I remember sitting in art class as a young girl and being petrified. There was usually an assignment to draw some object and I’d look around me and the other kids seemed to be drawing something that resembled the object that stood atop a desk or table. I looked at my scribbles and my insides would jumble up. Then I’d just give up and draw whatever suited me. Usually I would draw a little cartoon my bff and I drew on all our secret notes. We called it a pulb. I can’t even remember how to draw it now. It’s not in my head anymore. I would make twenty of them on the paper.

Ultimately I had to hand in something that resembled what the teacher asked for. Many students art were placed on the walls lining the hallways. I can’t recall mine being there ever.

This may not have bothered some kids. They would draw the best flower or cow or building they could and hand it in and be done with it. I was driven mad by inability to create a nice drawing. I wanted to be able to draw and I wanted it to look just like the cow or the flower that was the model for our assignment.

The things I could draw when I was young were limited. I mentioned the pulb. And I drew tons of smiley faces. But when my fascination with horses bloomed I spent hours and hours drawing horses. Some I copied and even traced so I could get the feel of how to draw the neck or the head. Some of the drawings came out of my head. None were very good but it was my love for the horse and the time spent being in the moment of drawing it that seemed to be satisfying to me.

Another period of drawing came when I became enamored with houses. I loved to go into other people’s homes and see what their floorplans were like. I imagined Home floor plans when I looked at houses from the outside. I guessed where the rooms might be placed based on the where windows were . I perused floor plan magazines spending way too much time for a eleven year old going over every detail of the plan.

It was then I began to draw my own floor plans on graph paper. I made drawings of floor after floor. (I guess it’s not shock that later in life I wanted to be an architect. Something my grades and math skills never allowed but I did major in urban planning.).

I never tired of drawing floor plans and I also began a fascination with maps. (Again this plays into the urban planning major).

I spent all that time drawing and I never felt I was an artist. I wrote back then too. I wrote stories and poetry. I dreamed of authoring a book.

I was the dramatic poet in high school penning love poems to boyfriends. I took a pottery class in high school and loved it. I never made anything good but the wet clay between my fingers was so relaxing.

I never thought myself creative though. It was just stuff I did. When I was a kid you didn’t major in art. My dad wanted me to major in business in college because that’s how I would get a good job. Creative stuff wasn’t going to provide for me in the future.

I didn’t picture having a creative life even after I discovered photography when I was just 22. I fell in love. I loved the technical aspects of photography and the feeling of that camera and the power to capture an image I found beautiful or captivating. I have thousands upon thousands of photos.

I longed to dig deeper into the art. I took classes and was discouraged after one classmates portrait assignment blew mine away. In fact many of my fellow students had much better darkroom skills than I did. I stopped classes soon after but I never stopped taking photos.

It wasn’t until I became a member of a creative group online that I actually allowed myself to say I am a creative. I may not be earning money being creative but I am one. I’m a creative.

I have to say that I’m proud of much of my photography and sometimes the photos that resonate with me aren’t my best shots. They are the ones that convey some meaning to me. A memory, how I felt at that moment. For me each photo has my story in it.

I realized it’s the actual creating that is what matters to me more then the outcome. It’s how I feel doing it. Just walking around with the camera and looking at things differently bc I have that camera in my hand- that’s a feeling I love.

The same goes with writing. Most of the time my pieces that I wrote never turn out the way I thought they would. My writing takes on its own form as soon as I sit down to do it. That’s the part I love.

Creativity is about outcome yes – but it’s also so much about the process. At least for me it is. I think about Michelangelo on his back for so much time painting the Sistine Chapel. It had to be about the process. It took him like 7 years I think. And what about Picasso and Van Gogh? Their artistic styles were so different. Picasso’s work made no sense to many. But it did to him. And when people look at art they get their own feelings about it.

My photo of the Baltimore harbor (see below) means something to me that was personal bc I was there and moved by the scene before me. I know it was winter and I was in the Marriott hotel inside and I took the photos through the window. I had been there to watch a Christmas boat show – a getaway with my husband. See? I have a huge memory of that photo. To someone else looking at it it will mean something entirely different. How cool is that?

So in my creative evolution I’ve become more fluid. I’ve wanted to try more things. I took a glass cutting class where we made some cute trivets. I wanted to keep that up but it didn’t stick. I began painting furniture which I loved but had to give that up bc of my nerve damage to my arm.

I never thought that I wanted to try drawing bc of my past fears. But recently my husband and I found ourselves perusing the aisles of a Michaels craft store (where items are way too pricey btw). Aisle by aisle I became inspired. And then it happened -my husband found a book of animals to draw. The fire lit inside me and before I knew it I was in line with the book and sketch pad and pencils.

It turns out I love to draw. I ordered myself a beginner book. The animal one was a bit hard.

I often think what I’ve drawn stinks. Then I go back after a day or two and I look and think it’s not so bad. I don’t think I’ll ever draw well. In my dreams I want to draw like the artists that can take a photo and draw it and you can hardly tell the difference between the two. I think that’s a huge gift and I don’t think God gave me that one. So I have to tamp down my hopes some.

I kind of want to find some drawing style that is me. But right now it’s the process that I love. I like the time lost in the learning. In the past I’m not sure I would have been as patient. I would have given up. But now it the process that benefits me. It’s akin to some meditation. It’s the same thing as my photos and my writing. All outlets for me.

So can I draw? Yes. Can I draw well. Not really -but I might get better. It doesn’t really matter though does it ?