I am certainly not an artist. Having a two-year old interested in learning the shape and form of things has taught me that. He looks at me with those big green eyes, pleading me to draw a rocket ship with his over-sized orange crayon. Nothing is more humbling. My rocket ship looks a bit like corn on the cob. But he is forgiving and asks me to draw a train instead. He claps, giddy, as I begin by drawing the engine.

He is excited about art, about creating and manipulating shapes. He draws big looping circles with his yellow crayon, clenched so tightly his knuckles are white. "Moon, mommy." A minute later it is not a moon but a planet. He does not fear the attempt at art, nor does he hesitate to reinterpret, the change. He just draws.

I take him to art class each Thursday morning. A small collection of toddlers with their moms in tow dabble in finger paint to create masks and press hand prints onto construction paper. Our children beg us to be artists with them. During the first few classes, many of us moms hesitated, content to watch over small shoulders and attempt to control the chaos that is a painting toddler. "Hey little guy, why don't you..." or "Why not try this." But toddlers resist such control; they throw tantrums when not allowed to create freely.

When did we lose this. At what point do we harness the impulse to create, to get dirty. When do we become so inhibited that we stop looking at the world with child-like glee?

I wonder this as I'm sitting in the main garden of Longwood's conservatory, the waterfall in front of me drowning out other concerns, other voices. And the jasmine beside me perfumes the air, a lightly sweet scent to welcome the morning. Why am I writing about my son's artistic endeavors while sitting in this beautiful setting? What's the connection? It is because I am more than a bit hesitant about my own artistic abilities.

For this class I've been asked to draw what I see before me. But I've had a hard time using my pen for something other than scribbling words to make sense and make meaning. I am hesitant to try to make meaning without words, too comfortable to hide behind the camera's lens or behind words.

But this morning, I'm willing to give it a shot, break out of my comfort zone and embrace a child-like optimism about my artistic skills.

Fingers of gold reach down each leaf,
some stronger than others.
Some a proud emerald,
untouched or marbled.
The veins,
barely visible.
No bold color to mark them,
to point out where life flows.
Look closely to see
the mark to divide,
the secondary veins that course
the perimeter,
tiny fingers reaching
for the edge.