You were "creative" before you decided you weren't

I've watched it happen do many times in my workshops.

Someone walks in and I can sense that they are a little uncertain, often feeling apologetic about being in the workshop. They will say some version of the same thing: I'm not creative. I don't really make things. I don't know why I signed up for this.

But when they sit down at the table and pick up a piece of leather-hard clay, things begin to shift. They paint it with underglaze. And then they press a tool into it and pull a line, and the transformation begins.

By the end of the workshop, they've made something. Something real, with texture and intention and their own mark on it. And the look on their face isn't just satisfaction. It's something older than that, going back to childhood.

What we forget about ourselves

Most of us made things as children without thinking twice about it. We drew on everything. We built forts and mud pies and lumpy ceramic bowls in school art class. We didn't ask if we were creative. We just were.

And then somewhere along the way, we stopped. Life got busy. We got self-conscious. We learned to leave the making to people who were really artists.

But here's what I've come to believe after years of teaching: creativity isn't a talent you either have or don't. It's a capacity. And like any capacity, it quietly diminishes when we don't use it, and quietly expands when we do.

What your hands know that your brain doesn't

There is something particular about learning with your hands.

When you're working with clay, your attention narrows to this moment, this tool, this line. Your thinking mind (the one that manages your calendar and replays your conversations) has to step aside. It simply can't compete with the immediate, physical reality of the material in front of you.

Researchers call this a flow state. I just call it relief.

Adults often tell me afterward that it was the first time in months that they weren't thinking about anything else. That two days felt like a long exhale.

The courage it takes to be a beginner

There's a particular kind of courage in being a beginner as an adult.

When we're young, not knowing how to do something is the default. Everyone expects it. But as adults, we've spent years building competence, and walking back into not-knowing can feel vulnerable in a way we don't always expect.

I see people navigate that vulnerability in my workshops, and I find it genuinely moving. Someone who runs a business or raises children or manages a team will sit at a table and struggle to carve a clean curve into clay. And instead of giving up or pretending it's easy, they lean in. They try again. They ask for help.

The willingness to be uncertain and imperfect is one of the most creative things a person can do.

Want to see photos from past workshops? Click here for all the goodness!