I used to think that art was a veiled, narrow corridor that only a few prodigies and their superior brains could fit into. Only the people who could paint the best imitations in the best colors, the people who could write the best feelings with the best words, the people who could maneuver the prettiest lines with their bodies were true artists. Only they were included in the hallway of high art.
There were days that I aspired to study these fine people. There were days that I aspired to be one of the fine people—the thought of being an artist! There were even days that I thought, maybe, I already was one.
But you know, there are so many of us that create.
There are so many of us that make things with our minds and our hands and our souls. People who make quilts and gardens and murals. People who invent new things, and keep hearts beating longer than they would beat. There are people who make dreams, and careers, and families.
We make our own lives. There is nothing, and we add bits—lumps of clay and splatters of desire--until it is something to look at.
As I'm deciding what I want to do with myself, I keep saying that over and over. We make our own lives.
It is just the most paralyzing and unbinding thought I've ever thought.