Lisa Mitchell

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“Goodbye private practice”–My recipe for a GOOD goodbye

Jun 26, 2018 | 22 comments

 

Closing my doors

After 16 years in private practice I’ve closed my doors.  From my initial decision — to the months of transition — and now the actual closure, it’s been a profound process. (If you missed my initial announcement, you can read more about my transition here and here and here.

Historically, I’ve been terrible at goodbyes.  I’m the person who doesn’t show up for last sessions.  I’m the person who will say, “We’ll see each other again, so this is not goodbye.” I was tempted to pretend that my last therapist group was just the final week of an eight week series.  I wanted to shoo everyone out the door and tell them not to be sad. But I didn’t.   And I think I got this last goodbye right.  I want to share it, because in the process I’ve come up with a simple, magic recipe for a GOOD goodbye.

Here’s my recipe for a GOOD goodbye:

  1. Write to this prompt then share. Today marks the end of…………..
  2. Write to this prompt then share. Today marks the beginning of…………
  3. Give stuff away or receive the stuff—depending on what side of ending you are on.

 

We did this during the last therapist groups I facilitated at my art therapy studio.  Like I said, it turned out to be the magic recipe.

Step one: Write about what is ending.

When we acknowledge the ending of something, I now know that it really helps if we can articulate what is ending.  This goes beyond the usual expression of emotion—the sadness, the grief, the disappointment.  This has us say in our writing (and then out loud) what it is that will no longer be.

Here’s a sampling of what I wrote and read for the groups.

Today marks the end……

Today marks the end of the door chime that announces the arrival of an open-faced, open-hearted beauty who is ready—ready to dive in, express, explore, create.

It’s the end of sitting around the painted on, glued on, cut into Ikea tables—the lousy chairs whose pillows slide and many end up using them as back rests instead of seat cushions.  No more sitting around, checking in, “finding the thread” as I’ve come to call it—so that the last meeting slides into the present–into our current experience and we add on, more unity, more expression, more art.

It’s the end of the shelves crammed full of art junk and art mediums.  The stacks of oil pastels that are now stumps, broken and peeled.  The jars of matchsticks and broken windshield glass and old buttons from my grandmothers’ collection are no longer necessary for the creative chaos that they lend to the décor.  No longer needed for the inspiration.  Not even for that last finishing touch on an altered shoe or book or doll. 

Today marks the end of guessing which lotion someone used during their trip to the bathroom.  And the gratitude I feel when they re-enter our creative circle, freshened, massaging the fresh scent of lemon or sage or lavender into the hands that have been only moments before immersed in paint or chalk or glue.  It’s the kind of gratitude that puts me in touch with love for that person, so visceral, and for the moment of gathering and willingness to “go there” with me.  The gratitude that says thank you to something greater that has coached me here—to a place where these gatherings can happen and others can love themselves, their art, the expressions the way I do.

Tonight I will set the alarm like always.  I will lock the door behind me.  And I will marvel at what we’ve done here.  Today marks the end of The Art Therapy Studio.  The end of 7985 Park Drive.  But I guarantee, it is not a dead end.  I will carry it with me.  And you will carry it with you.  And in that way—our creative process, our love, our willingness to dive in will go on and on and on.

Step Two: Write about what is beginning.

There’s a band called Seminsonics whose song, “Closing Time” is quoted all over the internet.  The lyric goes, “Every new beginning is some other beginnings end.” When I realized how true this is, that you can’t have an ending without a beginning just like you can’t have day without night, I knew I had to add this to my goodbye recipe.  Even if there is a transition period after the end, where you don’t know what’s coming for sure, there is a new and different something.  A beginning (no matter how unclear) starts the moment the ending happens.  So we wrote about the beginning.

Here’s a sampling of what I wrote and read for the groups:

I hear, that in Japan, they use the term second spring to describe when you feel foolish and childish and do things your responsible adult you wouldn’t do.  For me, it’s when you shut down your life work in order to start something new—without knowing what that new thing is, without knowing where it will take you, without knowing much of anything.  The perfect example of a second spring is buying a herd of guanaco and not knowing the first thing about handling or caring for wild, exotic animals.  But I’ve done it.  Today marks the beginning of fully embracing my second spring.

