Resurrected, Once Again, by Art and Love

If you have any inclination to throw paint on canvas, or to draw, or to color, or to take photos, then try it, and see if creativity lifts your spirits, just a little.

One of my favorite Christmas cards this season comes from an old friend and lifelong political activist who turned painter in his retirement. Jeff Blum is a person I admire for many reasons, not the least of which is that he devoted his entire energy this past fall to the political fight in North Carolina. The fact that Dems did reasonably well in that state is testament in part to the work by him and so many other activists.

But it was Jeff’s holiday card to me and my husband Richard Kirsch, another lifelong political activist who introduced me to Jeff years back, that touched me. The painting on front is his own, an image of his precious granddaughter Kira sitting in a chair. Inside he writes:

“Peace? Justice? Democracy? Back at it. Glad to share the [political] work with you. And we still have art.”

I haven’t been able to write a word here in Substack since the debacle that was the election, but that card started me thinking that maybe, maybe, art could lead me out of my deep doldrums.

But then I dismissed the idea: who wanted to hear my voice, talking about the gut punch that was Dump’s win. Certainly not me.

The next nudge came from a student of mine, from decades ago, who is fighting a valiant battle against an aggressive case of Parkinson’s. The fact that Josh Powell is writing so furiously intrigued me. As did a long conversation I had with him a few weeks back, to discuss a very important memoir he is writing, called “Father and Son.” At the end of our talk, he encouraged me to start writing. “Don’t you remember what you used to tell all your students? That no matter what the feelings are, you have to sit down and just write?!”

Sure, I thought. But how do I do that with absolutely nothing to say.

And then came the texts from my wonderful sister-in-law Fawn Frome Walker, who is an extraordinary watercolor painter.

She texted to ask how I was doing since she had not heard from me in a while. I told her my energy post-Dump’s triumph was lower than Death Valley. I told her that I didn’t know how I was going to go forward. She wrote me back. Twice. The first time she said:

“Was thinking about you and your trump funk. I think the best way to get around this is to NOT waste time, energy or love on anything to do with it. You’re giving away your power by staying in a funk…”

Yes, what she wrote was absolutely right. And it made me think a little more about writing and painting. Her words, and her concern and love, gave me a tweak of hope. I was reminded that no matter what happens in life, we really have no choice but to live bravely and carry on. I learned that lesson very well when I had cancer 23 years ago. That’s when I started painting. (You can read that story on my other blog, MyStoryLives.)

I knew Fawn was right, that I was indeed leaking power, big time. Somehow, I needed to figure it out. I had to fight my way back on track. And then two days before Christmas she texted me this genuinely good tidbit from author Mel Robbins:

“Don’t give up on this year. Keep fighting for the good. Keep showing up. Keep loving. Keep being kind. Keep being brave. Keep caring. Keep trying new things. Keep showing grace. Keep on.

“This world needs you to believe in the good.”

All of what Robbins said resonated. That combined with Jeff’s card and Fawn’s words stirred me further, made me think, OK, I really must start painting. Nothing earthshaking happened. On a scale of one to ten, the energy I felt was about a four, but it was just enough to get me seeing myself smearing bright colors on white canvas. Some kind of buoyancy, a tiny creativity wave if you will, was set in motion. It started to roll and twist and pull something out of my heart.

And so a few days ago I finally took out some paint. I reached for tubes intuitively, in other words, I picked colors that resonated: bright yellow and tomato red and almost neon orange. Oh, and white and turquoise. I took a large palette knife and scooped up the squiggles of paint and shimmied them onto the white canvas. And as so often happens when I start playing with paint, I felt a twinge of joy. It wasn’t like it hit me over the head or anything. It was more like it gave me a firm nudge in the ribs.

I painted for a steady couple of hours that first day. I actually took out a second unfinished painting, one that’s been on hold for many many months and began working on that one too.

Meanwhile, during meditation, I continued to ask the Universe for help, invoking the Divine Feminine in Italian: Per favore, Divina Femminile, aiutami a cominciare a dipingere e scrivere.

