As I share in my beloved Dear Artist class, I have an unshakeable sense of urgency about life. As time goes by and life happens, both the pretty parts and the grief parts, this only intensifies to a point where I feel wildly compelled, pulled, called by something outside myself. John O'Donohue, my favorite mystical poet-preacher, calls this the urgency of the Eternal. One night, in the midst of my tearful hours, I went to sleep with a burning question in my heart: What am I trading my health for? What am I trading my time for? What am I trading my life for?
It took years for me to call myself an artist. In my mind, to be an artist was to create gorgeous paintings and sketches and make life appear on canvas, and I could do none of those things. Instead I found great solace in claiming the title writer, which is making art with words.
And then I lost my words.