Today marks the beginning of packing up the studio, taking down the art, finally emptying the tea basket and calling it good.  It’s the beginning of a long haul—a month of moving boxes and pets and the herd to another state.  The trailer might not be bought yet, but the movers are on stand by.  They know about beginnings—from the inside out—all that personal stuff crammed into one small area, hauled long distances without the owners.

Today marks the beginning of a relationship with my rhythm to create that I’ve never been able to fully live.  It’s the beginning of mornings that begin with a question, “What do you want to make today?” It’s the beginning of finding my thread and sticking to it—because I’m curious or because it feels good or because I know there is something there that I just can’t let go of.  It’s the beginning of learning my style again, hearing the words that want to line up on the page freely—all at a pace that feels right, internally calibrated, luxuriously earned.

I remember a time between high school and college where I marveled at the idea that I didn’t have any project with a deadline. I felt free and completely untethered.  I could think thoughts that didn’t have to relate to the topic or the research or the problem I was trying to solve for my professor.  I could think thoughts that were random and happy and follow them without aim, without discipline, without dictation.  I’ve been happy in my life—alot.  But when my thoughts were free in that gap year—I think I was happiest. 

And so today marks the beginning of thinking my own thoughts—not for a client or a class or a book or a blog post. It’s the beginning of knowing myself from a new perspective—like from the fingertips on up to the hands and so on.  It’s also the beginning of having time to notice those fingertips and how it feels to touch luxury fiber as it spins itself into yarn. Or how the computer keyboard feels after days and days of writing for my own curiosity. Or how my muscles feel after the longest farm work day I can stand.

Today marks the beginning of a life change.  A second spring, as they say.  It’s the beginning of something wonderful.  I’m all in.

Step Three: Give stuff away and/or receive

I thought I was complete with the writing and sharing.  But it turned out that the recipe required another step.  I wanted to share pieces of my studio.  And all the lovely people came and picked up art supplies by the bag load.  Shelley picked out all kinds of mixed media stuff for her Project Flourish group to make collage.  Gloria hauled away the butcher block art table and chairs.  Jamie took the painting panels.  Barbara found a ceramic bowl I’d made in graduate school and held it to her breast, she will cherish it.  Lyla has the life-size frame for a photo booth prop and a lot of other good junk.  Renee took the broken windshield glass and divided up the acrylic paints with Colleen.  And Kim brought her daughter Lily who picked out her very own hole puncher.

I felt like parts of the magic were dispersed like dandelion seeds in the wind.  And that feels right.  Others will continue the work with clients, in their home studios, maybe even with each other.

I read this John O’Donahue poem as send off.  It’s one I have read to myself and to clients forever.  I hope it inspires you for your new beginning…whatever that may be.

Blessing for a New Beginning

In out-of-the-way places of the heart,
Where your thoughts never think to wander,
This beginning has been quietly forming,
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.

For a long time it has watched your desire,
Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,
Noticing how you willed yourself on,
Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.

It watched you play with the seduction of safety
And the gray promises that sameness whispered,
Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,
Wondered would you always live like this.

Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And out you stepped onto new ground,
Your eyes young again with energy and dream,
A path of plenitude opening before you.

Though your destination is not yet clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is at one with your life’s desire.

Awaken your spirit to adventure;
Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;
Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,
For your soul senses the world that awaits you.

–John O’Donohue

Wisdom from the trenches of transition: Ending a Series

Apr 5, 2018 | 25 comments

The other day, at coffee, Hannah reminded me that artists work in series.  She was talking about her own work—completing a couple of big commissions and her show at the Pence Gallery that I was about to see.  She was in-between projects and inspiration.  She knew it and was trying to tolerate the patience with oneself it requires to incubate the next thing—the next series.  She can feel it changing, but she doesn’t yet know how.

 

As a therapist, my art has been with clients and they’ve come in a series. For I really do believe that therapists are artists and therapy is an art form. Foster kids, families, juvenile sex offenders, teens, therapists…..each time I began a new job or focused my work on a specific population, I was starting a new series.

