Fire for the Frozen Heart

By Pam Hadder

Winter and introspection go hand in hand - as a visual artist, I have often thought of the pure white snow as canvas; a place where blue and grey shadows create new images each day, shapes and patterns that dance, shift and inspire with the changing light.  This winter has been especially magical, but it is more than the beauty of winter that has me inspired!

I am blissfully "between opportunities" - my prior employment contract ended in mid-October, and I have been applying my energies to finding new employment and to expressive arts therapy studies (ExAT). You may wonder how can looking for work and studying be blissful?  Well, curiously enough, unemployment has been a great blessing in my life, and has opened doors of opportunity that were closed to me while I was working. The change has allowed personal time for me to reflect, envision, engage and learn, and to seriously consider my life passions. I am so grateful each morning when I awaken, and I find myself re-energized, curious, eager to embrace the day, and open to possibilities. I have also learned to graciously accept help. Fiercely independent and accustomed to filling my day in support of others, I have had to learn to take time for myself, my needs and my desires.  I have been deeply encouraged by the positive regard of others and their incredible generosity and kindness toward me.

The study of expressive arts therapy has some wonderful side effects - one of our professors, the amazing Dr. Kate Donohue, often says, "we are all wounded healers," and I just LOVE that statement.  Students of ExAT need to engage in self-reflection, and fine tune understanding of personal trauma and healing before extending healing modalities to others. Through engaging all of the senses, some amazing things begin to occur - personal transformation, including physical and emotional healing are typical byproducts for students of ExAT. There is also a natural extension of internal and external resourcing which unfolds in a unique way for each individual, at their time and pace, allowing for growth of personal resilience with increased awareness.

And to think that I almost did not enrol in the course - due to the extreme demands and low supports in my prior work life, I thought I would not be able to engage fully in the coursework. My enthusiasm for expressive arts' potential for helping others was not understood or appreciated by my employer - I was so excited by the neurobiological evidence, but had no receptive ears or hearts to receive the message.  Fortunately, two supportive friends encouraged me - although I was worried about being able to make ends meet and having enough time and energy for all of life's demands, I took a giant leap of faith, and  I nervously followed my muse. I have no regrets! I am thankful for those two friends that really saw my heart of hearts - those two who said, "You have to do this," "You would be so great at this!"

I have had a typical human life thus far - with my share of ups and downs. I acknowledge my privilege as a white, university educated, middle class North American woman of mixed European settler heritage. I never acknowledged my personal trauma, however. Most of us know what it is like to lose a loved one to accident, illness or violence. As women, we know what it means to be sexualized and marginalized, even in the most wealthy and privileged of world nations. Most of us deal with illness and injury - our own, and that of loved ones. And many of us have weathered less-than-ideal relationships, whether in the family home, in personal relationships, or in the workplace. 

However, through my engagement in the expressive arts as therapy, I soon understood that I had experienced both classic and complex trauma. From early childhood years, I had naturally gravitated toward music, writing, visual art and performance to understand, express and heal from life's woundings. I began to open my mind, body and spirit to the healing dynamic within the expressive arts, and to trust in my innate ability to both heal and to help others.  A further benefit of this learning process has been a surge in my own creative output - not for glory, fame, but for the pure delight, expression and wellness of my soul. Since October 2017 I have written five or six songs for guitar - an amount equal to my writing efforts of the last four years!  ExAT has not only helped me to feel better, but it has unleashed my creativity.

Expressive art therapy pioneer, Natalie Rogers, coined the term "creative connection" in the 1980s. Creative connection was Rogers' way to describe the productive synergies that result when moving between expressive arts modalities: music, movement, dance, vocalizing, visual art and the written word. Although, I have always been drawn to visual art, movement, music and creative writing, since enrolling in the ExAT program, I have experienced the power of the expressive arts like never before.  We often hear about music as the universal language, and that visual art can capture emotions, and we may feel a stirring in our hearts when we participate or witness any combination or single performance of expressive arts.  But we aren't typically encouraged to express by movement how we feel about a painting, or to vocalize how dance made us feel. Creative endeavors have been commodified, edified and placed on a lofty cultural pedestal accessible only by a elite few. Creative outputs are judged, critiqued and limitations and standards applied to exclude and to demean those who might venture beyond those structures. A rare few manage to avoid or break the bonds and succeed while being true to their spirit. Expressive Arts Therapy disrupts this falsehood - creativity is fundamental to every human being, and it is cross-cultural, it is how we communicate as humans, and it is what set us apart on the evolutionary journey.

