Every day I am confronted with the spectres of times gone by.  These ghosts often hold up wavering mercurial mirrors to me.  My own self-image both haunts and challenges me.  The potential of my youth coupled with the understanding that I have now.  I believed that I could have been anything that I wanted to.  The ability was certainly there.  Often to express myself, I had creative outlets.  Music was an addictive and soothing place to expose that part of me that hungered for more than just the ordinary.  I would often find a place to sit and watch the world, and drink in the natural beauty of what I saw.  Then, inspired by that, I would sit and learn how to express the emotion that I just felt by playing an instrument.  When that wasn’t readily available, I was truly blessed to have the avenue of expounding with my words, and even sometimes I had the fortune of being able to put on a mask and become someone else in the tradition of thespians everywhere.

The act of creation itself carries with it this other-worldly feeling with it.  I have long been convinced that to create something (writing, music, art, and the like) is to truly touch upon that part of us that God breathed into humanity.  Actually, my thoughts seem to make the concept of being creative something that is rarefied and should only be walked upon with permission from the angels.  It’s not quite so.  I believe that each of us has gifts that rival the ones I’m talking about.  Only a few seem to have that sense of design beyond the utilitarian. 

In the quietness, I sometimes revel in the thought of the gift of being creative or insightful as something that is set apart for me.  I would hate to take it for granted, and often do because I don’t feel I’ll ever make this my career.  It may be something that I am called to do, my vocation, but I cannot fathom it being my job.  I would hate to lose it, but have had to walk away from using it.  I’ve had to walk away because I wasn’t using the gift appropriately, and I have left it behind because of the choices I’ve made.  Just like that man trapped in the cell…  On the flip side of that revelry is a fear that it will be taken away, or I will forget how, or worse… that it is a gift that is only for a season of time.

Many of us during the time before responsibilities raise their necessary heads, have the freedom to sit and watch and seek out inspiration.  Some chosen few are blessed beyond compare when they have their ability honed so well that they can make a living using that God-given part of their lives.  Teachers, actors, writers, pastors , musicians, journalists, counselors, dancers… all have the joy of living out that insight on a daily basis and get paid to do it.  I would even include fathers and mothers as well, but that is probably best set aside for another post.  And yet, many of us cannot seem to reconnect once it’s out of our lives.

But where sin separates us from our Creator, what separates us from those parts of us that live to be inspired, that live to express the inexpressible?  What keeps us from being able to use this wondrous mentality and gift?  And how do we get back to a place where it’s a part of us again when we feel like we’ve lost it or it’s gone?

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