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Anytime you feel overwhelmed by humanity's impact on people, animals, and the planet, or, really, anytime you think you cannot leave the house because the world is too hard, I want you to think about the art, performances, music, books, and films that have made you want to be alive. Think of how those artists, like you, probably felt overwhelmed by their lives—and the times they were living in—but made the thing anyway. Your future audiences need your work, so you need to make it.
The word artist is fraught for many people, particularly for people with marginalized identities and experiences who never saw themselves reflected in any professional art contexts. It's loaded with meaning and cultural implications, and some people may shy away from using it as an identifier. Perhaps they don't make money from their art or don't spend what they believe to be enough time on their practice. The world showed them that art was only for white people, wealthy people, men, people who grew up around art. They didn't go to artschool and they don't consider their opportunities to perform, exhibit, or present their work professional enough. Maybe they've never had an opportunity to share their work with the public. No one has paid them for their creative work and they fear their work isn't good. Their families and friends scoff at the concept of being an artist, or perhaps artists with real careers surround them. These are just a few of the reasons I've heard from artists as to why they don't use the identifier. Making the art seems more certain than calling oneself an artist. Often, it is easier to do than to be.
Here's what I've experienced in the female version of the hero's journey. There is the call—but it's not for a grail or a goal; it's from the body or the heart, and it's a quest to come home to yourself. Then there is the journey within, into the unseen places of your psyche to access your wild, feminine nature and bring that to the light. Then there is the reclamation, which is the journey of the cycle—going through the phases to reclaim an appropriate balance of your masculine and feminine energy. Finally there is the rebirth.
So I drew, and drawing became my coping mechanism. I sketched the ups and downs of my life, which gave me an ability to look at my pain more objectively. As I continued to draw my feelings, I started to find a sense of self as well as a sense of humor about life; with time, my resistance to change softened. I began to examine my feelings of discomfort, feelings I hadn't been willing to lookt at before. In doing so, I discovered that I was able to handle difficult emotions—didn't need to push them away anymore. Being open, no matter how uncomfortable that might be, has allowed me to grow and made my life richer and more complete.
And that is the painful truth, life goes on. As my sadness enveloped me, and the meaning of it all became so murky in my mind, the world around me turned. I felt so isolated and alone, as if I was on the other side of some glass pane dividing me from my old, blissfully unaware self. Suddenly, it all looked completely different.