 

It all sounds really creative and full of flow.  From one job to another, one client population to the next.  Each series building on the last.  New learning, new excitement, a path of curiosity fulfilled.

 

That’s not how it feels.  As Hannah described her own struggles with allowing herself to incubate instead of forcing her next series to come, I had the flash of recognition in my own life.  I’m packing up my office, my home, everything I own, and moving across state lines.  This series has ended—the one that took me all over the country to train therapists to use art in their work, the one that allowed me to work with those difficult teens who spoke through their art like they’d never spoken to a therapist before, the one that brought me groups of passionate therapists who wanted to excavate their souls and share because their well-being depended on it.  I’m closing up shop.  And, like Hannah, I know I have to give room for the next thing to show up.  There’s another series out there for me, but there is no menu from which I can pick ‘what looks good tonight’.  It needs to incubate inside me.  I need to wait for the idea.

 

People ask me, “What are you going to do once you get moved?”  They want to hear about my next idea, my next endeavor, my next series.  They know I am a manifester.  I create things and invite people to participate and it is wonderful.  They want more from me.  They can’t wait.

 

When I can only answer, “I really don’t know.”  I feel my disappointment roll into theirs—and we are a ball of impatience together.

 

Artists don’t stop working when they are in between series.  Their creative mind is always searching and trying out and there’s even actual engagement in the work itself.  They still go to the studio and work.  Sometimes it is just to clean a brush, other times it is to rearrange the workspace.  To outsiders, we may look as if we are doing the same things as always.  We are still creating or seeing clients or writing.  On the inside we are wringing our hands, scrunching our hair from our head, pacing back and forth—waiting.

 

I’ve learned that when I’m incubating, I have to be nice to myself.  I used to obsess about new ideas.  I have old lists of possible groups or classes to teach.  I have half-baked art invitations.  Names and taglines for courses fill notebooks.  In the past, I established a disciplined approach that included an optimal routine for inspiration.  I had to wake early, take my dog for a long walk in nature, do yoga, take a shower, then sit on my bed and download the ideas that I had seemingly plucked out of the river on my walk that morning.  I could incubate and find inspiration about the clients I was going to see that day or classes that I wanted to teach or a blog post I was going to write. The routine was my creativity template.  It worked well then.  But now I see, I was actually in a series.  I had my overall endeavor so well dialed in, that I was in flow and all I needed to do was stay in.  It worked beautifully.  I loved most of it.  Sometimes I was even able to be nice to myself.

 

Now, I’m no longer in that routine.  I don’t need to be and don’t want to be.  I have completed that series, and am waiting for the next.  So when I walk my dog on the river my thoughts are blank and I listen to  the birdsong and the sound of my shoes on the dirt.  I still sit down to write, but not as often, and only to see if there is anything there yet.  It’s kinda like knocking on the door to see if anyone is home, even when you know they are on vacation.  That’s where being nice to myself comes in.  I reassure myself, “You don’t have to know where this sentence will take you.”  I try to relax my breathing and tell myself, “It will come. You don’t have to know, right now, sweetheart.”

 

My coach, Andrea Lee, used to tell me that once we find the stream, all we have to do is stay in the boat and follow it.  The work was in noticing the moment in which the current began to carry us.  I used to joke back and tell her that it felt like the work was in trusting that there was actually a stream like the one she described.  It took so much work to walk around on rocks and follow dead end paths all the while lugging the heavy boat in hopes to catch a whiff of the right waterway.  Now, I know there is that stream.  Actually, I know there are many streams.  But right now, in this transition from California to Washington, from a well developed career series to the unknown, I am floating on an inner tube in the middle of the ocean.

 

It’s not that bad really.  Maybe it’s not exactly an inner tube,  but more like a nice fishing boat with a bedroom below and a little art studio set up on deck.  Nevertheless, I’m floating.  It’s not a passive float, like I’m helpless or a victim of circumstance.  It’s an expectant, kind, midwife-y kind of float.  Where I’m looking for signs of going into labor.  I’m reading the horizon for clues.  I’m engaged, alive, happy—with only an occasional bout of hand wringing or hair scrunching.

