Someone recently asked me where my creativity comes from.
At the time, I was thinking of it in terms of genetics and heredity. Who else in my family is leans into creative expression?
But on my walk this morning, I realized that, for me, it’s likely more of a nurture than nature situation.
I was born in 1981 — a so-called Xennial — but raised in the classic Gen X way.
My parents were hardworking blue-collar people who loved us most when we were out of sight, doing our own thing. (I’m kidding. Sorta.)
There were no scheduled playdates. No soccer practice drop-offs. No coddling over skinned knees.
We were what people today lovingly refer to as free-range kids.
We caught tadpoles in the trickling creek behind our house, dug for fossils deep in the woods, and crusaded from neighborhood to neighborhood on our bikes until the streetlights came on.
There were no cellphones. No GPS. No check-ins. Just us, figuring it out.
You’ve seen the movie Stand by Me? It was that — and it was glorious.
Now, as I reflect on the question about where my creativity comes from, I think I know the answer:
It comes from having autonomy. From having time to play uninhibited, to let my imagination wander.
I was an archeologist, a pioneer, a scientist, a banker, a writer, a performer, an inventor — all before the age of 15.
That’s where my creativity comes from.
