Us

In May, I had the pleasure of participating in the stART the Conversation art show sponsored by the Wyandot Behavioral Health Network. Because behavioral health and art are causes near and dear to my heart, I didn’t hesitate when I found out about the show last year. I even participated as a featured artist, giving a brief statement to the crowd on my perspective about the connection between mental health and art. (Hint: Art is medicine.)

And, yeah, that means I got up and spoke in front of people.

Last week, I participated in the opening and panel discussion for the Pride Art Exhibition at University Health, the hospital where I work.

(Yeah, more speaking in front of people—I know.)

My initial plan was to show up, grow roots in a corner and throw my husband at any guests who tried to talk to me. And then when the panel discussion chugged along, I would just sit a look pretty, nodding occasionally to keep the narcolepsy at bay.

Then I decided to do what I do when I create art: Just show up with curiosity, take a few deep breaths, and step aside. Flow or magic or whatever wants to happen will take care of the rest.

My husband was running a bit late (mad science teacher experiment summer camp), so I had no choice but to weather compliments and talk about my work. But not my work work. The work that comes out when I allow myself to play and be creative. Calling to mind a passage from Shonda Rhimes’ book Year of Yes, I accepted compliments with gratitude and resisted the urge to deflect them. And to crumple up into a subatomic-sized wad before disappearing completely—which is simply uncouth. In some ways, it felt like I was having to re-parent a part of myself—the shy kid who would hide their art and writing unless it was absolutely mandatory to show it to Mr. or Mrs. Teacher.

Probably because that was what I was doing, what I’m doing a lot these days. Because no good comes of hiding our gifts: If we do not shine the gifts that live within us to light the world, those very gifts will cast shadows that destroy everything they touch—including us. And because the fact of the matter is that there are too many shadow actors and artists and storytellers and dancers and musicians who have absolutely no problem showing up, loud and armed, in the world these days.

Once the meet and greet was done, all the attendees (including Mr. Mad Science Teacher) crammed into the room where the panel discussion would take place. After that, we enjoyed a sound bath and a few presentations from community partners in the arts and University Health’s very own LGBTQ+ Clinic.

And then the panel discussion began.

I had never participated in a panel discussion before and had simply planned to observe as much as possible. Quietly. Actually…I figured everyone else who was part of the show would have been way out of my league—graduates of some art program or another who were equally fluent in and eager to talk about the technical steps of their craft. And then there would be me, whose description of my creative processes sounds more akin to shamanism and witchcraft than making lists of materials and doing rough drawings before finally painting happy fucking trees.

I at first responded only when I was required—when everyone had to introduce themselves. But what came next was actually quite extraordinary. It may have been the sound bath (I’ve meditated since adolescence: Give me the opportunity to go inward, and I will emerge with worlds). Or maybe it was because it occurred to me that I was still trying to maintain control: I had shown up and was curious, but I hadn’t quite stepped aside to allow whatever gifts lay in the experience to reveal themselves. Or maybe it was listening to the other artists speak about their experiences, identities and creative processes—how they showed up in the places where they made art, listened and allowed some deep part of themselves to shine.

Inspiration begets inspiration.

Or maybe it was just time.

I opened my mouth.

At first, I think we were trying to give people clues, breadcrumbs they could use to find their ways back to their own creative flow and magic. I mentioned how materialism has the world curled up in a fetal position, anxious and frightened and clawing at anything that gets close to acquire more stuff, more wealth, more illusory power. Imagination is the real power, but we’ve used it to empower money and not our humanity. I told them how the same magic—the same Self—that dwells in me and allows me to create and understand and do all the things I do lives in them, too. I told them how I first began writing and drawing to help myself die, because that was the shadow story the world told me, the shadow story I believed. I told them how one day it occurred to me that I could use those gifts to write a new story—a story of life. And how writing is how I inhale, synthesizing the things of this world that I can, and art is how I exhale, expelling the things I cannot.

Each of the five panelists, in our own words, were saying the same thing when it came to art as the expression of who we—all of us—truly are.

And then the Universe offered a demonstration of that magic.

One of the other artists (a fellow I had never met before but whose artwork I had seen in a few places around the city, including at University Health over the pandemic) had written a poem to explain one of his works for the show. Because the work was deeply personal, among other things, he was hesitant to read the piece. But it was clear to me the words needed to be spoken.

The next thing I knew, I was crossing the room to read his words. No terror—only a strange sort of apprehension that felt far away from and below where I stood at the moment. As I confirmed with him which passages he wanted me to read, all I could think of was that when I channel art, the art always speaks.

It all comes from the same place, the same Self.

I drew a deep breath.

And I opened my mouth.

I do not remember his exact words. Only that they were deeply personal and painful and, in the end, insightful.

I remember remembering the man that brought me to Kansas City in my late twenties. As I was reading, I glimpsed him the way you might see a shatter-scape in a shard of glass—at once familiar and yet alien. I remember remembering how, as a kid, I would read passages from the Bible or poems I had written about the love of Jesus for my father’s church. I remembered hoping this would inspire them to stop hating what they didn’t understand and start doing what God calls us to do—to love. But these were fleeting thoughts, embers cast from fire—glimmers brimming from magic. Then came the realization that this was why I was here: Show them how this works. Open the door in front of them—his words, your voice, their hearts...

So I did.

When the magic let go, I returned the pages to him. His words to the tune of my voice had brought tears to eyes. Their hearts…

This is good, came a small voice. They need to understand your love, your pain, your everything is the same as theirs. There is no us and them.

As I returned to my seat, applause filled the room. I channeled it back to the other artist, the one who channeled the words.

I’m not here for me, I remember thinking—knowing. We’re here for the art.

This is what it is about. There is a part deep within us that is connected to all things—including one another. And when we shine the lights within us to create—to make art, to write, to dance, to sing, to play, to do whatever it is that brings us awake and alive—we connect with that part of ourselves.

Because it is the Source of that light.

It is us.

My deepest gratitude to friends (old and new) who attended the reception, the other artists who are participating in the exhibition, Habitat Contemporary Gallery, University Health, and the University Health Foundation for this magical opportunity.

If you are in Kansas City and were unable to attend, the exhibition will be on display on the Healing Arts Bridge at University Health 2301 Charlotte Street until August 4th.