It’s only been recently that I’ve really gripped onto the idea that I am a creative, that I am a writer, that this is my craft and my art and the thing that I do. I always knew I loved it, but I never really grasped that it defined me and shaped me. It does. It molds the shape of my heart and puts a rhythm to its every beat. It nudges my thoughts into a coursing current of words and phrases and potential blog post titles and rhyming couplets and rambling lyrics. These definitions, these titles of creative and writer, they cultivate in me this thing that I can’t quite wrangle into words. It’s this thing of eyes always open, ears always listening, hand always aching to write, heart always yearning to find meaning. It’s this thing of comparison that sometimes stifles every word that might have come from me. It’s this thing of freedom that liberates my soul to share and open and surrender. It’s this thing of doubt that stampedes over my thoughts with one mighty one: you aren’t good enough for this. It’s this thing of joy that I can’t contain, this thing of intimacy with the most glorious Creator, this thing of purpose and plans and potential. There’s this thing in me, this beast, this passion. It’s my calling, I’m sure of that. It’s at times my burden. It’s at times my very breath and life. There are times where it pushes me into a dark corner, into what feels like a dead end, a place where no words come and no light is in my eyes and nothing flows from my pen. Those times are rich, even when they feel desolate. They cultivate in me a deeply rooted understanding that this is a gift, and it’s not of my own creation. This isn’t of myself. These words may come out of my mouth, but they aren’t my words. They can come and they can go. They are the words of the Author of all, and I’m merely a tool He sometimes uses to craft them and send them out. When the words come, when the ideas flow, when I sail on a breeze, light and free and full of something to offer, I celebrate. When the words are hiding, when my brain is murky, when I battle with the beast of my passion, I still celebrate. I’m a creative. I’m a writer. I’ve been made who I am for His glory alone, come what may.