In the beginning, God created… Gen 1:1 (NIV)

Welcome Home by Joel McKerrow – Creativity Series – Part 7

Go to  PART 1  |  PART 2  |  PART 3  | PART 4  |  PART 5  |  PART 6  |  PART 7

God: the supreme, eternal artist who relentlessly paints, sings, weaves, dances, sculpts, writes (and more) his love across our lives and throughout the world. His essence runs red in our veins and fills our lungs with air; we carry his creativity in our blood and spirit. Like Father, like child. We create everyday in a million different ways: memories, moments, families, friends, love, hope… our living is creative by nature. Never quite complete, filled with divine tension, an eternal work in progress. Beautiful.

We create everyday in a million different ways: memories, moments, families, friends, love, hope. Click to Tweet

Will we open our hearts to his brush and pen?

A few years ago, Jesse (husband) and I went to a conference called SPARC (which stands for Spirituality, Arts and Culture). It changed our lives and showed us that the tension we feel inside ourselves to both belong and live outside ‘the box', is all part of the infinite creative process. It was at SPARC that we first encountered Joel McKerrow’s poetry. He and his work are such a gift. He has generously allowed us to share one with you today. You can find more of Joel’s work on his website,, and you can watch the film clip to the poem below on youtube.

By Joel McKerrow

To the Artist.
To those chasers of beauty.
To the ones who cannot stop themselves.
To the curious, to the inquisitive.
To the artist.

To those seekers of stories, pens poised on the edges of paper,
To the messy ones.
To those who go to birthday parties, fleck of paint still plastered through curly hair.
To the hopeful. To the determined.

To those few who look through lenses to capture moments.
See glimpses of what could be.
The seagull scavengers stealing what others leave behind to put the left-overs of humanity back together.
To the artist.

To the 3am writer scribbling words down on paper everynight, everynight, 10000 hours, every night,
To the singer with a sore throat, bloodied fingers of the guitarist,
To piano keys worn down to ivory bone, to those who are worn down to ivory bone,
To the artist we say…
Welcome Home.

To the artist and to those who have forgotten that they are so.
The child who put away their paint brush, ballet shoes left dusty in the back bits of attics.
To the cartoon scribbler in the margins of maths books.
To the memory of crayons and drawings pinned up on fridges.
To the childhood actors performing in loungeroom, backyard, front verandah theatres.
To the students whose teachers took their own failures and transposed them upon you.
To the burdened shoulders and the clipped wings and to those have never tried again.
To the artist, and to those who have forgotten that they are so…
Welcome Home.

To those who have never belonged,
The odd angle of the straight family, the misunderstood,
The coloured paintbrush in a black and white world,
To the misread and the lonely.
To the artist.

To those who see what lies on the underside sighs of humanity.
To the ones who choose to feel, though at times it may tear them apart,
Feel the things that everyone else is afraid to feel.
To those who paint the darkness so that the darkness does not paint them,
To the discarded and disregarded,
To the Kurt Cobain singer, Van Gogh painter,
Robin Williams actor and Sylvia Plath poet.
To the tortured soul, to the blistered feet,
To the clay hands, to the artist and to those who have never belonged, we say…
Welcome Home.

I bid you to stay a while.
Take your shoes off, lay down your sword.
There is hope in these walls.
A bed to find rest.
Weary soul, find rest.
Welcome home.

You do not need to look over your shoulder here.
You do not need to compare.
No measurement. No success. No failure.
Just create. Never give up.

Enough with the talking, talking heads of the critics.
Critics are only cynics.
You start listening only to you.
You come home to yourself.
Take charge of the dreams you once thought too far past the horizon.
The simple joy of being here.
The art of creating when you no longer need an audience.

Create cause it makes your bones move.
Create cause it stirs the belly fire.
Create cause you dream.
Create because you see.
Create because the world needs you.
Create because it fills the sails, then let's go fly a kite.

Create, cause this is what we do here.
Create, cause this is who we are here.

Welcome home.
Welcome, welcome, welcome home.

Over to you… We want to hear your thoughts. Leave us a comment below.

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