And so, friends, this is where you find me - I am blissfully between opportunities - centred and joyful, perfectly imperfect, a life-long student of living.

Soul Food

By Pam Hadder

There is an interesting dichotomy surrounding our consumption – not just our daily bread, but all commodities we market.  We all seek to be the first horse out of the gate, to stay ahead of the curve, to remain relevant in a fast-paced environment increasingly viewed through the Vaseline-coated lens of technology.  But are we truly moving forward or are we just spinning the same old messages and information a higher speed and volume?  Are we demonstrating meaningful results or just clogging the environment with more content; more “stuff?” To me, it is a case of soul food versus fast food.

What immediately comes to mind when you hear about soul food?   Maybe it’s remembrances of the best meal ever, comfort foods, tastes of home; or cultural and community cuisine – soul food goes beyond just filling the belly; it creates connections, inspires and delights.  Compare this to fast food – it seems dim compared to all of the rich, complex and meaning-laden images we have about soul food.  Soul food is tied to deeply personal connections that withstand the whims and whirlwinds of the moment. So, can fast food be soul food?  It might package itself as soul food, it might capture some of the flavor and physical appeal of soul food, but the critical components are conspicuously absent: time, authenticity and meaningful personal connection.  Even more than the thoughts of Grandma’s or Mom’s family recipes, soul food is about that connection – interacting with others in memorable and satisfying ways versus split second visual interaction.  One does not equal the other.

It takes planning, careful selection of ingredients, and time to elevate a consumable product, service or concept to the status of soul food – it’s pretty easy to stave off hunger with a quick fix, but the moment is here and soon forgotten.  Tech marketers have skillfully convinced many of the value of fast food approaches – the offer is all the more alluring because of ease of access and perceived low cost.  Basically the human machine is pretty forgiving and can function with almost any kind of food, but science has proven we cannot live in good emotional and physical health without interpersonal contact and support.  Like others I rely upon technology to do my work and in my personal time, but whenever I am given the opportunity, I am working to establish more in-real-time and in-person connections and moments - I prefer the natural, the simple and the authentic, and I am opting to create meaning and lasting impact, and, where possible, to feed the soul.

Bright Star

By Pam Hadder

A few days ago I said goodbye to you, my friend, after your eighteen month battle with cancer.  Although I knew you were very sick, I always thought you would make it –any other outcome seemed implausible.  You were so full of potential, spontaneity, intelligence, creativity and humour – to consider a world without you in it was like imagining a dystopian future for the planet; surely this dark oblivion would never come to pass.

I should mention that my work has been extraordinarily stressful and all-consuming – it is a complex mess that keeps on surprising me with its ability to fester and grow roots.  No matter how deftly I apply myself, the mountain of work just grows; each superficial success revealing new decay beneath the surface, and unimaginable human cruelty and spite.  I sleep with my phone by my head, and I watch in semi-paralytic limbo, as the boundaries between work and personal time become indistinct, like waves washing away words etched on the shoreline. 

Yesterday I came across anther tribute video made in your honour.  This one takes the form of an interview, and between head and shoulders shots, the creator pans closely over your fair skin, dappled with blond freckles, like sunlight piercing through foliage to cast soft-edged patterns.  The effect is so intimate and yet respectful; it captures the essence of your gentleness, youthfulness, and irrepressible sense of whimsy. I feel your warmth – I feel like you are right here in the room with me.

 At the time of these interviews, you had accepted death, and were determined to make the passing from life to afterlife a celebration versus a tragedy.  Watching it, I realized my life was like the reverse of your white flame – although blessed by good health and opportunity, I am transfixed and immobilized in a state of mournful disillusionment.  I often feel like my life is one of those torturous dreams where mundane, infuriating elements loop and overlap in a bizarre blandness that can only be the definition of a living hell, and I long to wake up and know it was just confused conjuring of my resting brain. Then, across the membrane of time and space and impossibility, I hear your advice for life in my ear: “Wear lipstick and expensive perfume.”  And I remember your fashion advice: “Everything goes with everything.” And I hear your raucous laughter, and the pop of a champagne cork midweek and midday.  “I love you,” you offer with a bright smile.  And, oh my God, I feel like that last person to get the memo; I finally get it – the window is crystal clear and the morbidity has lifted. You were trying so hard for so many months to get through to all of us – so many just like me, living the zombie life like we have no expiration date – and I wanted to reel you back, shush the “negativity” and to beg you to choose life.  But I now recognize that it was you who chose life, and it is I who has chosen death – a dire extended death state of my own creation, versus the full-frontal connection of eternal life in motion.

