Creativity is an illusive quality. Am I being creative if I follow the directions on a stained glass paper pieced quilt pattern, or merely obedient? Twenty skilled seamstresses could use the same fabric and book, and produce gorgeous quilts that are all identical. Are they still lovely?

They keep us warm. 

I am in a small group of women looking at the creative process that surges, and sputters, through us. One woman said the five minutes she spent painting a hummingbird meant more to her than the eight hour shift she clocked, and was paid for, or scrubbing the kitchen. Another woman said that being creative keeps her alive. She could no more cease making things than hold her breath.

All of us wrestle with finding the time, or the clarity, or the meaning for what will not stay trapped inside us. Beauty, and color, and words must blurt out, even if they end up like playing cards in a stack of drawings, or poems that might never be read. 

I suppose the sunset never frets over whether it is properly appreciated, or compensated for its contribution to the sky. It glows whether or not anyone bothers to go outside at dusk. 

Creativity is based on an entirely different premise than that of our economy. Rather than an equitable exchange, the urge to be fertile springs from a generosity that knows no bounds.