 

Are you working on a series?  What is it and how are you keeping it going?

Or are you incubating like Hannah and I?  What can you do to allow this for yourself?  How do you tolerate the in-between?

 

Transition: The Ultimate Creative Challenge

Jan 21, 2018 | 84 comments

I’m facing my biggest creative project ever!

I’m moving.  As in, moving my whole life.  Not just to the office next door or to the house down the street (which is what I did 7 years ago).  I’m really and truly packing everything up and sending it across 2 state lines in stacked pods on a truck bed.  There’s a ferry ride at the end which involves breathing through the flood of bliss that always comes when I see the beauty of the Puget Sound.  And there will be the cedars and Douglas firs that wait for us.  They guard our property with ancient solidity. They are home to the eagles and the other birds I have yet to meet.  I’m aware that the isolation could wreak havoc on my relationship seeking psyche from which I’ve formed my therapist identity, but since a part of me already lives there, I’m certain this new life is what I want.

That’s right, my husband and I are packing up our lives here in Sacramento and moving to an island in the Puget Sound.  It sounds crazy and romantic and cliché.  We are those people.  Those people who have decided to get out of the bad air and the concrete and the cars and the speed of life as we know it and move to a farm.  The original idea came from our need to save my husband’s lungs (the Sacramento ozone is literally killing him).  Now, I’ve come to look at it as saving our hearts and our minds—our souls. Read More… »

Writing from the Art

Oct 22, 2017 | 13 comments

What I learned at a week-long writing retreat

 

It’s been a 6 days since my return from a week-long writing retreat with Laura Davis in Bolinas, CA.  I gathered with 20 other brave writers to face grief, uncertainty, and transition and to share our words that captured the raw experience of our pain and struggle.  The week was profound in many ways.  I want to share some of my experience here, with you, because I think it could be inspiring and useful for all therapists.

Here are my two big take-aways, plus one smaller one.

 

ONE

Writing from the Art

On the registration questionnaire for the retreat, in response to the question, “What do you hope to work on during the retreat?”  I responded, “I want to use the time to explore the relationship between my art and my writing.  I want time and space to do this.  I want to discover what it is about the two creative acts, joined together as one, that is so profound.”  This wasn’t a typical response, so Laura called me up and asked me to explain.  I told her about my latest therapist retreats and how powerful this integration of art and writing was for the participants.  I told her about the individual sessions with clients and how when I had started to bring writing into session (in addition to the art) I felt like I was on another plane with clients.  That what came out of those sessions was more intimate, deeper, more from a place of truth—realness—wholeness than I’d ever witnessed when just one modality was with us.  And, I told Laura, I felt I needed to do it more—for myself—not just facilitating it for others. I wanted to know the relationship between my writing and my art from the inside out.  She got excited for me and couldn’t wait for me to share my experience.

So, every day at the retreat, in addition to writing for 7 hours a day, I painted.  I took my sketch pad with my Golden acrylics to the bench overlooking the ocean or to the front porch of the Commonweal building or on my makeshift table made from my suitcase in my room.  And I painted.  Each painting had a direct relationship to my writing.  I linked together a series.  Painting, writing about the painting, writing about my writing, painting in response to my writing, painting in response to a sand tray, writing about the painting in response to the sand tray…..each prompt led to another related creative response.  I wove and integrated while I followed the breadcrumbs which led me further along this knowing:  When I plug into my creative expressions and let them relate to one another as collective guides in an intentional way, I get to a place I could never have predicted.

Read More… »

[Video] Use Color to Boost Your Mood

Jun 16, 2017 | 6 comments

 

Color can be a powerful resource for resilience and happiness.  When you access your resource color, you boost your mood and brighten your well-being.  These kinds of activities are vital for therapists and clients alike.  Rather than spending session after session slogging through dysfunction and what’s gone wrong, why not spend a session (or two or three or four) activating resources?

Here’s a fun activity to start with.

