I used to envy the natural creative talent of artists. As a child I bought every art kit I came across. I did wood burning and needlepoint, made beaded keychain people, and stuffed animals, painted by numbers and coloured velvet pictures. I loved art and craft stores. It wasn’t until I was an adult, after doing the most creative thing a human can do, giving birth, that I began to entertain the idea of taking art classes. Then, even after making dozens of paintings, some of which I loved enough to hang for all to see, I still would not call myself an artist.
How did I not know!
I used to live in books. I escaped into fictional worlds at every possible moment. Getting lost in jungles, helping solve mysteries, falling in love—sometimes with the handsome heroes and sometimes the dark villains. I learned about gaining confidence, the secrets of success, the power of presence, how to parent my children, and also how to draw.
I would spend hours at any store that had any kind of writing supplies—staples, chapters, stationery stores, even airport gift shops. I’m sure I have at least a thousand pens—some that came from behind glass displays at niche stores, but most are papermates and bics.
While being an artist was not something I dared dream of, being a writer was. I loved writing. I would get lost in an endless stream of words. When words were flowing, time was not. Despite all the words I’d written—the poems, the blog posts, the large armoire and bedroom closet crammed with zipper binders overstuffed with pages full of all the things I had to say—still I didn’t accept myself as a writer. Despite my plans to turn these raw writings into books, I still would not say out loud the words...I am a writer.
How did I not know?
I always seemed to end up at all the same events and courses as the energy workers in my community. I was drawn to them and fascinating with learning about how light can heal. When I got sick and mainstream medical doctors told me they didn’t know how to help me, I healed myself. And still, I didn’t recognize myself as a lightworker.
How did I not know!
Maybe it was because I wasn’t born naturally knowing how to do these creative things that I didn’t think I was worthy of the title, artist, writer or energy healer. I honestly don’t know what sparked the switch in my brain to click from denial to accepting that I was an artist. But now I claim each of them fully, unabashedly and unapologetically.
I am an artist.
I am a writer.
I am a lightworker
I am creative.