I remember hearing once in, say, middle school that in order to be an artist, you have to suffer. I cannot say specifically why this stuck with me, but I do know that I was upset because--and I remember this thought exactly--that I didn't feel I had suffered enough to be a writer. The older I get, the more ridiculous this idea seems to me, particularly having gone through everything I have by age thirty-one. "Have I suffered enough yet for it to count?" is such an absurd question. Not that I asked for suffering, exactly, but I think I've hit enough now to at least be interesting.
Reflecting on this adage, I don't think it's the suffering itself that matters, but rather the developed ability to identify with people through their sufferings, those elements where we all come together as kindred spirits in a human experience. I've never lost a parent or a sibling, but I understand grief. I have never had a child, but I understand wanting to protect someone while still allowing them the freedom to learn through their own choices and mistakes. It's not about suffering so much as a deeper understanding of what it means to be human, before trying to make comments and grand generalizations about life. It's about perspective and being able to stretch outside of yourself.
Those choices that build us, it seems to me that the moments in crisis are where a lot of those choices happen at once. How we carry those experiences onward, how we wear our burdens and display our scars, that shapes our sense of self as well as the person that we project.
Andy and I were having a heart to heart recently and we rehashed a few things with new perspective that I have brought up in a previous blog post about what it means to be strong. Andy proposed that I'm not only strong because of what I've gone through or how I've worn it, but also because of the way in which I wear my weaknesses, the vulnerability with which I can share elements of what I'm feeling, that those are where my strength truly lies. I'm still chewing on that. I don't know how else to deal with what I'm going through except to be open about what I've gone through; I want to make it safe for others to talk about their experience and to be able to identify through some of those points where we can all meet as humans, despite having very different experiences.
At any rate, I enjoy how paradoxical it sounds to have strength by displaying your weakness. I know a handful of folk that are afraid to ask for help, but I have seen seeking help as a sign of strength. It's hard to let your pride down and reach out. There is strength in admitting that you are hurting. There is strength in working on bettering yourself, whether that means seeking counseling, taking steps toward developing better health habits, or juggling umpteen doctors' appointments. Strength can look like perseverance, through some very apparent concerns.
Whenever I see an article passed around detailing the accomplishments of someone with severe disabilities, I baulk a bit when the verbage turns to "they're so inspirational!" That individual is trying to live their life in the way that is normal to them--they're not there to inspire you, be a motivational poster on your wall. Rather than framing them on the wall, see them as a person working toward their own dreams and hopes. There is beauty in that. I'm not here to inspire you either, but I want to connect with you as another person that has their own richness and context. And I'm finding that it's hard to phrase some of those nuances, to identify the differences and what it is specifically that I would want instead.
So I'll try this instead: I've been more aware recently of the very real truth that everyone has their damage. No one is completely free of pain or frustration in their lives or, once they reach a certain age, devoid of worry or the remnants of some kind of past trauma. I bear a few of my scars openly; others aren't aware of what they are burying until it explodes. And there are different levels for different problems, even within the same person.
To come back around to it, I find strength in telling my story. Art is about expression, in some capacity or another. Those pieces that we're burning to talk about, to get off of our chest, to share with someone else, they have a particular kind of power. Sometimes it is about sharing simple joys; sometimes it's about sharing buried hurts. Sometimes there is a compulsion to create very specific thing; sometimes it doesn't make sense until after it has been made; sometimes it still doesn't make sense but it still means something to you. To be an artist, one has to create. So, no, I don't think there is a correct perspective or amount of suffering that has to happen in order to make good art, but that conditioned openness and finding the strength to put yourself out there--typos and smudges and all--is its own force of nature.
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