They encourage mistakes because it means you’re exploring life instead of just playing it safe.
They laugh at the idea of failure, listen with intensity to your goals, and prod you when they know you’ve wallowed in self-pity for long enough.
When you’re hurting and they tell you everything’s ok and it will all eventually get better, you believe them because you know they’ve been there in the same dark trenches many times in their lives, and know that type of pain well.
Their quiet hugs feel like unquestionable acceptance and understanding, rather than smothering or obligatory.
When you’re with them, you feel pressured to live up to their level of unpretentious uniqueness, rather than to dumb yourself down.
They celebrate the wonder and intrigue of knowing that no two people are ever alike.
Instead of asking how things are going, they ask what you’ve discovered. Instead of asking “how much longer”, they ask you how you could be even better. Instead of telling you about someone else’s journey, they tell you not to worry about anyone else’s journey.
They don’t shy away from cultural, age, or interest gaps; they take a great interest in seeking the true person beneath the social labels.
They don’t just create things, they create moments of inner fertilization.
Creative families can be biological or social. They can be physically close, or a face on a screen, text on a page. They can be someone you’ve known your whole life, or someone whom you haven’t met yet. They can be someone who’s passed away, or someone who just blinked into existence. They can be real and solid, or a figment of imagination. They can be a combination of everything.
Creative families cultivate growth.
What’s important is just knowing that they’re there. If not physically with you, then in your head and heart. Write down their words. Have thoughtful discussions with them. Keep them as close to you as possible. Allow their presence and words to carry you through whatever life may bring.