When I was younger I wanted to be a poet, a writer or an artist. I wanted to find a page to write on, a stage to stand on or an easel to paint on which would somehow express my little spot in the world.

My interest in my artist endeavours diminished as I got older as with many other children who grew up from living in their heads and met the real world full on. My art that once hung on walls and in the children’s gallery in town and on pages and paper and plasticine are since packed away. My writing has moved from short stories about lost little girls in dark and bleak worlds to a sometimes lost grown up girl ranting and being opinionated on this blog in her world of excitement, opportunity and discovery. I no longer act; the theater scene here is too closed off. I think since my teens I’ve learned we all have the capacity to create art in our own way. Some of us can’t write or draw or sing or profess but we possess little wonders and proficiencies that become our own little works of art everyday. I don’t usually do New Years Resolutions but I think this year I’m going to challenge myself to seek the wonder of being a bit more outwardly artistic again.

And now for the fun part. I wrote the following when I left secondary school. I was a little lost, a lot confused but I was lucky enough to help out with an amazing inter-generational arts program and was able to collaborate with amazingly interesting individuals on a number of movement, art and literature pieces. This is a poem 17 year old wrote and performed after being coerced.I sharing it today because I think that with all the madness going on in the world today, we need to realize the collective power  of the We.

We start as a blank canvas

A barren page

An unmarked jotter

An idea waiting to be.

And over time we learn to become;

to build and grow and learn.

We fill voids with our words and ideas and dreams

And the words and ideas and dreams of others

But never are we done.

What start as small imprints,


And we become so much more


A line here

A paint blotch there

A solitary word

We our own particular composition

That sometimes interacts

And becomes a collaboration of sorts

And lines mingle and grow

And paint merges and fuses

And words become sentences in time

And we grow.


This blog has been bought to you by my desire to write the next Hamilton. Lin-Manuel Miranda, watch your back. Pic credits go to me and Laura who accidentally stood in my shoot of the seaside but still managed to look graceful.


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