'The force of creativity is strong in this one' DMC©1999

The first day of Djilba, 1st August 2026, arrived with a burst of colour in our front garden, fresh blooms nodding in the soft breeze. The air still held the damp scent of Makuru’s passing, the memory of cold rain clinging to the earth, and the whisper of storms fading into the distance. I wandered among the flowers and felt the soft warmth returning to the day, the sun gently breaking through the cool remnants of winter, promising renewal. Makuru had bathed Country in beauty with its soaking rains and turbulent skies, cleansing the ground and preparing it for the freshness and hope of this new season.

Inside, my nine-year-old girl, heart of my heart, was quietly embarking on her own creative journey. I had handed her some ink drawing pens and plain paper, and she disappeared into her world of practice. As a visual learner, just like me, she had YouTube open, following a simple tutorial on how to draw a flower. Her MacBook sat on the desk with full age restrictions, safely guarded by me, while the soft patter of water still dripping from the eaves whispered of the season’s shift.

Later that evening, she emerged, her face glowing with quiet pride, and in a soft, almost tentative whisper, she asked:

“Mumma… am I an artist like you?”

She held out three delicate sketches, each one unique, each one brimming with the innocence and intuition that only a child can capture. I looked at them, then at her, my precious, magical, neurodiverse girl, and my heart swelled.

“These, my darling girl, are astounding,” I told her. “YOU are an artist just like YOU.”

In that moment, pride bloomed within me as vividly as the flowers outside, carrying the scent of wet soil and the tender warmth of the sun. Her creativity, her curiosity, and her spirit continue to surpass even my wildest dreams. Djilba had brought new blossoms to the garden, and it had also gifted me this radiant bloom of joy within my soul, rising out of the cool breath of Makuru into the gentle reign of Djilba’s return.

One shimmering Saturday afternoon, the house was alive with the quiet hum of creativity. The force of creativity is strong here, a pulse that seems to beat through the very walls. 

My youngest, T.J., who will be nine very soon, has been steeped in the world of art since the moment they opened their curious eyes. From the scent of fresh paint and turpentine to the endless stacks of sketchbooks, art by T.J. has always been their playground, and their neurodiverse mind has danced freely between colours and ideas.

That day, the force of creativity was almost tangible. T.J. approached me with a kind of focus that told me something extraordinary was about to unfold. 

“Mumma,” they said, “I need high-gloss acrylic paint, glass medium, and some hardwood boards.” 

There was no hesitation. There was no explanation. It was just pure intention, the force of creativity guiding their every word. I handed over the supplies, and off they went to their self-declared ‘office.’

The house fell into that particular silence that only comes when T.J. is creating. It is the hush of concentration, sprinkled with the occasional clink of glass jars and the soft scrape of a brush against wood. I carried on with my day, half listening, half waiting, feeling the strong current of creativity weaving its way through the rooms.

Not long after, T.J. appeared in the doorway of my workroom, holding up two small, gleaming pieces of original artwork. Their eyes shone with a mix of hope and mischief. In the softest voice, they asked, 

“Mumma… do these look like one of yours?”

My heart nearly burst. There they stood, this vibrant, imaginative little human, channeling the force of creativity into something entirely their own, presenting me with works that felt like echoes of my own, yet undeniably unique. In that moment, any shadow of doubt I had ever had about letting them explore every medium and every messy experiment vanished.

“My darling girl,” I said, taking in the glossy swirls and delicate strokes, “they don’t just look like mine. They look like something even better. They look like yours.”

And I, quite simply, became the proudest Mumma in the universe, dreaming of the custom tattoo design or artwork I might create inspired by T.J.'s art, knowing that the force of creativity would always be strong between us.

Some moments in life remind you that art is less about what you see and more about how you feel. A cement bird, plain and heavy, came into our lives as a “damaged” garden ornament, a giveaway from a dear friend who shares our love for colour and creativity. Where others saw an imperfect lump of cement, TJ saw a blank canvas for her art by T.J.

Straight away TJ told them, ’that's not a bird! It’s a BLUEBIRD!’

I prepared it carefully, sealing and undercoating, feeling the warm hum of my heat gun setting the undercoat layers. 

Meanwhile, TJ hovered over our stash of paints, lost in thought, searching for just the right blues for her original artwork. It was a quiet joy, watching her move from hesitation to certainty, each brushstroke bringing her vision to life.

I sat in silence and just watched…

Layer by layer, TJ, using gentle waves of their little crafting heat gun, like a magic wand, the cement shape transformed. It wasn’t just an imperfect lump of a cement bird anymore. It was TJ’s BLUEBIRD, vibrant and alive, a splash of happiness in our garden.

Now it sits on our back patio, a permanent reminder that beauty is often hidden in the imperfect, waiting for a little imagination, my TJ, and a lot of heart to bring it out, much like a custom tattoo design captures the essence of the wearer.

The amazing artwork of a Neurodiverse child, featuring art by T.J., showcases the unique perspective and talent of young artists. My child will not ever hear... 'YOU will NEVER be an artist'  (read all about that in my blog!) because every piece of original artwork, including their birthday invitations, reflects brilliance and creativity.