Entering into the realm of making things entails a responsibility to claim the space you are shaping. Sometimes there is an invitation, a calling even. Inspiration. Other times you have to show up at the page, or the easel, or the workbench and put your hands to work before you know where it will lead. Both modalities are powerful.
Sometimes the invitation is frightening, recalling, as it can, a time in your life when art meant chaos and hunger and instability. Sometimes it is exhausting. Like a second job.
These days it feels like empowerment. Like a comforting voice. A song you sing yourself as you enter your dream.