Fly On Little Wing: My Maiden Voyage

We begin by beginning... A clever lass once shared these profoundly simple words with me.

When encountering a fork in the road, one will generally hesitate to choose which direction to forge. Remember the defining moment on the way to Oz when Dorothy and the scarecrow contemplated which road to follow? I often wonder how this classic tale would have changed and evolved had they locked elbows and sauntered forward on either of the other yellow brick roads that were available to them. Would they have found the Emerald City?

Follow the red brick road?

Placing your best foot forward in any given direction can be the start of a new journey, and the steps taken to arrive there can be somewhat of a choose your own adventure game. Whether you teeter onto the next step, and towards next, may seem more like a balancing act than a leisurely stroll. It can deliver the same feeling one experiences while walking a tightrope, loosely tied onto a piece of jello that was nailed into a wispy sheet of rice paper. For me, the path I've chosen to take is to return to my former self. A free spirit, once known to the world only as Ringo.

Please allow me to introduce my alter ego. Ringo was a moniker during my yesteryears as I explored about the Hawaiian islands, an enchanting eden I was once fortunate to once call home. Here, I spent my days living on a thirty-two foot Westsail boat, free from the daily demands of life, anxiety, and the 8-5 grind. Back in the romp days of B.C. (Before Child), and the wonderful world of grownuphood.

To put it simply, my name Ringo stems from Ringo Starr, Johnny Cash's legendary Ring of Fire, fire, and fireflies (because I'm a bit of a night owl). I'm also a former island firedancer. Currently, I moonlight as a fire hula hooper, and I work to make a living.

This is what I do.

...and this is what I long to do.

Yes. It's absolutely true. I'm a Crime Scene Investigator, a certified CSI. A regular Dextera. I've worked deliriously for ten years to earn my place in an extremely competitive field. I abandoned a full collegiate ride as an art major to pursue a career that would allow me to afford something other than cobwebs for dinner every night. I also got knocked up at a time when all my friends were getting schnockered up off of twenty-five cent beer night at Hernando's Hideaway. Along the way, I managed to create a happy home for my thirteen year son and I.

I'm certain there are many who would drool at the thought of click-clacking their heels down the hallways of a prestigious government agency and working high profile cases only privy to a select few. There are most likely others who live for the excitement that my job can offer, or live for sitting on the couch and watching a television show dedicated to my profession. I can't deny that the work is incredibly rewarding. Yet, I long to walk in the moccasins of my former, freer days, and abandon my work with the men and women in blue. I suppose wherever you stand, the grass can always seem greener on the other side.

If I may have this opportunity to set the record straight, I do not wear low-cut, off the shoulder, blouses to crime scenes contaminated with biological materials. We do however, make use of the white, oompa-loompa looking Tyvek jumpsuits. I don't wear stilettos. Not to the morgue, nor to any excavation sites, and they are most certainly not my dancing shoes. I do not make use of blue lighting. Despite popular belief that its glowy effect is unfathomably sexy, it does not make for effective forensic examinations in a controlled laboratory setting.

Like many other officespace-like minded professionals, I have spent scathing amounts of hours dreaming of taking to the advice of Johnny Paycheck, and actually 'taking my job and shoving it'. I laladream of joining a traveling, vaudeville circus, preferably a cirque/carnavale (so that I may say it with an accent to sound all the more clever, but more importantly, so I can spend my days traveling). Unfortunately, logic continues to be an obstacle when my head wanders to such circus places.

Today, I find myself at my own crossroads. Now pecking at my keyboard to arrive at an agreeable combination of words to set foot into my next act. My Greatest Show On Earth... Mayhaps? A Fairly, Darn-Good Show on Earth would be a bit more appropriate, albeit less appealing.

Ten months ago, I received word that my position at the department was in peril of being eliminated. Axed. Discharged. Booted. Pink-slipped. My five year contract has drawn to a close, so I am to be banished to the Island of Unemployed Misfits. Now I step foot to ascend into a new journey on a path known only to others as 'a career change'. I do hope you can forgive me if I seem a little wobbly balancing here on this swinging slackline high up above the center ring of my life. To be perfectly honest, the view here beneath the candystriped, red and white big top is quite lovely.

What's a girl to do in times of fret and worry? Instead of stumbling on the path I've been bumbling, I have thrown my cards to the wind, left the man I was to marry, and am taking solace in finding Ringo again. My former, creative self.

Back in the days of islandtrotting, we would often speak the word 'Hamakulia'. It is the name of one of the angry family members of the world's most vile vortices. Its kin is famously known as The Bermuda Triangle. Disturbing this sleeping giant would ensure an apocalyptic volcanic doom for all island humans, so saying the word 'Hamakulia' meant the following:

Be humble, walk softly...

Clever words to forever lock away into the grey matter.

So, while recovering from the icy sting of heartache and conflict, and well on the road to joblessness I might add, how DOES one go about fixing a broken wing (heart/career)?

One eensy, little babystep at a time.*