel on an airplane: I had a phobia of these things, having never been on one myself. The seemingly glamorous life of a travel agent faded with a six year old’s travel anxiety and the rise of Expedia and HotelTonight.

Fast forward seven years: I sit in an English classroom as a young, impressionable seventh grader, soaking up every word from my teacher. After years of devouring books, read alouds, scripts, and writing poetry on love (which I knew so much about) and stories of an adventurous squirrel (which entertained my entire family), I made another career choice: I would be a seventh grade English teacher.

I guess I should have figured a travel agent’s life wasn’t for me after getting car sick on the short ride to the grocery store. In the same vein, I could have predicted my teaching dream when, in first grade, I came home from school excited about showing my mom what an ellipsis was…

Since then, I’ve expanded my decision to secondary education and can now proudly say that I am a certified English teacher in two states for middle and high school. What’s more, I can officially say (as of a few weeks ago) that I am going to be a middle school English teacher come August. To say I’m excited is an understatement.

Now, my excitement does not merely accompany me to the classroom aisles at Staples, or freecycle.org when I see free sheet protectors posted (seriously, please check out this site immediately). My excitement is fueled by this new chapter when I hope to gain responsibility and a sense of pride. I am not scared of being stuck in a career or feeling unfulfilled because I know that this is one of many chapters I am capable of writing. Although I feel that my classroom career will be a wonderful fit, I know that if it is not I can still try again. There is something so beautiful about our twenties in this way: we can always try another time.

To this day, I do not have a valid passport. Admittedly, the only time I have ventured outside of the United States was on a bus to Canada with my ninth grade french class. But I do own suitcases, and if all goes well, I will have a passport photo to grimace at by the end of the summer. If teaching isn’t what I imagined it to be, keep me in mind for your next adventure: I may be found at a travel agency near you!

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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?

Dreams, CareerC. CarrollJuly 13, 2017FeaturedComment

Deciding Who I'll Be

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