Use Color to Boost Your Mood:  Access Your Resource Palette

1. Pick a color you love and write about it.  Write for 5-10 solid minutes in a brainstorm, free form fashion.  Write about why you love it, what it reminds you of, the qualities of the color.

Here’s an excerpt from my yellow art activity:

   “I love yellow.  I love the blinding sun light that sneaks through my closed eyelids and warms the inside of my brain.  I love yellow’s fresh lemon zest and how it wakes me up even when I’m slogged and far away.  I love yellow with its hope and promised reminder that signals the inevitability of morning, a new day, a fresh start. Yellow pierces through darkness and floods it with light.  It tingles and tells me I’ve alive.”

2. Glue collage papers in various tones and hues of your color onto a heavy piece of paper.  Do this spontaneously and randomly.  You don’t need a plan.  Just working with the color is the art.

3. Add paint of various tones and hues of your color.  Again, let this morph as it wants to.  You don’t need to know what it is going to look like in the end.  You just need to stay with the color and your celebration of that color. Let dry.

4. Using other drawing materials like oil pastels, water soluble crayons, permanent markers, colored pencils add to your painting.  Adopt a playful attitude and just get curious about what you’d like to add with these materials.  Spend a moment sitting with your completed art.

5. Now write some more.  Take 5-10 minutes to write about your painting using the stem sentence, “The color __________ boosts my mood because____________________.”  Let the ideas emerge spontaneously, write what comes to mind.

Here’s an excerpt from my yellow art activity:

  “Yellow boosts my mood because it has an energy all its own.  It wants to radiate and be set free to spin.  If you let it, it will grow and reach and permeate places still dark.  It wants to dance.  Yellow boosts my mood because it is playful and wants me to jump in and giggle.  It is simultaneously warming and invigorating—like the lemon zest in a tangy cocktail invented for a special summer occasion.  It’s celebratory, but not in a way that asks for fanfare.  Just in its yellowness—it can’t help but say, “Yes, yay, yippee. For me, the spinning is the finishing touch. (Watch the video to see for yourself!)  When I close my eyes and watch yellow spin—playful rays shooting outward, growing itself into more light—it makes me smile and feel all the possibility in the world.”

 

I hope you try this Boost Your Mood With Color art activity.  I’ve found that the combination of resource based art activities and writing is incredibly powerful.  Share it with your client!  Let us know how it goes!

If you are interested in a very special opportunity to experience the powerfully healing combination of writing and art you might want to join me in my Sacramento studio for Artspace starting in September 2017.  We will be practicing and refining “Collab—Art—wrITE” which is the process of cultivating a relationship between painting and prose.  When you cultivate the art-write relationship your creative expression has the kind of depth and breadth that inspires great healing and inspiration.

 

Forcing creativity? It won’t work for long.

Feb 2, 2017 | 4 comments

Last year was a year of putting my work out into the world.  I lectured in 25 different cities across the US, I taught five 4-week online programs and co-hosted a 2 day online creativity festival.  I launched my book and celebrated with 80 colleagues.  I wrote 35 blog posts and more emails than I can count.  2016 was a year of taking my creative harvest and sharing it with thousands of people.  I loved it.  And I learned from it.

Let creativity lead

In a 4 hour long, heartfelt conversation with my friend, Shelley, yesterday, I heard myself saying, “I don’t want to force anything right now.  I don’t want to squeeze a blog post out just because I know I can.  I don’t want to white knuckle anything. I’m done leading my creativity.  This year I want my creativity to lead me.”  She teared up a teensy bit and put her hand to her heart.  It resonated with her and we decided to hold each other in this intention.  And so, we closed our computers and put down our pens.  Rather than pound out the details for the retreat we were planning, we just talked.  We talked in swirls and ideas and metaphors and personal experiences.  It was time for lunch and I asked, “So what should we do?”  Shelley said, “Well, I think we need to just keep talking.  Shall we set aside time to do that regularly?”  I agreed, “Yup, we just need to keep talking, but how about we just let the talking part emerge out of just being together.”  It felt perfect.  It is perfect.

I’ve always struggled with Mary Oliver’s poem, Wild Geese.  I adore it.  But the first lines have baffled me….

