Art can be learned. I’ve taken photography classes and can snap some cute pics of my kids. Piano lessons have ensured I can hack my way through Canon in D. And though I’ve written eight books now (with several more in the form of notes and scribbles and daydreams), I still read books on craft and story development, on ways to refine my prose and create compelling, believable characters. I work at my art.
And yet, I wonder: Is there a certain spark, a je ne sais quoi that cannot be defined or qualified in artists? A secret gene that tunes our hearts to resonate at truth and justice and beauty and sorrow? At every experience and emotion that has the power to bring us to our knees? Yes, I think so.
But here’s the thing: I think we ALL have it.
The question is: What are you going to DO with it?
Don’t let anyone tell you that either you “have it” or you “don’t.” We are all artists in our way, exegetes of culture and experience, expressing creativity and imagination in our everyday lives. From the mother who sings lullabies to her baby to the elderly gentleman who tends his geraniums with care, we coax beauty into the world around us by pointing out the glory that is already there. You are not just a wife, a mother, a teacher, a nurse. You are a part of this orchestral chorus, and the world would be just a bit more dim without your harmony.
I’m awed by this diversity today. By the way that when we open ourselves to the world around us we become so much more than the sum of our parts. It’s Monday and the week is unfurling before us. A week filled with promise and opportunity, with moments that will take our breath away if we let them. You are extraordinary, my friends. I hope you live and love extravagantly this week. The world hungers for what you have to offer…