I catch my daughter’s reflection in the vanity mirror when she runs past me while I am getting ready. In the quiet of the chill, still morning, the room dark, the sun hasn’t made its appearance. She goes straight for my bed, under the covers to warm up. I head over to tell her good morning, her small hands pull the blanket up to her face, and all I can see are her eyes.
I tuck the covers to warm her up, “Good morning El, I love you. You're up early, the sun is not even out yet.”
“Good morning mama, I love you too. I wasn’t tired anymore so I got up, and I have been thinking,” she says with a subtle smile.
“Oh really, tell me more.”
With a sparkle in her eye and a smile on her lips, she declares confidently, "I'm an artist, Mom. I write, I color, I paint, I create. " With those simple words, she slips under the covers, cocooning herself in warmth and creativity. We share a moment of quiet understanding. She believes in her bones that she is an artist, and she believes it for me too. I sit there, listening to her whisper all the creations she's planning for the day. The weight of her words hangs heavy in the air, stirring a mixture of encouragement and weariness. Embracing the identity of an artist, of a writer, is both hard and exciting.
It is as easy as breathing for Elliana to be confident she is an artist. In her world, the boundaries of creativity blur seamlessly, offering boundless opportunities to create. For me, embracing the fact that I am an artist, a writer, can easily be overshadowed by obstacles along the way, trying to persuade me otherwise. And yet, in my bones, I know I am a writer. Her words sink in deep, causing much to celebrate in the beauty of weaving words.
I walk back to the bathroom and finish getting ready, looking into the mirror, this time my face reflecting. I am a writer, I say out loud.
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a writer like you
the rocking chair
his wiggles
pretend kitchen play
she's noticing too
Each thought I scribble down on a clear Post-It and place it on a white poster board. Four different themes, put in different rooms. As I go through my days I pay close attention to the things around me, noticing, being present, creating visual story seeds1 that will come to life on paper, weaving words.
Wait a minute, here is another Post-it note on her door, except hers is bright purple, with little letters written on it.
I make my way downstairs and now I start to notice purple Post-it notes popping up all over the house. Some with drawings, some with just a single word, some with “pretend cursive”, and others with many letters on them. On kitchen cabinets, lining the countertop, pressed onto different doors and surfaces in the house.
How did I miss this earlier? Did she set these all up before bed? Oh, that’s right, she was spending a lot of time today writing in different rooms. She was watching me these last few days. Every time I had a seed, I quickly ran to jot it down and put it on one of the four poster boards I spread throughout the house.
She has been noticing that I have been capturing the story seeds all along.
I am in awe.
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Can I call myself a writer when so many of the pages of my notebooks are adorned with brain dumps, to-do lists, and schedules?
The demands of daily life leave little room for creativity, treating it more like something extra than something essential. Thoughts creep in, whispering stories of inadequacy and self-doubt.
In her confidence, I find the mirror reflecting what lays dormant inside, yearning to fully embrace the writer that I am. As I watch my daughter embrace her creativity with fervor, I am inspired to confront my insecurities and fears.
The artist in her fuels the artist in me. Creativity knows no bounds, and the artist within us yearns to be set free.
Love seeing this our in the world 👏🏼👏🏼
Beautiful!