Start Now

"Start now."

They're just two simple words, but they've stayed with me ever since I heard them.

A few years ago, I took my son to a routine appointment at CHOP in Princeton. After the examination, the physician began chatting with him and asked what he wanted to be when he grew up.

"An artist," my son answered without hesitation.

"What kind of artist?" the physician asked. "A sculptor? A painter...?"

"A painter," my son interrupted.

"Do you know any painters?"

"Yes."

"Who's your favorite painter?"

I suspect he expected to hear the name of someone like Van Gogh or Monet. I did.

Instead, my son immediately pointed at me.

I was caught completely off guard and felt a little embarrassed, but struck that my son thought of me as a painter. If someone had asked me to describe myself, I wouldn’t have said that (I work in R&D). Art was simply something I loved to do and could get lost in whenever I could find the time.

That unexpected exchange led to a conversation I never anticipated. We talked about art, science, creativity, and the different ways a person can make a meaningful contribution. The physician happened to hold a BFA and was an exceptionally talented artist himself. When I mentioned that I hoped to pursue art more intentionally someday, he offered encouragement, shared resources, and then gave me a piece of advice I haven't forgotten.

"Start now."

Not someday.

Not when life became less busy.

Now.

We exchanged contact information, and although time and responsibilities won’t allow me to follow all of his suggestions, I did take an important first step. I began drawing and painting with greater intention. I hoped to make art every week, fully knowing that’s not realistic with work and family responsibilities, but I committed. Sometimes I paint weekly. Sometimes much, much less often. But I had started.

This simple watercolor of a fig was the first painting I completed after that conversation.

It was the last fig sitting in my kitchen.

Looking back, it also marked the beginning of something much bigger.

Today, I realize my son saw something that I hadn't fully recognized in myself. Long before I was willing to call myself an artist, he already had.

Sometimes it takes someone else to see us clearly—and two simple words to remind us that there is no perfect time to begin.