Creative Journey
Me, in front of my childhood home in Carl Junction Missouri with giant sunflowers in 2000.
My whole entire life has been one long creative project. Since I was little, I have drawn, sang, danced, glued, sewn, built, written, strummed, and every creative outlet in-between. I was a kid who lived off my imagination. The youngest by several years of three, I played by myself a lot. My games usually consisted of me narrating some heroic storyline as I ran through the woods and cornfields around my house in rural Missouri with my dogs. I always had ticks, chiggers (iykyk), and poison ivy rashes all over my body— but my inner creative world was booming. My adventures outside always came inside with me, too. I drew imaginary characters, made costumes, drew fake maps, wrote stories, and anything else that connected my imaginary world to the outside, physical world. I inherited my mothers craft-supply hoarding which includes keeping all “good” cardboard boxes, glass jars, interesting bottles, cans, paper scraps, cloth scraps, etc. that might be useful for that one random project in the future (to this day, my poor husband has to rummage through saved cardboard boxes, cans, and any other possible future art project or useful scrap of wood that I swear he’ll thank me for keeping, later. My “art studio” looks more like a recycling facility). I was always dreaming and scheming of what to create next, and I really don’t remember playing with many of the toys I owned. Our house was littered with my puppet shows, cardboard box houses, and potions as I bounced from one play-project to the next.
You can ask my mom, I was always making something. My mother, who is also a master of DIY project magic, fueled my love for creating and problem-solving. Over the years, I can recall several of her hobbies and side-hustles that had my kid-brain convinced my mother was an artist. She stayed home with us kids for most of my childhood, but worked several jobs in education and retail when finances got tight. In my eyes, though, she was a creative. She painted rustic, distressed wooden signs that had sweet animal characters, perfect script, and had what translates today as “cottage-core-vibes.” She’s always sewn, quilted, and cross-stitched. She made the costumes and props for our plays, Halloween, and my imaginations whim. I often doodled on paper some impossible idea for a costume (which was more of a feeling or idea, like “Warrior-princess who is also a good witch and has a cat in her backpack”), and my mom made the magic happen. She probably stayed up well after midnight making my child-dreams come true so my costume would be ready to wear to school the next morning. I remember her taking me with her to stores that amazed me and made my heart beat faster at the possibilities they posed: the wood-working shop that had tiny wooden figurines carved and ready to paint; the fabric store with amazing patterns and colors that could become anything I imagined; the craft store full of endless supplies and possibilities; the bead store with beautiful shiny gems and jewels; the art supply store that had every color and paintbrush and canvas size I could dream of; and even the local nursery that had amazing plants, smells, and yard decor that inspired my brain. Then, we’d load back up into our old van and my mom would pop in a cassette tape, and we’d drive back to our house in the countryside blasting Michael Jackson, Madonna, Savage Garden, or if she wanted me to fall asleep, Enya. I’d sing at the top of my lungs and my eyes would trace the power lines and horizon with imaginary characters that ran next to our car, winking at me. We’d return home for me to start my 100th project of the summer. While most other kids played with toys and played games with other kids in the neighborhood, I created and imagined my own games. While other kids begged to go to the toy store, I asked to go to “Hobby-Hobby-Obby Lobby” (I had a hard time with words like “cinnamon”, “M&M’s”, and the like). I loved to absorb information and create with that information. For my birthday one year, my mom pulled me out of school to treat me to a special day. She said I could choose to go anywhere— and I chose to go to the Joplin Mineral Museum. I got a turquoise star-shaped necklace I still have today, a testament to how I marched to the beat of my own drum.
My mother’s sewing skills showing off on some TV character/imaginary character I wanted her to make for me in 3rd grade, 2004.
My early years were full of endless creation— making characters, comics, stories, and pipe-cleaner action figures. I loved gardening with my mom and playing outside and making up adventures. I loved to draw, and I scribbled on every piece of paper, napkin, and the back of every school assignment. I tried ballet and loved it, though I could not sit still enough to listen to the teacher when my tap shoes were one. I tried violin, though I was so bored by all the scales and practices and I just wanted to play beautiful music right away. I tried sports, though I hated how aggressively kids played soccer and basketball. I settled on softball, where I could stand in the outfield and daydream, picking clover flowers to fill my mitt (to my parents' dismay, who were my t-ball coach). My head was in the clouds, and my mom let me stay there. She encouraged my imagination and let me be a kid. Her restless and creative spirit always had her making something, and to this day she still is often crafting something for someone when I give her a call (as an adult, I’ve been diagnosed with ADHD which I suspect I got from her…) I got to come to her craft and sewing room, pick out a new project, and she could always help me when I got stuck making something. She allowed my world to be one full of magic and I thrived with possibility. I often changed my answer to the common question adults ask children: “what do you want to be when you grow up?” My replies varied as much as the colors in my 100 pack of crayons. Teacher, scientist, horse rider, farmer, author, seamstress, jewelry-maker, baker, veterinarian, pro-athlete, etc. The one that I recall often and laugh now was “a stay-at-home mom who makes art.” It makes me laugh because after growing up, losing some of my wild imagination and playfulness, I ran from art for years. I avoided being labeled as an artist. And now, here I am, back where I started.
