I knew I was creative when I wrote my first poem.
When we are children, we are naturally creative. We spend our days playing and creating. We don’t think about anything other than when we can have our next, fun moments. For me, I loved to color, play with my dolls, blow bubbles, play in my sandbox, and follow every creative and playful whim I could imagine.
Creativity always felt natural to me.
Yet, I didn’t realize it was anything special until I was ten years old when I wrote my first poem for a Girl Scout Badge.
One of the tasks was to write a poem using a specific form. I chose a cinquain because I felt inspired. This was about more than just following a creative whim. Within the confines of the rules of the poetic form, I found a sense of purpose that I hadn’t acknowledged until then. My creativity had a boundary, and I had a task.
A cinquain is a five-line poem with a set syllable count for each line: 2, 4, 6, 8, 2. It was the first time I’d ever learned that poetry could follow rules and still be beautiful. That structure gave me a sense of both challenge and possibility. It was also the first time I had a topic and a lens for my creativity.
I found inspiration in something simple.
It was winter, and snow had been falling all week. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, watching the flakes drift past the window, each one unique and glimmering. I knew instantly what I wanted to write about. Snowflakes. Not just the way they looked, but the way they felt—quiet, magical, like the world was holding its breath.
I don’t have the poem memorized, but I do remember the feeling of writing it. I carefully chose my words. I used the snow as my inspiration. I counted syllables, played with my word choices, and came up with an end product that, frankly, I couldn’t believe I wrote.
I have the poem hidden away somewhere, perhaps I’ll share it one of these days.
Creating the poem felt delicate and grand at the same time.
What really stood out, is that I felt like I was shaping something small and delicate when I was writing the poem, much like the snowflakes themselves. When I finished, I read it aloud to my mom, and she got that soft smile that told me she truly liked it. Then I shared it with my troop at our next meeting.
That was the moment it hit me: I wasn’t just doing something creative—I was creative. I had taken a form, followed its structure, and still managed to put something of myself into it. That tiny five-line poem about snowflakes was mine. My thoughts, my images, my voice.
It may have been short, but it was powerful.
That experience unlocked something in me. I started writing more after that—not always poems, and not always in forms—but with a deeper sense of purpose. I realized creativity wasn’t just about being imaginative or playful. It wasn’t long after that I decided to become a writer. And now, 37 years later, here I sit, typing away at my computer telling you the story.
Creativity doesn’t have to be grand or perfect. Sometimes, it’s as simple and quiet as five little lines on a snowy afternoon, and that simple moment might alter the course of your life.