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

It sounds good.  Like there’s an invitation there that’s delicious.  But formerly, doing what my soft body loves has repelled me with images of eating multiple cartons of Ben and Jerry’s while binge watching Grey’s Anatomy.  And, that has felt self-indulgent, non-productive, without a sense of purpose or passion.  Not even creative.

Now, this year, this moment in my life, I get it.  I understand in my bones that Mary Oliver is inviting us to stop striving and white knuckling and squeezing out that barely baked piece of art.  It is an invitation to allow creativity to take the lead and guide us to discovering new ideas that fuel our work.

If it wants to make something, it will

One of the projects on my calendar this year is to produce and co-host Create Fest, the 2nd annual creativity festival for mental health professionals.  It’s a huge undertaking and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it without white knuckling.  So I hesitated.  I put it off.  Then a little spark of curiosity led me to ask Rick Hanson to be a guest speaker.  He said yes and was very supportive of the Create Fest mission to inspire therapists to do creative experiential work.  And then I asked myself, “Who else do I really want to talk with?” Which led to interviews with some of my most favorite authors!  And with this sense of ease, Create Fest is shaping into a beautiful creative collection of conversations and inspiration that I can’t wait to share.

So many times, in the creative process, we make the mistake of beginning with only the end in mind.  A painting to hang above the couch, a memoir about childhood, an online program that will sell, a therapeutic technique that will teach a specific skill.  We drive the creative process as if it is a navigable train and we miss the richness of the experience.  When I was writing my book, Creativity as Co-Therapist, I was the most disciplined I have ever known myself to be.  I forced myself to hermit one weekend a month and do nothing but write.  It was excruciating at times.  I’m proud of what I created, but there is a part of me that wonders if that was the best way to let that piece of work emerge.  If I had been nicer to myself, or on a looser timeline, or with a softer touch—I wonder what my creativity could have led me to.

I have another writing project now that has emerged in the most organic and beautiful way.  My mother and I are collaborating and we are writing what we call Mother/Daughter Perspectives.  Our writing endeavor is a way for her and me to share the process of our evolving relationship and history.  We now have a list of shared events and moments.  Each week we choose one of those moments and write from our hearts about our memories, our experiences, and our perspectives.  When we share these every week the phone line vibrates with truth and intensity and so much possibility.  We don’t know where this writing endeavor will take us—it is the leader, really.  What I do know is that I want to follow it to see where it goes.

I think we need to consciously plant seeds for our creative process to thrive.  Last year I harvested—maybe even clear cut.  This year, the seeds are showing up in surprising places.  I’ve fed my creativity with new information and experiences because that’s what nourishes the soil for new ideas to grow. I plan to share more about what I’ve been doing to plant those seeds in future posts.  But for now, I hope you consider this.

In order to create, artists need to fertilize and plant seeds.  And therapists, are, in fact artists.

What could you stop white knuckling?  What creative endeavor could you allow to take the lead?

I’d love to have you join me in the ease of unfolding.

(And stay tuned for Create Fest 2017—because it is becoming something wonderful!)

Do you ever let your snow globe settle?

Dec 22, 2016 | 10 comments

Art Therapy Invitation for Therapists and Their Clients

During the holidays is the perfect time to purchase snow globes.

Other times of year, they are hard to find. Pick a couple up the next time you are out shopping and bring it back to your office.  Use it, or the following art invitation to ask the questions:

Do you pause and ponder often enough?

Do you teach your clients to pause and ponder too?

 

When I asked a group of therapists to do this art invitation, it was pretty extraordinary.  They were mixed in terms of years of experience, and yet they were closely joined in the collaborative creative rhythm with which I was inviting them to engage.

As I invited them to make collages that depicted their expectations of themselves as therapists, I was imagining a snow globe newly shaken.  The flurry of magazines and scissors–their hands searching and sorting.  The mess was an amoebic mass that ebbed and flowed from the middle of the art table.