There is power in asking the Universe for help.

And then finally, the last straw, or in this case, the match that was needed to rekindle my creative fire, was a particularly moving and magnificent essay by that friend and former student, Josh Powell. So powerful was this piece of writing, called “The Perfect Lens,” that practically overnight it acted on my subconscious, giving me the sustenance and psychic support I needed to begin creating again.

What Josh said in the essay was, basically, that even though he is quickly losing ground to the Parkinson’s, he is not giving up:

“While my physical capabilities diminish, my anger sometimes flares - not from depression or fear, but from the fierce desire to continue embracing life in all its fullness. This anger, too, is a kind of gift - evidence of how deeply I've loved this life I've been given…So I'll keep writing, keep loving, keep finding the divine in flowing waters and human hearts. There's such beauty in seeing life through the perfect lens of mortality - how it brings everything into sharp, precious focus. Every sunrise becomes a psalm, every shared laugh a hallelujah, every moment of connection a small miracle.”

I love Josh, and I love his writing. And knowing that he is as wildly courageous as a tiger at this time in his life — he turns 60 this year — made me see that Fawn was absolutely spot on when she said that that I can’t waste any more time wallowing in funk.

All of it came to fruition as I meditated a couple mornings ago, all of the messages — from Jeff, Fawn and Josh — began swirling around and around inside my brain and heart, and in an instant, I felt an exquisite ball of fire take over.

When meditation ended, I went back to work on the second painting — which I realized is for a very dear friend facing another serious health challenge. Hell, it may not be a great painting, but that’s not the point. I am painting again. With love for those who matter so much to me.

And all that got me writing this.

There are so many many people I love who are hurting right now, all of us dreading the dark chaos that awaits our nation. I continue to pray and meditate, asking for miracles. But I know that prayer is at heart a conversation with the divine, not a petition per se. Miracles may not be in store.

No matter what happens to us, though, I know my friends are right when they say we have to continue to believe that we have power. We have agency. We have the ability to try something new, both as individuals and as groups.

The best way I know how is to express power is through art. I tell people all the time, you should try throwing paint on canvas and see if it lifts your heart. For me, painting is all about play. As children, we play with the world around us, in simple and complex ways, and this play gives us unbridled joy, and teaches us a myriad of things. And it reaches inside our hearts and lights our imagination.

If you’ve ever thought about painting, if you’ve ever had the least desire to do it, I highly recommend you don’t wait. Take yourself to a store and buy yourself a canvas or a notebook. Try alcohol ink, which you blow through a straw. Or acrylics which I use in part because they’re so easy to wash away if you are displeased with what you are producing. Easier still, get yourself some lush crayons or lovely pastels and apply them to whatever surface appeals to you. Or stick to drawing, black charcoal pencil on white. The point is, let go, make a mess, but most of all, have a little fun, even if it’s just a bit. Somehow the act of making color and lines, or taking photographs. It all helps to ease the pain.

So if you’re not a painter and have no desire to be? How about going to a museum and just sitting on one of those cushioned benches and staring at a piece of art that moves you.

It’s a little like visiting old (or new) friends. It kindles warmth and love. Which of course is essential post-election.

Is it any wonder that art works so profoundly on our hearts and minds? Like everything else in the Universe, artistic expression is a form of energy. When it comes to healing, indigenous peoples down through the ages have known where to start: with the spirit, the energy and grace of the Universe, captured in song and sound and image and words expressed by human beings.

As the year ends, I keep returning to the Italian words that I have written in my journal and spoken out loud over and over again this year as I’ve been writing a novel about a very brave ancestor — my Great Great Grandmother, Filomena Scrivano — who grew up in the southern Italian region of Calabria, and had a baby (my great grandfather) out of wedlock in 1870. It is an absolute miracle he survived.

I’ve got so much to be grateful for. Sono così così grato. I am so so grateful.

For art of all kinds, for the love of family and friends, for health and well-being, for animals and nature in all its wonders. For life.

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