Ladders and Light: Finding Peace Within the Busy

I love ladders. Where most people shy away from the slightly uncomfortable height, the questionable wobble, it’s just enough of a risk—but not-quite-dangerous to give me a bit of a buzz. Plus, the child in me still loves climbing things, being taller than everyone else, and having that new vantage point in the room.

After a few trips up the ladder, though, the adrenaline wears off and I get a bit dizzy. A little light-headed. I can still make it to the top but I’m a bit slower with my steps, a touch more grateful for the person at my feet holding me steady.

Cue Sunday afternoon, and find me at the top of a ladder the height of our church meeting room’s ceiling, stringing up fairy lights into a canopy to rest above our heads for a Guest Service that evening. The theme: “let there be light.” Where do we find light in a world that seems to be steadily growing darker? Hence, decorations of masses of fairy lights (and glow sticks). Win.

Life as an intern is busy. I, as a human, do not like being busy. I’m more of a be-er than a do-er and it’s difficult to constantly be moving from placement to placement, from theology to Student Café, from one-to-ones and French lessons and studying, to everything else on the to-do list that seems to pile up as quickly as things can be crossed off. It’s hard to make time for just being on my own, reading the bible, journaling, doing the things that restore me to life, when it feels like if I stop moving then something will fall off the delicately balanced pile of stuff on my shoulders that I’m precariously, just about, holding onto. It’s hard to get to the end of a Sunday evening, relieved that everything of the week has happened relatively smoothly, only to remember that on Monday morning it all starts again.

Realistically, my life isn’t that dark right now. I’m grateful for many good things and I’m conscious that I’m in a much happier place than some I can think of over the last few years. I work within a wonderful church that is committed to growing me, and shaping me to live more like Jesus. That’s good.

But this is a learning curve and sometimes the busy-ness, the stress of to-do lists, and the blurred lines of what is "church" and what is "work" allows the dark thoughts to creep in. Those mean ones that tell me that I’m not doing well enough, working hard enough, serving servant-heartedly enough. The voice that ranks up my good days, the weeks where I make it to all my placements, and manage to socialise in the evenings, awards me points for them; but simultaneously takes away points for failing to get the housework done, or not eating healthily enough, or having a grumpy attitude. The voice that tells me that I’m failing. The voices that make me frustrated at God because shouldn’t working for a church be easy, and fun, and warm and fluffy and lovely all the time? Why did God lead me to do this internship if he knew it would be so hard?

If post-graduate life, and starting this internship, is like climbing a ladder, then I’m getting lightheaded. It’s a challenge, there’s some risk involved, but I took my chances: and now I’m tired. The up-and-down snatches my breath away and I need a moment of pause; need a reassuring smile from the one holding the ladder steady.

In a world that seems to be fading into darkness as quickly as you can twist a dimmer switch, thanks to our collective human propensity to fail, where does light come from?

I believe in growth. I believe that I’m a different person now from who I was two, or four, or eight years ago. I think this is thanks to lots of things—life, our natural inclination to grow and change and learn; God, for guiding me to particular things, that teach me in particular ways; the people and places I’ve come across, who have pushed and taught and affirmed me; and myself, for wanting more, for wanting to be more "me" than a girl who feels potential curiosity for the world but is too tightly wrapped in fear and shame to step into it. I think that growth is natural but I think it’s effort too. I’ve seen glimpses of the world inside me that dares to dream that I could have particular skills, I could get good at certain things, be able to help people in the ways that make my heart beat faster, the things that I could talk about effortlessly. I think that this version of me, the one that I see inside my heart and head, is a promise for my future. I don’t think it’s there in vain, but I don’t think I’ll get there without some effort.

Interning isn’t always easy. Life isn’t always easy. Darkness creeps into our minds, our health, our relationships. We could build a hierarchy of issues that are bigger and darker than others—depression, illness, grief. But realistically, we all live in this world darkening under the dimmer switch and whether the heaviest things land on our shoulders or not, the weight is there. Sometimes things are busy when we don’t want them to be busy and finding peace is harder among the to-do lists, the expectations to meet, the tightrope-walking and the fear of slipping.

But I believe in the promises spoken to me. For me, they come from God; maybe for you they come from elsewhere. I believe that this year is part of the journey, the preparation. I believe that God—or something, somewhere in the universe —is rejoicing in my willingness to work through the newness and fragility of this time. I know that I’ll receive comfort when I need it, and that good things will be worked out and weaved among the difficulty, the complicated bits of life.

With the snap of glow sticks across the room, we lifted up our dark situations. Invite the light in.

We climb the ladders again, take down the fairy lights. Let peace settle around us as the clear-up begins. The weight on our shoulders a little lighter.

[Photo by Julie Bloom.]

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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.

Life, Health, CareerIssy DaviesNovember 26, 2017FeaturedComment

Ladders and Light: Finding Peace Within the Busy

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