Believing the Seeds of Wonderland
The last time I received formal recognition for being “creative” was in fourth grade; my painting was one of a handful of Maryland winners in the Crayola Dream-Makers competition. It depicted my “dream”: to catch a fish. My family traveled from Paintsville, KY to Baltimore where, with the other winners, we enjoyed an art opening in a gorgeous two-story gallery. My painting went on to display in two other major cities that year. That artistic recognition set the tone for me to operate creatively for many years, encouraging me to write poetry, act in plays, and learn to throw pots. I loved every second of it.
When I moved to Music City nearly twelve years ago, I started to doubt the validity of my artistic spirit. During my first summer in Nashville, I lived with two extremely creative roommates and spent the entire summer feeling like I did not have a single creative bone in my body. In contrast to the gorgeous new paintings springing up in our living room and the new songs being played in late-night circles in our kitchen, my sparks of wonder and beauty seemed minuscule.
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