I had flirted around the edges of creative expression in many shapes and forms all along, but never immersed myself into a single, passionate direction. Or so I thought. My literal understanding of the word ‘passion’ in everyday usage didn’t reflect its true roots until now. It comes from Latin, pati, meaning 'suffer'. Oh, I get it! Just try and find an artist (or author) who hasn’t suffered!
I’ve struggled with fierce emotions for as long as I can remember. Remember that budding art critic nagging in my head? Well, there is another one who reads every word I commit to paper. Between those two voices, I have destroyed more than I’ve accomplished. The anguish connected to the actual creative process has frequently been overwhelmingly painful. I have 'coped' through avoidance most my life, but the suppressed passion still exits and cannot be denied.
It wasn’t until about six years ago some changes began. I have been actively learning to understand and embrace the passion, and work my way through to the tantalizing results. The catalyst came from local hospital which developed a complimentary therapy program for cancer survivors and caregivers. They were playing with the idea of adding art classes to the existing list of options available. The brochure that came in the mail was addressed to my husband, a cancer survivor, but I snatched it out of his hands. It spoke volumes to me; no, more like shouted at me to take notice. I phoned and reserved my place in the art class, and impulsively signed up for the ongoing writing group while I was at it.
I’d describe the art classes as offering informal opportunities to try out many different materials and freely discover ‘your own thing’. The facilitator created a safe, comfortable environment for participants, many who had never even touched a paintbrush before this program. Gathered together were people who were survivors, some still undergoing treatment, and a few caregivers.
The creative energy was absolutely electric. The passion of what these people had endured poured out in multi-media far beyond words. Here they could express themselves in ways they had never before discovered possible. I was lifted out of years of stagnation just by being with them and began to find the talent I had denied. These people lived in a world unbelievably real and raw; they recognize the value and deep joy in each creative minute. While I will always struggle, my personal perspective has shifted and come into clearer focus.
Art was always there inside me, caged and hungry, pacing back and forth. I finally was able to loosen up, open the gate and give myself permission to let the process happen instead of fighting for so much control. Suddenly, I was having fun and feeling pleasure in the results. What a different experience this was for me. I came home from each class showing off what I’d made just like that five-year-old holding out the newest finger-painting to be admired and hung on the front of the refrigerator.
When the classes concluded that first year, the facilitator announced there would be an art show of all our work at a local gallery. Suddenly, that old, forgotten childhood dream was materializing. Ironically, I was notified during the same time period that my first submission to a publication had been accepted. Doubled joy!
I was queried in an e-mail, "When you paint, if no one else were to see the result, approve or disapprove, like or dislike it, would you feel satisfied with the process? What about when you write? Are readers necessary? Can you feel legitimized only for you own satisfaction?"
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