David McElroy

When I was about 14 years old, my family moved to a small city with a population of about 12,000 people. I thought we had moved to the end of the world.

I hated Jasper, Ala., for several years and I chafed at feeling stuck there. I had lived in bigger cities before that, places such as Birmingham, Atlanta, Washington, Pensacola and some smaller cities. Not huge places, but big enough that Jasper felt like a greasy spot on an old paper map.

I eventually came to appreciate some things about the city, but it was always a love/hate relationship. By the time I left college for the last time, I left Jasper behind fore good. I soon had no family there, so my only ties were memories of the early triumphs and pains of a teen-ager.

Other than a couple of years when I worked for a newspaper chain that transferred me to two small towns briefly, I’ve been back in Birmingham ever since. I swore I’d never live in a small city again, but I’m rethinking that lately.

In fact, I’d say that if you’re not already giving serious thought to leaving bigger metro areas behind, you’re not thinking very clearly.

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How can I miss a life I’ve never known? How can I long for someone I’ve never touched? And how can I love little people who don’t even exist?

I’ve awakened from a dream again — around 4 a.m. — and I can’t go back to sleep. I didn’t know where I was when I woke up. My bedroom felt unfamiliar, because I expected to be somewhere else. And then I realized where I was — and that the place I expected was only in the dream.

All my life, I’ve had dreams about a huge and confusing house. I came to understand years ago that my mind uses this as a metaphor for my mind and my life. The house is me. When I was young, I had a lot of dreams about trying to squeeze through a narrow passage under the house. The passage would be narrower and narrower — until I was terrified that I would be stuck there and die.

As an adult, I’ve often dreamed about the house. Sometimes different floors or wings. Or a basement. The layout changes at times. Lately, though, there’s one door I’m always drawn toward — and I know what’s behind the door.

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Do you know what it feels like to be certain that nothing can stop you?

It’s a moment of winning. Time slows down. It’s the sudden feeling that all is right with your world. It’s the certainty that you could do anything in that instant. That nothing could stop you. That you are in such a state of perfect harmony with something in the universe that God is pleased with you.

I live for those moments. I crave those experiences just as much as a junkie needs a hit of his drug. In those rare moments of seeming perfection, I feel as though I am good enough — and that I can do anything.

I felt that way one Saturday morning 15 years ago. I was at a film festival and my short film was about to be shown to an audience for the very first time. It was a large crowd, maybe 500 or so, I suppose. I was nervous. The audience had seemed bored during the films before it. Maybe this was a tough crowd.

And then my film started.

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