I continued to draw, write, and create through my schooling years. I joined band as a percussionist and played in concerts and on the marching field. I joined Destination ImagiNation, a team creative problem-solving competition involving creating a script, acting, set design, and costume design that solved a problem, and competed at the regional, state, and global level (taking 1st in our category my junior year of high school). I created, sewed, knitted, cross-stitched in my free time outside of school and sports. But, something shifted in my perception of myself during my teenage years. I didn’t really want my peers or teachers to know me as artistic. I didn’t take an art class until my junior year of high school. My art teacher saw my potential and was floored at how shy I was about it. She encouraged me to submit my art into competitions and contests, which I often won several awards in. I took AP Art my senior year and earned a 5 on my portfolio and other accolades for my work. I earned an art scholarship to John Brown University, where I entered as a freshman double majoring in art and psychology to pursue art therapy. But… I still didn’t feel comfortable sharing my artwork with the world. I didn’t make creative, heart-felt work. I made what I knew everyone would subjectively find “good” and felt “safe”, and I hated it. I ended up switching my major to biology, a pursuit that seemed meaningful compared to art. For my college years, I ran cross country, worked hard on my degree, pursued multiple clubs and activities, had a great social life, and doodled between the lines of my biology notes. I made money off small commissions, cards for friends, posters for clubs, and took some extra classes for fun like print-making, but I didn’t pursue creating. I was going to do something more impactful, I was convinced.
(Left) Winning 1st place with my team at the Destination ImagiNation Global Finals in 2013. (Right) Winning 1st place at an art contest at Pittsburg State University in 2013.
After graduation, I trail-blazed around the states, taking short internships and seasonal jobs in the outdoor science education industry. I landed in Newport, Oregon, teaching outdoor science among the mossy trees and sand dunes beside the Pacific Ocean. I couldn’t take the gray that encompassed my world from February to June of that time, and turned my old junker of a car towards the cascade range. I parked in Bend, Oregon, and have never wanted to leave. I found a job on a farm and worked long, hard hours in the sun. I loved it. My evenings were filled with chatting and dreaming with my roommate Katie, playing guitar, reading books, and painting. I could feel myself circling back to something familiar inside of myself. I was falling in love with running, again— particularly trail running among the mountains and alpine flowers of the Three Sisters Wilderness. The act of running through the trees, thinking, not thinking, with or without a purpose was healing me. I had free time (we couldn’t afford a tv or Wi-Fi, so my roommate Katie and I filled our time with a lot of analog activities) to read to nourish my mind, to play outside to nourish my body, and I was painting again, nourishing my soul. Jobs changed from the farm, to a microbiology lab, to part-time at a brewery, to teaching 2nd graders during the pandemic. I met my husband Mark during that time, and he has many love notes/paintings I gifted him throughout dating and marriage. I thought about launching my art business, officially, and seeing how it would go. My job situation suddenly changed, and I found myself propelled into my new job— owner and founder of Abi Jane Creative in early 2021.
Moments of finding myself, again. Bend, Oregon and Tumalo Mountain, Oregon in 2019.
Since then, I have loved and hated lots of moments of being a full-time creative. I’ve learned I’m not just an artist, but a business owner. I’ve made a lot of great decisions and some mistakes. I have made so many new friends and connections. I’ve thrived in a group that combines my two passions, running and creativity thanks to the Creativity Shakeout (I talk more about that here!) here in Bend. I’ve learned how to balance my work and passion and other hobbies that help me stay out of burnout. I have seen the full picture and realized that nothing in my journey has been wasted— every single thing that I’ve learned, pursued, been heartbroken by, have loved, and created has been for my growth. It’s been one long creative project. In my personal belief, there is a God of the universe that has known what this path of mine would look like before I picked up my first crayon, and that God has used every opportunity to show me how loved and cared for I am. I have returned to my childhood self, and she is healing. I’m back, like when I was a wild-haired child, to running around the woods, gardening, creating, imagining, laughing, and feeling all the big things I feel. Nothing is wasted. Everything is creative.
Selling my art and wares at Sisters Harvest Faire in 2022.
I’ve described this desire I’ve imagined many times in my adult life to my husband. At beautiful, happy, and pivotal moments in my life, I have desired to send a postcard to my younger self. When I’m on top of a mountain, a picture of the moment with a note on the back, “Keep going, kiddo. You’ve got this— it’s only going to get better! You haven’t seen a mountain, yet, but you will!!” A postcard with me selling art out of my booth, in local coffee shops, seeing people wearing hats I’ve created, and writing “Don’t give up on art, you ARE going to be an artist someday!” A photo of my husband and I on a gorgeous trail run, worded “You’ll find your soulmate! And you’re running wild through the trees with him!” But, lately I’ve realized that those postcards DID get sent to my younger self. She imagined them, in her 5-year-old wonder, running through the old oak trees and creeks, drawing her lopsided maps, and making up imaginary stories. I grew up into everything she ever dreamed of: scientist, musician, athlete, baker, farmer, veterinarian, etc. in one way or another. She was always right, and I have way more to learn about creativity and my art as I grow up from her, than anything I could teach her.
The childhood innocence of loving something I looked up to. Pure imagination and wonder I want to return to (Halloween 2003).
I tear up, writing this, and feel healing deep down. So, if you came here to read about how I became an artist, I hope you see the truth. I was an artist and creative this whole time, I just had to rediscover it. And, I am certain that you will find what you’re looking for if you look back at old photos of your childhood. Kids always teach and humble you. Especially your child-self. You’ll grow up to be what you always thought you’d be— you.
XOXO,
Abigail and 5-year-old-Abigail 💛
