It's an instinct. A desire. A yearning. For some, it's a need. To express oneself. To make a mark. We are drawn to create something where there was nothing before. Consider young children and their boundless joy as they 'color' or play with clay. Or hammer wood. This is where we all begin. Creativity comes to us naturally. It is our birthright.

Long ago art was intertwined with everyday living. People coiled the bowls they ate from, sewed the clothes they wore, hammered their tools. And when they made their pots they didn't stop at making them useful — they made them personal and beautiful as well. Art and life were one. We know that people have been drawing and painting at least since we lived in caves — we are so fortunate to still have the exquisite cave paintings they were moved to make. This is our heritage — the legacy of each and every one of us. As long as there have been people, we have been making art. It is a natural, primal facet of being human.

In my years of working with children, so many of their parents have furtively shared with me their remorse for the loss of creativity in their own lives. Some recall a precipitating incident that ruined it for them — the harsh judgments of a teacher; expectations they felt unable to fill; or just a natural turning point in their art, with no one to help them through. But, to a person, they feel the loss, and wish to have the wondrous sense of creating back in their lives again. They envy their children.

I believe this loss is even more profound than many of us realize. These adults have lost not only the wonder of their own creativity, but much more. Through art:

• We can express ourselves in ways that words cannot reach. Making art is a unique mode of expression, found in no other experience.
• We can see our world more deeply. When we draw we see in a way that is so clear, so attuned, that we get to see unheralded beauty in the commonplace.
• We can view the creativity of others with newfound appreciation and enjoyment.
• We can move through thoughts and feelings we never knew we had, learning about ourselves and others along the way.
• We can enjoy the movement of a soft pastel as it warms the paper, our body and chalk in movement, as we dance with the muse. The sheer joy of play.

When doing art ceases to be "child’s play," it seems that there is a kind of exclusionary status involved with it, an unspoken conviction that if you are not a professional "artist: then you have no real right to make art. That you either have talent or you do not, and if you don't then don't bother. People buy into this theft of their birthright. They rely on the oft-repeated refrain "I can't even draw a straight line." Well, since when was drawing a straight line a requisite for drawing? Hey, we have rulers for that. There are tons of media for the making of art, and endless ways of being creative. Drawing is only one avenue. Tell me, why is there this exclusionary distinction between art and the rest of life's great pleasures? If you're not born a virtuoso pianist, do you not still learn to play the piano? And do you still not enjoy it? It's gratifying, even if you're not a prodigy — even if you don't have "talent." Why should art be any different? We can all learn to improve and progress — to become a more proficient draughtsman, if that's what we want, or more skilled at throwing a pot on the potter's wheel, or we can learn how to weld metal, or blow glass. But no matter the medium, or the mode, it should be ours for the taking. For the freedom. For what we might learn about ourselves. For possibility's sake. For the utter joy of it.