Life’s Act III comes with its fair share of creaky knees, misplaced reading glasses, and an occasional moment of walking into a room and completely forgetting why you’re there. But it also has a delightful perk—one I am about to let you in on. Grab a notepad so you can play along at home.

See, once you’ve officially entered Act III, you may get a very special privilege: you are now an honorary greeter for a fresh crop of Act I’ers. These are the small, curious, paint-smudged offspring of your own Act II’ers (who, if you’re keeping up, are your own offspring). Yes, I know, it’s a lot of acts to keep straight—hence the notepad suggestion.

Now, the reason you want to know these Act I’ers is simple: they are natural-born artists. Don’t take my word for it—ask Picasso. He said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.” And oh, how true that is.

I was out for lunch with my mom the other day, a proud member of the esteemed Act III 80+ squad. On our way back, we popped into the gallery of a young artist, a rising star in Art City named Viv. She’s one of my offspring’s offspring. As luck would have it, Viv was in, and as she guided us through her collection, my mom casually mentioned the kind of art she used to make when she was an Act I’er herself.

Viv didn’t miss a beat. “You should still do art,” she said matter-of-factly. Then, as we were about to leave, she disappeared for a moment and returned with a notebook and a thick, serious-looking Sharpie. Handing them to my mother, she simply said, “Practice your artist.” And then she stood there. Expectantly. Like she was waiting.

Mom, caught somewhere between delight and panic, did what any well-raised Act III’er would do—she graciously accepted but suggested she take it home to work on.

That little exchange got me thinking about something Sir Ken Robinson once said in a TED Talk. He explained that we lose our creativity for a couple of reasons:

1. We’re steered away from creative pursuits early on because they’re not considered “useful” for making a living. (“Don’t do music, you’ll never be a musician. Don’t do art, you won’t be an artist.”)
2. Our entire education system has been shaped in the image of a university entrance exam, which means that if your talents don’t fit the normal academic mold, they’re often undervalued—or worse, stigmatized.

But I’d argue there’s a third reason. By the time we reach Act III, we’ve convinced ourselves that if we’re not already brilliant at something, we have no business doing it. Worse yet, we think we’re too late to start. And heaven forbid we stick our work on the fridge like we did in Act I.

Well, my friends, I say nonsense. Slap that watercolor of slightly lopsided daisies onto the fridge. Tack that poem—whether it rhymes or not—right there next to the grocery list. Let the world see your sketches, your doodles, your snapshots of beauty. Because the Act I’ers are watching, and they need to know that the art in them doesn’t have to disappear when they reach Act II or III.

And if you’re feeling especially bold, practice your artist and send it to me at [email protected] and I’ll post it here on the world’s tallest refrigerator (coming via Prime in about a week. That gives you time to muster up the moxie and me to tell Suzanne). Open to all Breaking Hip subscribers (free!). Just share your name, email, Act III class (60+, 70+, 80+), a little blurb about your piece, and an image (fine art, photography, short poetry, etc.). Just keep the file under 1MB, and we’ll make some fridge magic happen.

Now off you go—practice your artist.