I am in the writing mood, but I am at rehearsal. I am sitting in our break room surrounded by three thermoses of tea and the music of The Phantom of the Opera.

And I want to write.

And I want to study my music.

And really I don't know if what I'm writing is any good, but I want to write something.

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I am feeling the first stirrings of Christmas.

I am feeling adventure move my heart.

It’s always the cold months that make me feel the most. And that’s ironic, because I’ve never been one for the cold.

I don’t like to feel the frigidity on my skin, don’t like to have to crunch in upon my body so that I’m bent in half to keep warm.

But the season that is winter creeps its way into my heart as well as up my arms, and I can see myself the most clearly.

There’s a vision of myself that somehow never changes: the vision I keep hidden away in my heart of hearts.

She sometimes appears before my eyes, and I can sense her along my fingertips: when I’m walking into work and looking at the sky to the west. When it rains. When I’m listening to music. When I’m writing — and that’s why I write, I think.

To remind myself of who I am.

To become again who I know myself to be.

It’s not like looking at someone outside of yourself.

It’s like coming back.

It’s like I’ve been walking around in a dream state and then suddenly —

Oh yeah.

I catch a glimpse of the sky or the rain or I simply suddenly remember.

I am not the girl who’s been walking around in a haze for the past week or month or however long it is.

No -- I am brave.

I am courageous.

I am a warrior princess.

I am an Adventurer with a capital A.

I keep coming away from this identity, and just as often as I come away, I come back -- and each time it feels like you’ve been woken up.

You were dreaming, and now you are awake.

The real live world sparkles and shines.

Look around.

We are alive.

The air sizzles and pops. The sky is painted with the colors of the wind, and we are inhaling electricity. The air is so cold, so clean that it burns our lungs.

Maybe there are mountains on the horizon, and maybe there aren't, but we'll be darned if we won't chase the skyline to find out.

We long to climb gray stone, to bathe in clear, cold water, to taste life to its fullest.

Rain and fog and sunlight and clouds all have the same signature shimmer.

And we are no longer sleeping.

The world is glowing, and we are awake, and we are in it.

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Look around at where you are.

The fog has been lifted from your eyes, and you can see yourself clearly.

And it’s not like having someone else watch you.

It’s like coming home.

Once we were asleep, and now we are awake.

I’m tired of coming back to this person again and again.

Why can’t I just live inside that soul-skin?

We are drowning in the everyday.

We want to feel that we are adventurous all the time, but the Mundane gets in our way.

What we don’t realize is that we are always adventurous.

Whether we feel it or not, whether we recognize it or not, whether or not it occurs to us that the way we move marks us as different.

Because we are.

Haven’t you always felt that you are different?

Somehow special?

That something about you marks you with a brand, that you are not like everyone else around you?

It’s like walking around with a golden tattoo on your forehead.

It glitters in the light.

Identity is something that cannot always be felt.

I can’t say that I always feel like what my name means, or like a child of God, or adventurous.

But that doesn’t make those things untrue.

Identity is true of us whether we feel it or not.

We are different, and we are brave, and we do not look at the world in the old way.

We are no longer slaves to the Mundane.

We are Adventurers, whether we feel like it or not.

We will not cheapen our identity by saying that we can't feel it, so it must not be true. What kind of identity is it, then?

We wake up. We are children of the King. And there is nothing we can do to undo it.

Praise God.

All we can do is believe it.

May we believe it.

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