rust and dust and dry bones

It's been too long.
(I feel like I'm always saying that.)

I don't know where writing fits into my life anymore, or even where it should fit.
It was a part of my identity that I clung to for so long, doling it out whenever I could help it.
"What do you do?"
"I just want to write."

And now that feels...still true, and also not true.
For so long writing was air, it was breathing, it was life.
But then I started living without it and realized that I could.

Now I'm back from the experiment and I don't know if I've learned that I can live without it, or if I've learned that just because I can doesn't mean I should. I think I get stuck inside my head too much, and I censor myself before I've even had a chance to unravel what needs to be said and what needs to be put forward. I can't figure out who my audience is or should be and so I never know what to say because I don't know that (the proverbial) you need to hear.

And lately all I can think about it purpose and meaning.
Do I matter? Does my story have a place in this world? Is what I'm doing enough? Does what I do make any sort of difference? And if it does, to who? And are they enough to keep going?

Motherhood has taken over my identity. It has usurped any sense of "woman" that I used to have. Now, before I am a woman, or a wife, or a writer, I am a mom. And I don't think that this is the right order. It's not supposed to be that way, but how do you tell yourself that when it's 1 am, and your daughter is clinging to you while your son snuggles himself into the curve of your back and it's going on 24 hours that you've literally had someone touching you at all times and you just need to breathe for. one. second. How do you hold onto your sense of self in those moments? Who are you? Who am I? Who am I supposed to be?

There are a hundred and one blog posts out there in internet world telling us that yes, motherhood matters, and don't worry about the crumbs on the floor because there is glory and purpose in the mundane, and just look in your child's eyes and see the purpose that God has put there, and just hang on sweet momma because this will be over before you know it--but what happens when it's over and you've lost yourself in the process and your kids leave and it's just you and God almighty left. Who are you then?
I don't want that to be me. And I don't want this to be one more page of words in the internet world talking about glory in the mundane and purpose in the dirt on the floor. Because all of that is true, but isn't it also true that we were created for more than this? We were created to live, and we were all gifted with the ability to do something that makes our souls fly and our hearts sing. So what do you do when you can't find it and all you've got left is the dirt? And those children, those two beautiful children with the chocolate brown eyes, and the chubby fingers, and the dimples, that will suck every last bit of you out of your body if you let them--what about the moments where your soul is doing the opposite of flying when you look at them and your heart is dying a slow death instead?

Dear God, give me back a piece of myself. Show me what to run towards, instead of trying to force my life into the picture I think it should look like. Because I know myself. I run towards shiny objects, and a life that looks full of happiness and perfection, but when I get there (IF I get there), it's never what I thought it was going to be. I'm tired of running for fool's gold. I want the real life, the full life, the God-life. I want the fulfillment that comes from knowing that I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing exactly where I am supposed to be doing it. I want the peace that comes from being filled and then turning around and filling others. I need that peace. I'm dying for it. If ever there was someone parched for Living Water, dear God, it's me.