It Was So Much More

This post was originally written October 13th, 2019

Today is that long awaited day, the one I kept telling myself was the reward for all of my hard work. It is nearly noon, and I am sitting in bed surrounded by pillows and a stack of new magazines. Dog snoring heavily on my feet, and random assortment of beverages and food at my side. 

It has been an incredibly busy time in my life, it seems from the time that I first shared the news of my recent diagnosis and need to slow down the pace of my schedule for the sake of my health, life has been testing my resolve. 

And it is a test. There is a point when I am working hard and have such a stacked schedule, that the body has sufficiently strained the adrenals for every last drop of go-juice, and I start to think I am fine. Normal even. Look at me rising to occasion after occasion. Nothing is wrong. All is well. I am grateful for these drops of energy filled adrenaline when it is helping me teach and pour myself into my students. 

But then reality comes back to smack me in the face and wake me from the foolishness of such thinking. My body doesn't just hit a wall, as I so frequently describe it. No, it's more like I hit a windshield head on going 90 miles an hour.

Splat! I am bug juice on the windshield of life. 

Thursday night I had the opportunity to speak at the Racine Art Guild's monthly meeting. They meet at the same museum where my Shields show is hanging, so I thought I would talk about the show specifically. But then when it was time to go, I realized I wanted to share a bit more. I got to talk about the Shields last month during my Artist's Talk and will do so again at the end of this month, so I wanted this talk to be a little different. I decided to give an overview of my career as an artist, show some of my current collage work, along with samples of my oldest works - including the very first collage I ever made. 

This more overarching look at my career as an artist, includes the discovery that art is a tool for healing-both physical and emotional. I share bits of my background and story. I talk about the general theme of my work - that of finding value in what society has deemed valueless. That of recognizing it is by embracing all the pieces of our lives that make us whole, and how collage has been a tool of recognition for me. 

After the talk, I was surrounded by a small group of participants who told me how they connected to one bit or the other from my talk. For some it was that I shared my background of growing up in a home with an alcoholic parent, becoming a mom at the age of 16, and how art was a way to channel my emotions, heal from the trauma, and own my stories in a redemptive fashion. 

For others, it was the encouragement I gave about having carved my own path as an artist, without a formal higher education. I broke the rules and applied for things I was told I wasn't qualified for and have had so many opportunities as a result. Opportunities that I would never have allowed myself to take if I listened to the system that told me not to bother trying. 

Several people enthused that my talk was so much more than they expected. They shared their own stories. They opened to me as kindreds who suddenly felt known and seen. And I drove away also feeling known and seen. 

I drove home reflecting on what I heard being spoken to me. I started remembering, this authentic vulnerable sharing was a vital element for the book I want to write. The one that talks about the process of making art, yes, but also the one that gets in underneath the rules and the medium, to the heart and the voice of the creator, elevating the work to something more than we we are capable of on our own. 

My life is impossible to separate from my art. My process for becoming whole, for healing, for discovering my authentic self under the scar tissue and lies of the past, for learning to take the next right step without knowing exactly where I am going, and for learning to use my voice, is the same inside the studio as it is beyond those four walls. Art is simply a visual illustration. A map. A signpost. A guide to the deeper, mysteries of life. Reflective and storytelling. A place to pause in the midst of it all. 

I want my next book to read a little like a memoir, a little like an encouraging healing coach or best friend, and a little like a manual on art making as storytelling, with a nod to the spirit that guides me. Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, Madeleine L'Engle's Walking On Water, and Art and Fear, written by David Bayless and Ted Orland come to mind. But who would want to read such a mishmash of topics if I wrote it? Who would even publish such a thing from me?

I arrived home late Thursday night, to find a package waiting for me.A beautiful handmade mug that fits my hands just so, along with a handmade card and a note tucked inside. Sent by an artist who took my September workshop to thank me for the experience. She confessed she's been in something of a dry spell for a while and took my class at the recommendation of a friend who told her she just might find what she needed there. She shared how my story so closely resonated with her own. She wrote that she came for an art workshop, but "it was so much more". 

This sweet gesture made me reflect on all of the surprise gifts and sweet notes I've received in the mail over the years. All of the affirming messages I receive after writing a vulnerable blog post, or from sharing my story at a talk or a workshop. All of the supportive words and thank you’s that have come by way of my website inbox, or email, or facebook messages.

I decided I need to gather them. Print them all out and compile a binder to return to when the doubts start to creep in. Something solid to hold onto during those dry seasons of my own. And perhaps a little affirmation to show to my publisher, to help them feel comfortable with taking a chance on me. 

To all of you, who have written, or talked to me in person, to those who have responded with light and love and encouragement in any way- your words of gratitude fill me. They move me, hit me in my most tender spots as a living balm that soothes this weary, and sometimes insecure and doubtful soul. I am flooded with awe and wonder at the enormity of it all. How big it feels to hear someone say my story matters. Thank you. 

Maybe you meant this to be a small gesture of your own gratitude, but to me it was so much more.