Seasons
In an effort to break through my writer's block, I'm reading a book recommended by a friend titled A Million Little Ways by Emily P Freeman. The author talks about how you are God's art, created to make art, and making it God's art. I am thoroughly enjoying it, I'm marking it up (as any good book lover would do), and I'm trying to let the words speak to me to help help me overcome.
But one part of the book has me concerned. It talks about Seasons of art.
Soon after my first book was released in the fall of 2011, I had someone ask me if I thought that was the book I was born to write. Part of me wanted to declare with great certainty, "Yes! This is what I was made to do! This book is the culmination of my purpose on earth."
But I couldn't say that.
I believe that book was the book I was born to write for that particular season in my life. Seven years before that book released, I brought twins into the world, revealing God's glory by being a mother (I still do that, by the way). Four years before that, I learned sign language and revealed God's glory by being an interpreter (I no longer do that at all). Just this morning I revealed the glory of God in my kitchen, making cookie dough.
If history is anything to go on, then one thing I know for sure is, the job I do with my hands will change over time.
This worries me because I don't want writing to be a season. I want it to always be a part of my past, present, and future.
The best I can draw are stick figures. Photography, I love, but I'm only meh at. Dancing was my thing when I was 3-11, and then playing the trombone was 'it' for me in the high school marching band (which I never really considered an 'art' for myself, but a way to avoid p.e. classes and to meet cute guys). Fencing. Rock climbing. Hockey. Baking. All things I have held as hobbies, none that have reached me like writing does.
My job is in no way an art for me. I struggle with daily doubts and feeling of being so lost in a position that I'm nothing more than a number to them. I count down the hours until I am free to go home, and then dread the moment my alarm clock goes off the next morning. I miss the season of being a vet tech, as that has been the most rewarding and exciting job for me in my many years and various fields.
Being a wife and mother may be considered an art to this author, but I feel like it's something completely different, and probably a post for later, in my personal blog.
Writing has gotten me through lonely times between relationships, depressing times while learning my new home and identity as a stay-at-home mom in Maine, and stressful times of dealing with a problematic child and a husband who is struggling to find his own happiness. It helps me focus my over-active imagination into a way that helps me forget about the scary, real world, just for a little while.
Every day, when I open up my computer and stare at the pages of my story, desperate to finish the 3rd in a trilogy, I feel a little bubble of panic deep in me, hoping, praying that this isn't the end of this amazing 6-year journey. I'm afraid that if I walk away from it, even just to refresh myself, that I'll never come back to it, and then I'll just continue going through the motions of life, never feeling the intense emotions that writing seems to help me feel.
So, how do you find your art? And if you've found it, how do you keep it burning strong within you? I hope the book helps me find these answers, and even more so, I pray that it helps me fuel the fire inside of me again so that it helps me get through this thing called 'Life'.
But one part of the book has me concerned. It talks about Seasons of art.
Soon after my first book was released in the fall of 2011, I had someone ask me if I thought that was the book I was born to write. Part of me wanted to declare with great certainty, "Yes! This is what I was made to do! This book is the culmination of my purpose on earth."
But I couldn't say that.
I believe that book was the book I was born to write for that particular season in my life. Seven years before that book released, I brought twins into the world, revealing God's glory by being a mother (I still do that, by the way). Four years before that, I learned sign language and revealed God's glory by being an interpreter (I no longer do that at all). Just this morning I revealed the glory of God in my kitchen, making cookie dough.
If history is anything to go on, then one thing I know for sure is, the job I do with my hands will change over time.
--Emily P Freeman, A Million Little Ways
This worries me because I don't want writing to be a season. I want it to always be a part of my past, present, and future.
The best I can draw are stick figures. Photography, I love, but I'm only meh at. Dancing was my thing when I was 3-11, and then playing the trombone was 'it' for me in the high school marching band (which I never really considered an 'art' for myself, but a way to avoid p.e. classes and to meet cute guys). Fencing. Rock climbing. Hockey. Baking. All things I have held as hobbies, none that have reached me like writing does.
My job is in no way an art for me. I struggle with daily doubts and feeling of being so lost in a position that I'm nothing more than a number to them. I count down the hours until I am free to go home, and then dread the moment my alarm clock goes off the next morning. I miss the season of being a vet tech, as that has been the most rewarding and exciting job for me in my many years and various fields.
Being a wife and mother may be considered an art to this author, but I feel like it's something completely different, and probably a post for later, in my personal blog.
Writing has gotten me through lonely times between relationships, depressing times while learning my new home and identity as a stay-at-home mom in Maine, and stressful times of dealing with a problematic child and a husband who is struggling to find his own happiness. It helps me focus my over-active imagination into a way that helps me forget about the scary, real world, just for a little while.
Every day, when I open up my computer and stare at the pages of my story, desperate to finish the 3rd in a trilogy, I feel a little bubble of panic deep in me, hoping, praying that this isn't the end of this amazing 6-year journey. I'm afraid that if I walk away from it, even just to refresh myself, that I'll never come back to it, and then I'll just continue going through the motions of life, never feeling the intense emotions that writing seems to help me feel.
So, how do you find your art? And if you've found it, how do you keep it burning strong within you? I hope the book helps me find these answers, and even more so, I pray that it helps me fuel the fire inside of me again so that it helps me get through this thing called 'Life'.
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