In the beginning… I was an artist.

Among my faded patchwork of memories from kindergarten stands an easel. There may have been two or three easels, but really there was THE easel… my easel. When free-time was announced kids would scramble to their bliss of choice and I would plow over anybody who got between myself and the easel. This is a skill I would later hone as a hockey defenseman. Don’t let anyone get between you and your goalie. I can imagine my five year old mindset being as physically passionate about defending my easel.

I vaguely remember the teachers suggesting I try other activities at free-time. I think I may have even been banned from the easel for a few days, but like stopping the rain from puddling, it didn’t last long. And, I suppose, glaring holes through the heads of anyone else using my easel while I halfheartedly played with the activity du jour contributed beautifully.

It was what it is.

I’m wondering if it’s really that simple. For all of the billions of dollars we spend trying to find ourselves, could it really be as easy as looking to the beginning?

I picked up my key to the studio today. And so I begin where I left off… the Prodigal Artist.