Show me a child that doesn’t like to color and I’ll show you an adult.
From an early age I loved to draw. I loved to create.
I remember as a child when I would go to church I would always draw on the sermon sheet, prayer and membership cards, and anything else that I could find. There was an old woman who would flick my ear who sat behind my family.
“Pay attention and quit drawing on everything.” She would say.
As I grew older I drew less and less. I created less and less.
And I became less and less.
Because that’s what happens when you grow up right? You lock things away that you once loved to do as a child.
That’s what I did.
I took a part of myself and hid it away, forgetting about how much joy art brought me.
I began playing sports. Quickly that became my main passion, and in this little box with pencil in hand, a child version of me was locked away with nothing to draw on but the walls of his prison cell that I held the key to.
For years this part of me went neglected. I ignored the sound of the pencil scratching at my heart and the creative child that shouted “Let me out! I did nothing wrong! I’m innocent.”
You see, once a passion is conceived in your heart it is unable to be aborted. You can only go without feeding it. Starvation is the only option.
But even starvation will not kill a God given passion; you can only keep it from growing.
I believe there comes a time where everyone has the opportunity to free their passions and let them grow in their natural habitat of utilization.
Some people do and some people don’t.
Some are too busy with their professions or make the easy excuse of “I don’t have time.”
Some are embarrassed about their passions. They would rather be the star athlete than the guy who paints and writes.
I was. That was me.
Not anymore though.
I was fortunate enough to finally remember what being a child was like. I was lucky enough to the find keys that most people lose to the prison cells that contain their childhood self. I was blessed enough to rescue and free a passion that sat starving.
Instead of a pencil I handed this child I once knew a brush and paint. Something that he was too poor to afford all those years back when he scribbled on shredded paper and cardboard boxes.
This part of me quickly grew wings and transformed. Claws appeared and feathers sprouted.
And there an Eagle sat.
With a claw full of paintbrushes, and still clutching the pencil that scribbled on the walls of the prison for so many years.
With three powerful flaps of its wings this eagle flew. It soared from the walls of the prison never to be captured by me again.
Free your passions because that is your liberty.
Art is my liberty and creating is my freedom.