Art Therapy

In a well-timed, therapy-like conversation last week, an executive coach asked me to rank the most important things in my life. I hardly hesitated. 

- My faith 

- My family 

- My work 

- Athletics (which is very different from exercise)

I don't think I got to the fifth one before the coach jumped in with a damning question, 'so, which one are serving most right now?' 

I hardly hesitated. 

#3. 

Work. 

Hmm. 

That, right there, has been the pull on my heart and mind for months. The conflict between ambition and everything else I hold dear. But the more I have these conversations, the more I can verbalize not only the imbalance but how to right the ship.

After therapy (coaching) and equipped with my 2025 resolutions to do and be better, I felt like my compass was heading in the right direction. Every month I would mature into a different, more emboldening leader, who was able to keep her world order in order. Maybe I'd even be on time.  

Although ... I kept thinking about #5. 

What was my #5? 

This morning, while running in the dark, while staring at the start of a pink morning, it came to me. 

#5 is Art. 

I snapped a photo of the color in the sky and sent it to my brother in law, knowing he would be photographing the light in all its glory. I see you, I said. 

#5 is Art! 

It's creativity and creation in all of its unique forms. Visual, written, dramatic, melodic, culinary, performing and expressive art. I was getting more and more excited. My pace was picking up. 

That's why I majored in art history. It wasn't a degree without worth - one that I should belittle as I tell my leadership story to mentees. It was a degree baked in passion. MY passion. For years, Art was my work. Art was my #3. 

As I turned the corner to head home, this aha! explained something that's been happening over the past couple months. Art has quite literally been making me cry. Examples: 

- In the theater watching Wicked with my kids, I bawled. (Come to think of it, I cried watching it on Broadway with my girls last year as well.) 

- Meandering through the Carnegie Museum of Art to show my kids the Principio after Christmas, my eyes started tearing. 

- Bobby's curiosity lighting up in the Hall of Architecture, prompted a couple more tears. 

- Exposing the kids to With One Look from Sunset Boulevard as we made the quick drive home, many more tears. 

'You're crying Mom,' they say. They stare because it never. ever. happens. 

It's as if my brain is deprived of artistry, so anything - any little glimmer of beauty upsets my emotional stability. One prompt, and I'm mush.  

A couple weeks ago, after three weeks of travel around the country, colds and flus and norovirus, a flying squirrel dying in our house, the fly fiasco that followed, the toilet that overflowed on the second floor into the first floor, the corresponding construction, and a bout of 4-year old constipation, I found myself sitting in an auditorium where I grew up. This was the space where I discovered my love of the performing arts. Center stage was my home. But on this day, it was Bobby's and his fourth grade classmates.  

Together, they read poetry and sang songs that begged the audience / me and the other parents to get outdoors and visit our National Parks. 'We're going to the park to the park to the park,' they sang as Bobby held up a big sign for Yellowstone. 

About mid-way through the production, Bobby introduced the song Fireless with composure and confidence. He talked about a sense of optimism and stress release and how the song invited you to look deeper at the magic around us. As he finished up, the lights went down and the kids popped out and sparked up their glow sticks. The boys ran up the aisles, and into the audience so the auditorium was blanketed in light. They swung their glow sticks in the air, danced, sang, and yes, made me cry. It was the music - the musical effect that lightened the burden of one thing after the next at the start of the year. It was the perspective of magic making right here at school. It was the simplicity of all of these wonderful kids carefreely belting their hearts out. It was beautiful. 

It was a textbook example of why I needed more Art in my life. Doing #1-#4 on my priority list demands a ton of focus. Onlookers might argue, there isn't a second of downtime in my day. But when I let my mind go, escape, and empathize, I find a release that's clearly need. 

Bobby turned 10 the week of his play. Ten means he's bigger, stronger, tougher, more calculated in how he presents himself. But he is absolutely an artist. He is always looking deeper under the surface. He spends hours sketching at his desk, trying to represent how he experiences the world. He's watched old black and white movies with me, debating who is the better dancer - Fred or Gene? And when I write, he listens to the words I choose, storing them for a time he might need to pen them himself. 

Seeing Bobby mature into a well-rounded young man is a good reflection for me. I've gotten too pragmatic in my priorities, and I'm not making time or finding the channels to honor something that was always at my core. Studying the ways of a fourth grader is a lesson in how to infuse creativity into my faith, family, and work life. With Art, Faith becomes less of a routine, family becomes less of a schedule, work becomes less of a chore. And each priority can embody more beauty, joy and emotion (which I will always argue is just fine to show at work.) 

So coach, Art is #5. And I wish more of it on myself. And more of it on a nation that could use a little softening. 

Lo.