“Please. Can I just have this day?”
Every week I hear from creative people longing to be in print, regardless of the medium. For some, just the mention of their unbidden passion brings tears to their eyes; convinced that writing, photography, sculpting, music is what God designed them to do, if only they could just get around life’s debris (ode to Camery-Hoggatts) and roadblocks long enough to pull it off. If only to gain permission, rather than stolen moments… I am no stranger to this ache.
I was such a poor caretaker of my soul that my core was languishing, turning to dust in the heat of the desert sun. I’d somehow come to believe that art and work were separate, and I’d sold out, sacrificed for a demanding career [link to Stinky Hippie].
Hardly able to drag myself home to my family, I had no joy or passion, no energy left. My creativity was redlining. I was losing my health, and subsequently, my marriage. When health gets this bad… everything is bad. One can’t sing, dance or even pray.
What most of us have a hard time wrapping our heads around is that art proves merely an extension or an expression of every other action we do: eating, sleeping, taking Sabbath rest, caring for others and brushing our teeth. Creativity is in our DNA. It is not a sport that we have to prove ourselves worthy of.
We all, by God’s design, have an inner ache for purpose and worth inborn in each of us, and while its source often seems elusive, our pursuit of it permeates our every action. For those of us unwilling to succumb to allowing our days to happen by default… we reach toward the definition of life. This quest… this drive to live, endures through even the darkest times.
What is your story? Why do you do what you do? Where does such tenacious desire come from?
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