Yesterday a coworker (yes, I’m finally employed, albeit part-time) asked me, “Are you an artist?”  I hesitated only a brief moment, then answered, “Yes I am.”

A few years ago, I would have demurred, saying, “Me?  Gosh, no.  Wow.  Why would you ask that?”  Now, though, I choose to define myself as an artist.  And that feels really, really good.

What makes me an artist?  Well, I started 35 years ago with photography:

I’ve turned many of my photos into greeting cards.

Then I learned to make earrings:

And this week, I made my first bracelet:

Yes, I am an artist.  But there are all kinds of art.  The way my friend, Chef Colleen, cooks is art.  The way my brother hunts for deer is art.  My mom’s knitting, quilting and wool felting are all art forms.  My husband’s ability to build and fix computers is art.  Nita, my massage therapist, is an artist.  I even think the website my dad and I built together this week is a form of art.

There’s even an art of living.  I believe if we can appreciate the beauty of everyday things–a bee on a flower, a hummingbird, the sound of wind chimes, the smell of freshly cut grass, autumn leaves fluttering to the ground–we’re all artists.