  

Sweet beautiful friend – I love you and miss you in this space and time.  I am so grateful that I witnessed your brilliant comet, blazing across the dark sky.  I needed to be shown what matters, and I needed a kick in the ass so that I might hope to live with authenticity and fire and audacity.  When this body loses its war with time and genetics, I will endeavor to burn fiercely; illuminating the path for those who have become mired in shadows.  Your approach to death and dying has made me realize that I am witnessing the slow unraveling of my joy; the erosion of my life force.  You, on the other hand, were a supernova, burning at maximum strength, uncompromising in your demands, and unwilling to allow a petty detail such as terminal cancer to dilute your brilliance. You lived large – you were brazen and brave, and it scared me much of the time.

Dearest one, you have taught me that there are worse fates than death and dying – it is far more tragic to live in fear, denial and paralysis. All we have to do is shine. In the video you talk about your dream of having another life; one that lasted only a few hours – if I consider my years, I am sure my reflection back upon them would  fill less time than that.  Thank you, bright star, it is time to up my game – “just live a glamorous life...”

Summer's End

By Pam Hadder

It’s that time – I can taste the change in the night air; the last precious days of summer. There is this soft haze that filters all of the harsh edges, the scent of ripening permeates yards and gardens, and the afternoon sun gently gilds our world in antique gold.  I feel such comfort and nostalgia in these last sweet days of summer; I think of my grandma, Suzanna, on her farm wearing an old cotton sheath dress and rubber boots. She was my Mother’s mother, and the mother of nine children.  She raised her children through the Great Depression and lived through two World Wars. She lost her husband to cancer when she still had young children at home and a farm to run.  Grandma’s life was not easy.

Mostly I saw Grandma in the summer months; we’d drive out to the country in the family station wagon. I remember so many simple things that are framed in summer’s sunny hues, including pumping water from the old farm well.  I loved the iron taste of that cold, fresh water.  Of course, there had been plumbing at her farm for decades, and the old farm house that housed a family of eleven, plus great-grandpa, had been dismantled, and a smaller home located on the homestead. 

When my Mom was a kid my grandparents raised their own beef and pork.  They had a few dairy cows and chickens – some layers and some roasters.  So not only did Grandma prepare thousands of hearty meals, she helped to raise the lion’s share of the meat and grew the majority of their produce.  Those were the days when rural families had summer kitchens – a place to prepare cooked meals that wouldn’t heat the main house, and provided some relief to the cook in the open air.  Today we are more likely to BBQ or use a microwave – or use the oven anyway, because we have air conditioning!

I often hear from my Mom how Grandma was a phenomenal cook and baker – but by the time I came along she didn’t do much of either – I am sure she exhausted her interest and energies raising a big family through challenging times.  However, I was delighted when she’d offer “store bought” cookies from a clear glass jar hand-painted with colourful fruit – this was a treat we seldom had at home, where my Mom made mostly everything from scratch.  We’d play cards, she’d give us kids money to go the corner store for candy; and she’d nap on the couch with its embroidered black velvet cushions, snoring like a chainsaw.  I recall the Vogue tobacco tin on her window sill and the ever-presence of stale smoke, but I never saw her light up or inhale, or roll up the next smoke. I was a very active, snoopy kid and Grandma would look at me with such warmth and gentleness with her jet-coloured eyes – she got a kick out of me.  I know Grandma was a strict parent, but she showed more tolerance with us kids; grandparenthood typically mellows the disciplinarians among us. I only recall Grandma being angry with me once – I was seven or eight and we were playing Crazy Eights at her tiny kitchen table; “You’re cheating, Grandma!”

My Grandma seemed so ancient to me and yet she was only in her early sixties when she died of bladder cancer – I was ten years old when she left us. My siblings and I used to call her the “old grandma” and our other grandmother in Montreal who wore tailored suits, and sent us sticker books and hand-knit woolens was the “nice grandma,” although we rarely saw her.  I wonder if our Mom heard our remarks and what she thought about it. I recall Old Grandma’s last months - In those days they wouldn’t let little kids into the hospital cancer wards. I remember waiting in the car while my Mom went in to visit Grandma.  Grandma passed away shortly after that visit and I never attended her funeral – my parents didn’t feel kids belonged at funerals, I guess. 

