I’m not sure of the typical age of a child, when he or she first understands the concept of loss. I remember being very, very young when our English Setter died.

No one told me anything, either because they thought I was too young to understand, or they weren’t sure how to tell me. Probably a little of both.

I remember thinking about her, and looking for her. But when I couldn’t find her, I assumed she must be in another room. I thought I kept missing her, somehow, even though I knew something wasn’t right.

I was so young that I would wonder about her, then get distracted by whatever was in front of me, and forget to ask. That went on for a couple days. When I finally remembered to ask my mom about her, she said, “She died.”

I understood, sort of, what death was, and I went to my room, laid on my bed, and cried. Then I think I got up and played. I was so young that I was only semi-conscious about what happened.

It was a few years later, when I was around kindergarten age, that I was first struck by the consciousness of loss—and having no control.

Whenever I’ve had strong insights, or made decisions that were important to me, I have clear memories of where I was at the time. As a small child, most of those moments—the ones I’ve held onto, anyway—happened when I was in the back yard, by myself.

While my brothers were at school, I had mornings and early afternoons to play. One day, I remember walking out back, the sky blue, the maple tree full of green leaves.

I’ve always felt strongly connected to something bigger than myself, and when I’m aware of it, I feel “plugged in.” That’s exactly how I felt that moment, looking at the tree and the sky, in love with the world.

My mind went from thinking about how much I loved the world, to the people I loved: my parents, my brothers, my grandparents, my aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends.

And that’s when it hit me: I would lose them someday.

Then my thoughts went to everything I could lose, and everything anyone could lose: people they loved, their jobs, their money, their homes, their possessions, their health, their lives.

And that’s when I became fully conscious that things would happen in life—things that I didn’t want to happen—that I had no control of.

It scared me.

I remember standing still, trying to think of one thing—any thing—that I had control of. And what came to me was my character. How I treated other people. My honesty. Being true to my word. Trying my best to be a good person. Being true to myself.

I knew that everything else would fall away, eventually, even this shell I inhabit.

Looking at behavior and decisions, from the perspective of how they affect my character, became my guiding philosophy. It hasn’t changed to this day, although it’s expanded and deepened some.

What we take with us is who we have chosen to become.

We affect the world, profoundly, by who we are.

Each of us has something to give, and by being conscious, authentic, and taking responsibility for our lives, we can help others do the same. We can inspire them, give them courage, make them laugh, help them forgive themselves.

Creativity, whether profound or irreverent, is such a gift.

Every day on Facebook, I share posts of Vincent Van Gogh’s paintings, because of how they make me feel. He saw the movement behind things, in colors that almost make me swoon. What if he had never painted?

Recently, I re-read Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. That book changed my life, because it was the first work of fiction that described life the way I experienced it. Woolf was highly sensitive and intuitive, and to read something created by a mind that I had such an affinity with, was an amazing gift to me. What if she had never written?

Be true to your creative gifts. Who you become—what you learn and how you grow when you create something—matters as much as the piece of art, or writing, or music you leave behind.