A calling. What is a calling? A calling on one’s life. A purpose? Doesn’t everyone have a purpose? Are some people better at ignoring it? Why does my calling elude me? Why do I care? It pesters me daily. Is it just my personality? Is there something that only I can do and I haven’t done yet? When will I do it? When will I know what it even is? I know what I want to do: Be creative. Learn. Share. I want to learn more. I want to go to a “theological institute”. I want to write all kinds of books. Fiction and nonfiction. I have pages and pages in my heart. I have pain and struggles that can only be quieted by the pen. I have stories of faraway places in my imagination. Ways to tell the world about the Grand Love in the most beautiful of fairy tales. I want to speak. I want to use the microphones God has put me behind. I want to share in ways that people will remember and glorify God. I want to create art and music. Art. Music. Write. Why? Why am I so bent on any of this? Why do I need to do this? It’s in me.

When my (ex)husband was providing income for us it was all hobby. But now I feel the need to provide more so I am taking it more seriously. But honestly, if my purpose was really to just provide, I would be happy with a normal job. I feel like this is a point in my life when I MUST write. I MUST create. I MUST be creative. Art and music inspire my soul, but writing is where it meets the world–where dreams and imagery are finally communicated in coherent ways. I have always been torn in these seemingly differing directions, but today it is clear: art and music support writing. Almost as a trinity of creative satisfaction working in symmetry. Can they really overlap? Yes. All I am sure of is that I feel incomplete, like I wasted the day, when I don’t do all three. I need to create. I feel good when I make art. I feel great when I make music. But when I write, I feel I have fulfilled my destiny. It feels amazing. I think I am a writer. I will write. I will write what’s in my heart. I’m not even sure what’s there. I know there are things I have learned. Things I want to share. Helpful things. I also know there is a tremendous amount of hurt. Fresh wounds–some still bleeding. I don’t even care what will come out. I just want it all out. I am so ready to stop being a cul-de-sac of emotion and pent up “calling”. I want to plug in to the Source and be a conduit. I am ready to write.

According to Myer’s Briggs, I am an INFP. Reading the description is like reading a schematic of my life. I am learning. However it feels more like discovering. I’m panning for gold so deep I don’t even realize I’m also learning how to swim. It’s a good thing.