Do what you Love. Who cares if you suck?

When I was around 4 or 5 years old, I remember my sister screaming and running back into the house from the garage. She'd seen a rat, a most amazing thing for me at that age.

What did it look like, I asked. What did it do? Did it squeak? I was fascinated, obsessed even.

It was angry, she said. Angry??

To placate me, she drew the rat. Round ears, pointy snout, paws, and long, thin tail. Definitely angry.

I memorized that drawing and replicated it. Over and over and over. I constantly drew angry rats, that same rat, on every paper I could find. Rats rats rats.

A few months later, I finally branched out and began drawing other things. And I never stopped. For years, I drew on anything I could get my hands on. Paper, newspaper, brown paper bags from Publix. My mom would bring home reams of used dot matrix printer paper for me.

If there was bare space, it became a canvas.

I drew cats, dogs, horses, whales, all sorts of animals. There was a unicorn and pegasus period. I drew people. I became addicted to Archie comics and drew the redhead and his waffle hairdo, Jughead, Betty, Veronica, the whole gang.

I won my school's t-shirt design contest in elementary school. I participated in the zoo's art competition, drawing giraffe and zebras. To this day, it remains one of my all time favorite memories of being with my mom, running to make the deadline for submitting my art, flying by emus and gibbons, laughing breathlessly the whole way back.

I created floor plans for the house I eventually wanted that included a grand spiral staircase and about 10 bedrooms (I've since downsized my tastes).

I painted. I sculpted. I worked with thread, yarn, paper mache and glitter. Damn, I loved glitter.

Throughout those years, I believed I was an artist. I was an artist because I loved to create. I never doubted my talent because it brought me joy and that was enough.

The drawing and creating dropped off around high school, a little more in college. An uptick in my early twenties as I discovered photography and the meditation of working in a darkroom, the anticipation I felt as I slipped the white photo paper into the solution, and images appeared, as if by magic, images I'd shot days or even weeks ago, hoping I hadn't totally screwed them up.

As more and more of my attention and energy went to building my career, little was leftover for creative pursuits. I had no time, I lacked inspiration. There were late nights and early mornings at work. Groceries to be bought. Homes to be cleaned. Laundry, litterboxes, errands.

My creativity was reduced to those nights that, after a couple of glasses of wine, I'd draw elephants on placemats or any available friend's arm. Or dolphins. Depends on the friend's taste. I take requests.

I'd wander into art supply stores, lingering by the paints, examining brushes. It made me happy just to be around those things.

My need to create was still there. But my serious side had snuffed it out. Who do you think are, those mean voices would ask. You seriously think you're an artist? It's not like you're Picasso. You're not a real artist. You just doodle. And your paintings are so basic. You suck.

I'm sad to say I listened to them for a long time. I never mentioned my doodles and drawings, because I thought, who cares? I was afraid of being judged. It's not like I'm good at it or anything. I just do it for fun.

As if that's not enough of a reason. As if that should not be the ENTIRE reason that we create. I've finally come to my senses and realized that the things that bring us joy are the most important things we should be doing. Yes, we need to pay the rent and buy groceries and all of that other stuff, but what are the things we do that delight us? That bring us back to ourselves?

Recently I had the desire to paint again. When I took inventory of the supplies I had, I was startled to realize I had a box full of different sized brushes, acrylic paints in every color. Stencils, markers, and…GLITTER! All of these things, all sitting in a box that's been untouched for months, maybe even a year or two.

I bought a few canvases, an easel, and began sketching and painting. And there I went, right back into that amazing place where time ceases to exist, and the only thing that matters is what shade of brown to use, or which brush will give you the precise feather stroke needed to make the fur look right (Shocker: I'm painting animals). Hours later, I realized my arms and fingers were covered in paint, my canvas no longer white, and I was happy. Actually, no, I was joyful. I was so joyful, I didn't even want to go to bed. This was exactly where I wanted to be.

I was learning to play again. To find joy in creating. It mattered nothing whether it was "good" - just whether it made me happy. That's it. If others like it, cool. But this…this is for me.

Writing, drawing, painting, these things feed me in a way nothing else does. How long have I been starving?

What are the things that belong solely to ourselves? Is it our poems? Our photography? The piano, the guitar, the saxophone? Riding horses? How long have we neglected our secret gardens? Whatever we love to do, it may not be some BIG IMPORTANT THING…but it's ours.

If we nurture the seeds of creativity within us, we bloom.

-XO, D