Start Where You Are

Start Where You Are

Fourteen years ago I stood in a cold March wind on the outskirts of Atlanta, GA dressed in a blue polyester uniform shivering and waiting for back-up to arrive. I could still hear the four boys I saw leaving a MARTA park ‘n’ ride in two freshly stolen SUV’s crashing through the woods on foot. I stood beside one of the cars, its nose crumpled into a leaning pine. My hand dripped blood from a nasty cut I got when I fell while hopelessly giving chase through a wooded area, glass and trash serving as the forest floor instead of leaves and pine needles. The perpetrators were less than half my age and wore nothing more than jeans, sneakers, and t-shirts while I lugged 12 extra pounds in police equipment around my waist. Add the 20 or so extra years--no contest.

Standing there alone, I faced the self I had been running from as well, and wondered what I should do. As I waited 3 minutes, then 5, then 10 for somebody to arrive and give me a hand with the situation, I began to question the validity of risking life and limb for a car,even two cars which were, no doubt, well insured. Was I really willing to die over a $60 crack deal gone bad? I took a look at who I was becoming as a cop and had to admit I didn’t like what I saw. Violence was permeating my life; not just what I did for a living, but who I was as a person.

A helluva lot can go through your mind in a little bit of time when you’re hurt and waiting for help to arrive. But the question persisted--what else could I do?
I never finished college--life kept getting in the way. Policing was the best job I’d ever had. My identity was completely wrapped up in the uniform, the badge, the gun I wore on my hip that effectively said, “Don’t mess with me because I can take care of myself and you, too.”

Later that night, I stared at the bandage on my right hand while memories popped up like short takes on a movie screen. I saw myself in grammar school confronted with the same old question teachers always ask their young students, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” My answer was always the same. “I want to be a writer.” I loved books and everything writerly--paper, pens, pencils,erasers. Reading was my escape from a world in which I could never quite place myself. The piece of the puzzle that was me never fit in the jigsaw of my world. Books made everything possible and I wanted to live in a world with endless possibilities. I wanted to create those worlds myself and I knew I had the imagination to do it.

The other dream that returned unbidden was how I had always longed to live in the mountains. Not just any mountains,either. The Blue Ridge Mountains. The Appalachian chain that wound through east Tennessee, western North Carolina and on up into Virginia. Those big bluegreen giants that cooled a deep south child and her family running from the stifling Louisiana heat to ministerial conferences in Montreat. How hard could it be? I had no real ties to Atlanta except the Job and if I quit, what would keep me from moving to Asheville,say? My friends would understand--eventually. Besides, it was barely four hours away.

My wounded gun hand kept me out of work for nearly a week and when I recovered I returned to Fulton County with my resignation in hand. I dedicated myself to the writing life just as surely as the members of my daddy’s congregation gave themselves to Christ after a sweat-slinging, tear-wringing revival. I swore that even if all I could afford was a broom closet for shelter, I would write. It was a risk I was willing to take. In fact, the risks were many. They continue to this day. They aren’t the same kind I took as a cop, but they are taken consciously, intentionally and somehow that makes them just as frightening.

I took the first year of my new creative life and wrote a novel. I used every penny of my police pension to spend that year writing. I didn’t work a day job. I wrote a 350 page novel, a children’s story, a play, and several poems in that one year. I wrote almost daily. I worked long hours for weeks at a time. The dam burst and it seemed I had endless subjects begging my attention and my Bic. I lived with a friend and exchanged other creative abilities for room and board. I was a good cook, kept an immaculate house, served as personal trainer and confidante to my friend who was a nurse practitioner. We lived in a small town just east of Asheville that first year. Later, she bought a house and we moved to the “big city.”

Fourteen years later I’ve moved to NW Arkansas and I’m still writing. I lead creativity workshops, host poetry events, participate in writing conferences, perform my work for audiences. I’ve been published in literary magazines, newspapers, and have edited an anthology of women writers. I’ve sold out my chapbooks repeatedly and have 3 spoken word CD’s to my credit. I do not now and never have made much money. Poetry, in particular, is not a moneymaking proposition. But I am a wealthy person. The things I value most--time, inspiration, friendships, students, love, commitment, art, writing, music--I have in abundance. In fact, I’m one of the wealthiest people I know. And I am never bored. Not ever. For what more could I ask? Money would be nice, but it’s far from essential. Besides I haven’t completely given up on its acquisition. Anything can happen if you practice letting anything happen. All you really need is a fresh perspective, a lively imagination, and a willingness to take some personal risks. Creative living isn’t for everyone. There’s a certain amount of courage, flexibility and faith involved. Often security, as illusive a concept as it is, proves a stronger pull than the rewards of a creative life.

If you feel like something is seriously missing in your life, it probably is. Creativity, if not an end in itself, is a means by which you can achieve most anything. I challenge you to at least consider the possibility that you, me, all of us are called to create our lives; that we aren’t here simply to experience a “safe and secure” existence. Begin by taking a few moments to quiet yourself, body and mind. Relax and let your mind wander back to childhood. See yourself seated behind a wooden desk sharing a classroom with twenty other kids. The teacher asks that age-old question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” The answers click along like a chain of falling dominoes, “Doctor.” “Soldier.” “Nurse.” “Photographer.” “Rock and roll star.” “Cowboy.” Now it’s your turn...