My artist within...

The mother would use her brush daringly and create the most beautiful pictures. Pictures straight out of her mind, never copied from a book or magazine. Scenes, people or whatever moved her in that moment, became her subject. And, the little girl with the long blonde hair would stand over her mother's shoulder and watch her, admiringly.

The girl wished that she could create, just like her mother. She would spend hours practicing her drawing and painting. She dreamed that she would grow up and have that wonderful gift. She was shy, and to her this seemed to be the perfect way to share your heart with someone else.

She was amazed at how quickly her mother could take the brush and use bold strokes to create leaves, flowers, vines, all looking so freeform and natural. As she worked, the little girl would ask her what she was making, her mother always said she didn't know. She wasn't sure yet. When she asked her how she drew something in particular, the mother never explained only saying she didn't know how she did it, she just did.

And so, the little girl with long blonde hair would sit, knees curled up to her chin and rock back and forth and watch the mother work. The more oil she added to the canvas, the more possibilities the girl could imagine of what it might become. In the end, she usually was surprised by the outcome, but she always loved it.

Her mother was crafty too. She'd take her skills to flower pots, shiny white tiles, and the sides of cabinets. She embroidered a huge canvas with birds, with wings of every color in the rainbow. Everything her mother made, the little girl felt, was made of gold. It was perfect and priceless. When she tried to tell her mother this, the mother would just laugh and joke about how she quit art school, how no one would by her work, and how she'd have to give it away.

As she grew older, the girl's artistic desires grew, but along with it came frustration. Paralyzed by her own perfectionist tendencies, she would try to copy magazine covers. She tried to draw things exactly as they looked, and let go of her imagination. It seemed to be the only thing she could do that came close to her dear mother's gift.

Her mother, at some point, quit painting and creating altogether. Thinking back, the girl did not remember exactly when, but discovered why later. As an adult, her mother shared with her, "I stopped painting because you always got so upset that you couldn't do it like I do. I didn't like for you to be upset, so I quit."

The girl's heart filled with mixed emotions--swirls of sadness that her mother could walk away from such a talent, dots of guilt for having unknowingly made her leave her art, and strokes of anger that her mother would actually tell her such a thing and not realize how awful it would make her feel inside. Feeling dabs of curiosity, she wondered, how could someone with such a gift just stop creating? To her it seemed unfathomable

As a teenager, the girl start to write in her journals. The words flew from her pen with ease. She liked to write about her feelings, her observations, and her dreams. She also learned how to embroidery, cross-stitch, and crochet. She found other ways to fill that artistic place inside of her, like creating fun scrapbooks with bright papers and fun titling.

She still held artists in the highest regard, but felt a sort of envy toward them as well. Finally, she realized that her real art was in words, in descriptions, and in telling stories. She might not be able to paint beautifully on a canvas, but she could tell you about that canvas and make you see it as if you were there.

And, it was then that she finally realized there was an artist of sorts living inside her all along.