Last week we attended the Sunday service at the church located at our son's school. My husband regularly plays the drums in the church band and it was one of his playing days. I didn't know it in advance but it also happened to be the special Year 3 service, where these students actively participated in the service, with singing, talk and drama. About 40 little 8-year-olds and their families flooded the chapel. The girls were wearing their favourite dresses and looking very much like, well, little girls. Bright eyes, smiling and nervous faces, hair bows and shiny shoes creating a wave of glitter as they rushed by.
At one point all the students were on stage, and I could see the full array of little girls. I wondered to myself, "What would Lillienne look like now? Would she be like that girl, tiny and shy, or like that other one, seemingly proud and confident. Would she love to wear sparkling sandals and a flowing dress? or would she rather something else?". Lillienne, my dead daughter, would be the same age, in the same class, as these girls. As we began to sing a hymn, I couldn't hold back my tears any longer. They rolled down my cheeks and I covered my face with my hands. "No, not now!" I thought. So I gathered myself together in the moment, and steeled myself for the rest of the service. I lip-sync'd the rest of the hymn. I was unable to get any words out, especially anything to do with love, longing, suffering or goodness. Unfortunately pretty predictable themes of most religious songs.
As the service ended, I avoided the gaze of anyone, knowing that if someone were to say 'Hello, how are you?' I would burst into tears. And that would not be good timing. After 8 years of experience, I've learned that it is unlikely for people to handle another person's tears very well. Even less well when they discover that not one, but two, of my babies have died. What does one say to that? Usually not much, followed by an uncomfortable silence, and muddled segue to some other topic of conversation or a need to leave. I truly feel for anyone who has unknowingly walked into this with me. Of course they don't know what to say. Why would they? Grief is one thing that all humans experience, but it is one thing that we rarely talk about or learn to be comfortable with.
So my grief, when it comes, is not often timely. In the middle of a church service, or driving in the car. Not good timing. Tears and driving are a particularly unsafe combination. Like sneezing repeatedly. Both could potentially lead to a crash. Tears and being in public are just plain uncomfortable and inconvenient, for everyone. So I've learned to 'suck it up'. Suck up the tears back to where they came from, suck up the pain and cover it with my invisible armour so it cannot be seen. And hope that it returns at a more opportune time. When I'm alone and have the time to be with it.
Because I do hope it returns. At least most of the time. It is through my grief - the pain, the memories, the longing - that I am able to connect with my daughter and my son. Love and pain are inextricably entwined in grief. Especially grief that follows the death of a child.
But the inspiration, or trigger, for my grief is not something I can contain or control. Just as is the inspiration for creativity it seems. And here's the link. Finally! I hear you say. Famous creative individuals have often talked about the process of inspiration being something you can't always control, that it often happens out of the blue. For example, Leonard Cohen the musician and songwriter has said:
"I can work, I can go to my desk and work every day for a year and nothing happens...Whereas, sometimes just a waitress handing me a sandwich can...touch me very, very deeply and suddenly everything will open up - the heart will open up. It's very mysterious how the heart opens up."
And Elizbeth Gilbert (author of "Eat, Pray, Love") recounts how Tom Waits once described driving down the freeway in LA when all of a sudden he hears a little fragment of melody, coming to him in that often elusive way, when there is no way to capture the inspiration as it comes. In this story, Tom apparently looks up to the sky and says, "Excuse me, can you not see that I'm driving...do I look like I can write down a song right now? If you really want to exist, come back at a more opportune moment when I can take care of you...".
So I wonder what the underlying similarity is for this triggering experience in grief and creativity? Perhaps it is that both involve our emotional memories and processes in the brain. Perhaps that is why creative approaches are often used in therapy, such as writing, art and drama. But here's another thought. What happens to creativity if you ignore it? With grief, it inevitably comes back to you, and often in waves much stronger than those you've tried to repress. Or it finds other ways of seeping through you such as with illness, depression, anxiety, or an inability to be free to feel anything.
But what of creativity? Would it matter if you repressed those inspiring moments, those urges? Abraham Maslow (early proponent of Humanistic psychology) suggests that humans have a innate need for growth and self-actualisation, "the full realisation of one's potential". Perhaps for some individuals, creativity is part of their potential and therefore not to fulfill their creativity would be not to fulfill their potential. According to a humanistic view, feeling stifled in one's personal growth leads to mental ill-health. So, like repressing grief, perhaps ignoring the need for creativity would also have a negative impact on one's well-being.
Later that day, after coming home from church and entertaining family for the afternoon, I was still feeling the heaviness of my held-back tears. But I felt like the moment had passed, and I thought "What good would it do me now?" as I climbed into bed. What was the point of sharing this with my husband, when there was nothing he could do? But as I turned to say goodnight, I couldn't get the words out before I began to cry. Through gut-wrenching tears I told him about seeing all the little girls at church. I don't know how long I cried for. But I haven't cried like that for years. I cried so hard it hurt my ribs, my eyes, my head, my heart. I cried for all the times I couldn't cry. For all the times I held in my tears, too embarrassed, exhausted or guilty to shed them. For all the times I wanted to show the world my pain but didn't. For all the times Lillienne's or Finn's spirit had come to me at an inopportune moment, and I had wanted so desperately to be with them but couldn't. Afterwards I felt a little lighter. Relieved to have allowed the inspiration to come and be processed.
A friend of mine, a writer, academic, musician (and just all round very creative person!) recently wrote of her experience of creativity. She talked about how she engages in her own creative processes, allowing herself to take moments of inspiration, and that her well-being, personal and professional, is so much better when she does. It was reading her reflections that inspired me to write this. So there you have it. Creativity and grief. Perhaps a perfect combination.
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| Oso Blue: without you Paula Swenson ©2013 (from: http://seekyourcourse.com/blog/2013/02/creativity-as-self-care-in-times-of-extreme-need/) |
