Longing

As I revisit the few posts Scott and I made to our family blog exactly three years ago, I am unexpectedly struck by what almost feels like sadness or longing. Not a longing for the ages the kids were then or who they were then, or longing for who I was then (or even my age then). A longing for a chance to have the time back that I've wasted since then. Of course I haven't listened every time Benjamin pointed out a bit of nature or Katherine asked for another snack, but have I listened enough? As a mom, I often struggle with feeling like I should be doing more and being more. Mommy guilt. If you are a mom, you have it. Some days I have lots of it and some days I feel like I have it because I deserve it. I made choices that weren't wise. I yelled and broke a little spirit that is fragile, yet, thankfully, amazingly resilient. I wasted time on something trivial that should have been spent reading a book or playing a game. That longing or "mommy guilt" or conscience or whatever name you want to give it, serves a purpose. NOT to make me feel inferior or not good enough, but to spur me on to action.

A Passion for Love

I am a woman with many passions but I so easily hide those passions. I am afraid. Afraid of what others might think, afraid of being mocked, afraid of rejection.

I have a passion first and foremost to be loved.

I know in my head that I am loved by God. I feel it in the touch of my precious children I have been given to nurture; I feel it in the warmth of the sun on my face at the top of a mountain where the scene around me screams of His creation; I feel it in the gentle nudges to be better and wiser and more trusting; I know it from the truths in His word.

I know in my head that I am loved by my family. I see it in my husband's eyes; I see it in the sweet little notes written to me in cursive and print and wobbly crayon; I see it in all the gifts & tasks & meals & calls & help that my family - both near and far - showers upon me.

I know in my head that I am loved by my friends. I hear it in the laughter we share over coffee, the tears and prayers we share through struggles, and the love I feel through hugs and calls and time spent together.

I am loved beyond what some can even imagine and still I struggle knowing it in my heart. I struggle when life doesn't seen to go the way I planned. I struggle when strife overtakes harmony. I struggle when small insignificant acts make me feel unloved.

As a passionate woman I FEEL. I feel the highs and lows; the ups and downs; the good and the bad. I suppose I wouldn't have it any other way.

My muse.

"It never works to write for someone else, or to do something because it's something I think I should be doing" a fellow blogger recently wrote. While I like to think I've never had a problem with the latter, the former made me examine the question, "Why do I write?" If I am not writing for someone else, for whom am I writing? When attending writing workshops, I am told to "know my audience." Is it for them I am writing? It is TO them I am writing, but is it really FOR them? That's an important question for me to answer for myself. If I write to impress someone I will not be writing with honestly or transparency or vulnerability. If my writing lacks those things, it is not a true reflection of myself. It is shrouded in pride and vanity and not worth the time in takes someone to read much less me to write. A few days ago I wrote the most honest, heartfelt words I have written in months. I was feeling lost, defeated, and at the end-of-my-rope. I did not try to edit my words or worry about how the person to whom I was writing would interpret those words. I was writing for myself - not selfishly - but for myself. I needed to vent, to de-stress, to pour out my emotions. My intent was not to impress or persuade or even send the words I was writing. And as a result, I let my guard down and simply wrote. In fact, it wasn't even a conscious decision, my situation that day stripped away all the facades I've carefully crafted and left behind only me. And I wrote.