When I was a child, I spent the majority of my time dancing, writing poetry, hamming it up trying to make people laugh, coloring, doing crafts or baking with my mom, having a dialogue with my many stuffed animals or standing in front of my mirror singing into a hairbrush performing for thousands of people in my mind. I had a wild imagination that I put to use daily and I know this was not uncommon as a child of the best decade in history…the 70’s.
I can’t speak for anyone else who spent their developing years in this era, but I will just say that it was a great time to be alive. The collective consciousness had not yet been assaulted or brainwashed by violent video games, addictive social media, endless channels of primarily lackluster content from Cable TV and the like that took us further away from our imaginations, books, creativity and genuine connection. Despite all the wonderful things about growing up in those times, and despite having loving parents and all of my basic needs met, there were some awful things happening in my life that no one really knew about.
I had no idea at the time what a powerful impact those nights I spent in my room with Donna Summer, the BeeGees and Olivia Newton John would have on my life. I was not wise enough (at least on a conscious level) to understand what I was releasing every time I wrote a poem, colored outside of the lines or played out a secret I was holding in with my stuffed animals that I didn’t feel safe to share with anyone else.
It would not be until I arrived in my late 30’s and life brought me and my childhood traumas to an intersection with face after face of young girls and boys who had suffered similar abuses and much worse that I would find the courage to look at the truth of the dark side of my childhood. This painful process sent me back into the loving embrace of art and expression. I had remained physically active in my adult years and still danced frequently and engaged in creative project sand writing, but now I was CLINGING to them for dear life and they became my sacred healers.
I created collages and wrote poems that revealed truths I hid beneath the surface…things that were now refusing to be denied. I danced ferociously until I had no more tears or rage to express. I journaled through support group and therapy sessions, marital problems, divorce, fears and uncertainties and much more. Those journals became a map I was creating to find my way out of emotional and spiritual poverty and victimhood.
And now, I’m standing at the summit of a spiritual mountain I have climbed (with new mountains ahead), looking back at what it took to get here. Surprisingly, my footprints do not reflect a continuously uphill climb. It was more of a zig-zagged, cha-cha kind of dance that slowly spiraled upward, even when it felt like I was moving backwards or down. While I was moving through the path, I could not see the progress.
I did not know that the work I would do for my own healing and growth would then become my life’s mission. The child dancing in her room under black lights could not have known that she would share the power of authentic expression with survivors of abuse and sex trafficking and later with other populations as a tool for emotional resilience and personal freedom. What began as innocent and instinctual play has become my most passionate offering and I believe it has never been more vital to the basic mental and physical health of our society.
THE ARTS MATTER…LIKE NEVER BEFORE. WE BECOME NOTHING SHORT OF LAB RATS FOR THOSE WHO MISUSE MONEY AND POWER WHEN WE STOP UTILIZING OUR SUPER-POWER OF CREATIVE EXPRESSION …AND A LARGE PART OF CREATIVE EXPRESSION REQUIRES THE DEEP WORK OF UNINTERRUPTED REFLECTION. WITHOUT THAT REFLECTION PIECE, WE RUN THE RISK OF GIVING OUR POWER AWAY TO EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING OUTSIDE OF US.
And I could cite all the science behind this fact, but that is easy to find, so I will leave that to you. I have my own proof. I know that art saved my life. If not for those constant little valves releasing smothered emotions and dark secrets through expression little by little, I don’t think I would be here today. And, if I were still traversing this hero’s journey, I am certain that I would not be the mentally and physically healthy version of a playful, expressive 56 year old woman that I am. I have the “accident of art” to thank for that, although it should be obvious by now that it was no accident. Art finds its way to each of us and it never leaves. If we find our lives colorless or void of meaning, it is likely because we abandoned the gift of art or traded it in for something inferior.
The 70’s are now a distant page in history and society has its challenges ahead, but I believe it’s still a great time to be alive…but not without the lifeline of creative expression. I hope you write some bad poetry or dance in your kitchen or write an inspiring song today. It really doesn’t matter what you do or how good or bad it is. What is most important is that you do it because it you were created for just that. We cease to be fully human without it.
