There is a creative part in each of us, a unique wellspring of imagination and expression, but often, it lies dormant, buried beneath the demands of daily life or the weight of self-doubt. I have always been a big fan of those who are openly, effortlessly creative. Anyone who could coax a melody from an instrument, sing with the clarity of a bird, render a scene with a few strokes of a brush, write with a flourish, or exhibit any natural talent for artistic creation—they were all subjects of my profound admiration, and yes, a touch of envy.
My own perceived talent, or gift so to say, centered entirely around a ball. Throwing, shooting, kicking, or catching a ball came as naturally to me as drawing did to Leonardo. Of course, there was always a whole group of kids who did it better, faster, stronger than me, but what was truly important was that a ball brought me immense pleasure, and it fueled dreams of glory and camaraderie. It was my first, purest form of creative expression, a dance of strategy and instinct on a field or court.
It is not important that the creative in us be “good” or “excellent” by external standards. It doesn’t even have to be good enough for us, as we are often our own worst critics, armed with an impossibly high bar. What is paramount is simply to find that creative pulse within, acknowledge it, and let it out.
After life, in its sometimes brutal way, beat me up enough to necessitate giving up the more vigorous ball sports—leaving only some pitiful attempts at golf and tennis—I let that creative spark go dormant once again. The fields of play were replaced by the routines of adulthood, and the inner artist retreated. But the creative impulse is, in some ways, like a persistent whisper, a gentle yet insistent nudge that pushes and prods until one finally lets it out again.
It happened to me first with “The Pew,” an Lenten exercise that began as a quiet exploration and blossomed, unexpectedly, into novels. Not that any of it is great prose or literature, certainly not in the grand, academic sense. But the profound pleasure it brings me, the sheer joy of crafting words and worlds, is a feeling I experience every single day I write. It’s a different kind of game, played on the blank page, but the satisfaction is just as real.
It’s time, my dear readers, to let the creative out in whatever form it takes. Whether it’s baking a new recipe, tending a garden, humming a forgotten tune, sketching a doodle, arranging flowers, solving a complex problem in a novel way, or simply finding a new path on your daily walk—embrace that inner urge to make, to do, to express. When you do, you fulfill not just a part of yourself, but perhaps, a part of a larger, divine purpose that resides in all creation.
Leave a Reply +