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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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.
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1,631 miles.
That’s how far I am from Cinco de Mayo West Nashville, an iconic Music City institution featuring $13.99 margarita pitchers on Sundays, Mondays, and Tuesdays.
It’s been two weeks since I shared a final round of margaritas there with my people. Two weeks since I packed up a U-Haul and turned in the keys to the apartment I had called home for half a decade. Two weeks since I exchanged my Tennessee address for the desert and $3.69/gallon gas prices.
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It may be over.
Despite its nature, the concept is definitive. The body is better at preparation than action, so the concept invokes an uncontrolled reaction. The sweaty palms; the rusted coils in the stomach; the feeling of teetering on the edge—my body thinks I’m dying.
It tries to save me from myself. It transforms into a spring to weather elements. Or a boulder. I am hunched, prepared for the event.
But there’s nothing to save me from. My life isn’t in danger. I’m not being chased by a wolf. I sit on the couch. I sit in my chair, still. I am, in theory, perfectly healthy.
Yet my mind paces.
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“I’VE BEEN WRITING.”
I told a close friend this right as our Christmas break started. I had spent the last few days in coffee shops recuperating from the fall semester. And by “recuperating,” I mean hours on end were spent sipping coffee and writing poetry. My goal for the break was to be more disciplined in writing poems—stretch my poems in length, depth, symbolism, imagery... and stretch myself in the process.
This wasn’t a decision on a whim, though. (I mean, who just decides to dedicate their Christmas break to being disciplined in poetry?)
As I was finishing the semester, I got an email saying five poems I submitted to a print magazine had all been rejected.
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