Though last week’s chapter in the tale “How I Became R. A. Nelson” was a tribute to the unexpected richness of my life in Fayetteville, the years spent there were also – in a way – the most difficult part of my journey.
As friendly and fruitful as Fayetteville proved to be, neither my husband nor I ever felt “at home” there. Both of us had landed there as a temporary measure – a brief stop on the way to the “next step”. Even after meeting and marrying and working and living in Fayetteville for several years, we could not shake the idea that the “next step” was still out there – and that it would require a geographical move, most likely northwards.
We were both deeply conscious of a conviction that, though significant, Fayetteville was not meant to be the Nelsons’ final destination.
This awareness grew keener as the years went by and the “next step” continued to elude us, making contentment an increasingly difficult, daily – and, on the bad days, moment-by-moment – choice.
Meanwhile, my full-time job and packed theatrical schedule left me little time to breathe, let alone write. Gatekeeper III took four years to complete – and, a year after finishing it, I realized it was still months away from being publication-ready. I was writing poetry steadily, and I had even begun my first post-Gatekeeper novel (stay tuned for more news of The Ancient – coming soon!), but I still felt like a bit of a failure as a writer – and as a wife and doggy-mommy, since my extended presence at home was more an exception than a rule in those busy days.
Looking back on it, I think the catalyzing inspiration came, as so many other significant moments in my life have come, through the quiet voice of my husband.
I remember vividly what proved to be the turning point. It was an ordinary weekday in the fall of 2016. I was in between shows, so we took advantage of the quiet evening to take Doc for a “w” (Nelson code for “walk”, as the fur-child learned that word EARLY and tends to become rather agitated when ’tis mentioned outright). Somewhere in that stroll, my husband told me that he thought the current year should be my last year teaching.
“You’re a writer,” he said, simply and reasonably. “You should write.”
It was a beautifully liberating and deeply terrifying thought.
My time teaching, like my time in Fayetteville, had proved to be surprisingly fruitful and affirming. I loved my colleagues and the vision of the school, and I was humbled by the daily opportunity to make such an impact on the lives of wee ones. However, just as my experiences in grad school revealed to me that professional acting was not for me, my teaching years instilled in me two firm convictions:
~ Teachers are the salt of the earth. I have yet to meet anyone who works harder, longer, and more thanklessly; and yet, they abound in love and creativity, determined in their belief that every child deserves to be inspired, nurtured, and loved.
~ I do not want to be a teacher.
The idea that I could write – just write – was intoxicating, but it would require sacrifice. It would also require me to overcome the fear that rises up any time one thinks of going against the grain and stepping beyond the sheltered walls of societal security.
A full-time job is, after all, not lightly thrown aside.
And then there was theatre.
I loved my theatre colleagues, and I loved the work we did. I loved telling stories with these people, and the feeling of building something entirely new. Still, I was troubled by a growing awareness that, as long as I continued pursuing such theatrical endeavors, writing would continue to take a back seat – even if I was no longer teaching. More and more, I was feeling a need for space – for silence – for the time that seems necessary for creativity to flourish in my brain. (For further reflection on the importance of such things in my authorial vision, see my first post: Out of Silence.)
While my husband was always very supportive of my thespian-ish activities and heartily affirmed the worthiness thereof, his counsel in this time of reflection and decision was, again, simple:
“You’re a writer. Maybe it’s time for you to write.”
His faith in me and my own growing desire proved more persuasive than any fear or regretful sorrow. Ergo, the summer of 2017 brought some drastic changes:
In June, I said goodbye to conventional full-time employment.
In July, I found a part-time, online teaching job that would let me work from home.
In August, I officially stepped down from my theatrical commitments.
And, finally, as we headed into the fall of 2017, I settled down to figure out this “writing as a career” business.
On one hand, it felt like everything was coming together for the “next step”. I was now completely mobile, professionally and artistically, so we were several logistical leaps closer to the possibility of relocation. On the other hand, we were not any closer to figuring out what or where the “next step” was. We had no job or connection waiting for us in the north to justify cutting ties in the south.
Thus, we continued, day after day, praying and waiting and wondering when the page was going to turn.
Perhaps something in me sensed that we were drawing near to breakthrough, for the waiting only seemed to get harder as the days went by. One day, in September of 2017, my frustration and longing overflowed into this poem:
The Dark Before Dawn
All the words have been said
But I’ve more left to say
All the tears have been shed
Still I weep as I pray
If our wills feel like lead
At the end of the day
With our dreams put to bed
And more debts yet to pay
Can I trust we’ll be fed
If surrendered we stay?
Is it true we’ve been bled
Our diseases to slay?
Once illusion is dead
Could delight break through grey?
Is there morning ahead
On this night-weary way?
It was within hours of writing this that the barest, faintest gleams of gold began to peek over the horizon.
For the full dawn that marks the end of this tale and the beginning of all the others . . . you’ll have to wait until next week’s blog. 🙂
*Photo credit for the featured image goes to Gene Brooks.
Your poem speaks to me, as I sit and wait in my present state for my true morning to appear. Thank you, . I will save these words to be included in my prayers as I converse with my Heavenly Father.
I am so glad the poem was a blessing to you. Amen to these prayers!
I continue to be blessed by your telling of the tale, and I am learning afresh how your soul is structured by the Father. So very special!!!
Thank you. 🙂