As their collage became complete, and I invited them to settle in and reflect.  The scissors stilled, the paper ripping ceased, and the silence of newly fallen snow prevailed.  The quieting was serene, and the pondering was deep. Read More… »

Election Art: Beauty from the ruins

Nov 11, 2016 | 13 comments

Election Art 2: Beauty from the Ruins

In times of fear and uncertainty, before I coax myself to embrace the unknown, I go back to what I know for sure.  It’s always same three things: my basics–the things I am certain I can do no matter what.  On Tuesday, Election Day 2016, I found myself clinging to and then landing in these three things. It was good.  Very good.  I want to share them.  Perhaps they will inspire you and your clients.

In know I can teach.

I can teach people to squeeze hot glue onto buttons and sea glass and to use formerly meaningless objects to make something life affirming.  I can teach people to throw paint onto paper and create an experience of complete freedom.  I can teach people to mesmerize themselves with rhythmic knitting, their needles, yarn and hands becoming a relaxed collaboration.  I can even teach people to love themselves—though sometimes that takes a very long time.

I know I can love.

My love is a comforting constant. I love my clients, my pets, my friends, and my family. I love my coffee.  I can share my fierce heart easily because it is strong and real.  If it ever wavers, I can go out in nature and feel love the instant I look at tree bark or hear water flowing.

I know there is beauty in the ruins and I can always find it.

As therapists, we are highly trained for this type of activity. Every day, in every session, we must delve into another’s state of ruin—the failed marriages, the tragic deaths, the self-loathing and self-abuse, and the abyss of despair. We face it with our clients like archaeologists excavating a dig site.  With our compassion and love, we comb over every detail searching for the beauty.  We are a committed bunch, dogged in our search to find what we so passionately believe.  That there is beauty there—somewhere, under all of the shit and darkness.  Sometimes, all we have to do once we find it, is point to it.  “Look!  There’s beauty here in this tear falling from your cheek.  It’s a diamond. “ Read More… »

The power of holding art in your hands.

Oct 27, 2016 | 8 comments

Hope Filled Postcard Art Exchanged

 

I got HOPE in the mail and I held it in my hands!

I signed up for Gretchen Miller’s Creative Deed Art Challenge thinking it was a fun idea to be a part of a postcard exchange.  The theme was HOPE which made it feel comfy and cozy.  I made three postcards, infused them with HOPE, and addressed them to Australia, Maryland, and Iowa.  It felt good.  I liked thinking about my hope-filled art cruising around the country and finally landing in someone’s appreciative hand.  I enjoyed following the Facebook images of the others’ who were creating postcards and gifting their hope to the world.  I thought to myself, “This exchange thing is wonderful.  I want to do more.”

Then I started receiving postcard gifts of my own in the mail.  Through the mail slot–real paper, real art, from real people popped through and landed on the floor with such grace and beauty.  To my delicious surprise, the very same people to whom I’d gifted a hope postcard had made and sent me one of their postcards.  We were now linked.  Joined in our endeavor to spread hopefilled art and in our appreciation of one another’s wish to connect in this way.  When I first received each one I traced the texture and line with my fingers and truly honored the handcraftedness of the postcard.  I have carried the three cards with me in my planner and feel buoyed by their presence in my daily schedule. Read More… »

Using Art and Creativity to Manage Transitions

Sep 7, 2016 | 3 comments

How to manage transitions with art and creativity.

When art speaks, I listen

There is something so profound about the moment a painting reveals its message.

There is also nothing much more frustrating than the period of time when a painting is in transition.  This is the long haul when it is no longer the clean white canvas it used to be and not yet a colorful entity with a message.

The slog through that transition is something I dread and something I love.  It is the essence of the creative process, of discovery, of growth, of life.  Being in the slog is how I stay real with myself and keep track of where I am and where I am going.

About 6 weeks ago, I started a huge painting.  It was beautiful and pristine in its 4 foot square mass. I actually hugged it for a bit and smelled its clean white canvas.   I started it because I wanted answers to the question, “What’s next?”  I wanted to fill it up with color and clarity and certainty.  I lured myself into the studio by promising if I tackled my choices with creativity I’d feel more secure, at ease, and pretty darn pleased with myself.  I had no idea what to paint.  I just had the idea that painting would help. Read More… »

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