I was a strange child.
I peeled bark from trees just to see what lived beneath it. I collected rocks. I drew constantly. First poems, then sketches of whatever sat in front of me. At school, I’d sit beneath a tree with my sketchpad while the others played kickball.
I had friends, but I was never popular. I didn’t quite fit that mold.
But sometimes that’s a gift.
Growing up a little “weird” gave me perspective. It taught me to value originality — to recognize the quiet beauty in what made me me.
My Aunt Jean always saw that.
She was gloriously spontaneous. Midnight trips to the beach. Random afternoons when she’d check me out of school so we could wander the mall. She taught me how to drive. She paid for my painting lessons.
Every Saturday I would stop by her house. She’d press folded bills into my hand, and I’d come home later with a new canvas under my arm.
I sold some of those early paintings. I gave many away.
But for some reason, Aunt Jean never received one.
And then I stopped.
I stopped painting. I stopped drawing. I grew up. The world, in its quiet way, whittled at my creativity — sanding down the spark until it felt impractical, indulgent, unnecessary.
Now I’m middle-aged and hungry to touch that flame again.
So I’m taking classes.
And the best of them — the one that carries the most light — will go to my Aunt Jean.
My first patron.
The one who believed in me before there was anything to believe in.
The one who always told me I could do better, be greater, create whatever I wanted.
Some gifts take years to finish.