So it seemed to me that one day I was playing Crazy Eights with Grandma and the next she was gone. I have this photo of grandma holding me – she’s sitting on a white painted wooden chair. I love her horn-rimmed glasses and gingham dress.   And, yes, I still sleep in the same position: relaxed mountain climber, supported by "Grandma’s belly" (pillow and comforter surrogates).  Grandma is gazing off into the future; likely my snuggling and sleep-breathing is making her drowsy. Funny the things that stay with us – seemingly inconsequential, but profoundly shaping our perception and interaction.

Another Way?

I recently had an accident and broke my left wrist. It sounds clichéd, but for those of us who have had these experiences we know it’s the truth: a split second and life can be diverted along a completely new trajectory.  Naturally, I am overwhelmingly grateful that the outcome was not worse – broken bones, a bruised bottom, and pulled ligaments are minor in the larger scope of things; the pain is manageable and bones and tissues heal. I also believe these things occur to push us toward places and experiences we are meant to be.  Although, when I said I was overdue for a break from work, this was not what I had in mind!

I have only wept once during this situation, and it was not about pain or the inconveniences of my new one-handedness; it was because I miss playing guitar so much. My lovely girls, Pearl and Badessa, sit mute in their hard cases. They don’t miss my touch, but you should know I love and appreciate them so much that I kiss them after every session!  They are my confidantes, my collaborators, my oases from all of the pressures and stress of making a living and making my way in this complex world. With the girls in mind, I asked the doctor, deftly shaping my temporary cast, if moving my fingers would harm the fractures in my wrist. Happily the answer was “no.” As soon as that back slab was in place, I began gingerly forming air chords and scales with my injured hand, longing for what was temporarily impossible.

As I was leaving the hospital, the doctor ushered me to a computer station and showed me my x-rays. I felt a warm flush of thankfulness. My bones had not been displaced by my sudden, hard fall; they were healthy and strong. The doctor allowed iPhone photos of the screens; later I marveled at the smooth white structures on my x-rays, particularly the intricate bones of the hand. We are fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14).

At home and evaluating the repercussions of my injuries, another cause for concern surfaced – my dear Mother has been counting on me for the past few months.  She’s had eye surgery and cannot drive, so once a week we arrange an outing, and I take her to run errands, grocery shop and so forth.  It is never a hardship; it has been a nice opportunity for us to bond and share more than a few laughs. I knew Mom appreciated my willingness and patience, and I recognized how fortunate I was to have a loving mother.  Mom is very healthy, but she’s getting up in years, and she has given so much of her time and energy to her seven children. I wanted to do everything and anything possible for her; so, I worried about my Mom, feeling frustrated that our activities had been curtailed.  I texted my son, my adult daughters, my work contacts and called my Mom.

Yesterday evening Mom called me out of the blue – it was 9:30 p.m. and she had been thinking about me all day:  was I in pain, was I able to sleep; how was I managing. Touched by her concern, I assured her the pain was not too bad – it only hurt when I “forgot” about my broken bones and tried to use my left hand “normally.”  I told Mom that I had finally broke down and took some pain medication – just over-the-counter stuff; because I had refused any prescription pain killers at the hospital. My main reason for succumbing to pain meds was the pulled muscles and ligaments in my right leg which had given me an instant pirate swagger - that might look funny in the movies, but it is no fun in reality. I knew I needed to address that inflammation and keep my body moving. At bedtime I self-administered reiki healing; I had been doing so a few times throughout the day since the incident. I closed my eyes and focused on the pulsing sensation and heat, as directed energy passed over the areas of injury.  I imagined the bones knitting together, glowing with white light. Afterwards I was calm and sleepy – momentarily drained of mental and physical energy.  I reflected with gratitude on my Mom's concern for me and I remembered Mom telling me about a man in her small town when she was a child – he had healing hands, and a gift for setting bones.  Supported by a cloud-like network of cushions and pillows, I drifted into peaceful, comfortable sleep and dreamed of a blue cat and playing guitar.

Midnight, day two, I lay awake – more realities and practicalities were settling in.  I pondered being limited to clothes that would accommodate the bulk of a cast and which allowed for toileting – there would be no help with pants, buttons and zippers at work. What if there was an emergency at work (I work for a women’s crisis centre with limited staffing) – my right leg buckled from time to time, and my left arm was limited in range of motion and ability. I wondered if the doctor would allow me to drive to work – my return trip commute is about two hours each day; I had not considered I might not be able to legally drive with my injuries.

Morning, day three, bathing was a drawn out ritual – like trying to scrub a floor with a feather.  I still feared the shower where I slipped and fell, and so I opted for a bird bath using the sink basin, soap and washcloths. I celebrated being able to grasp my deodorant stick, only to plummet to despair when I found I could not apply adequate pressure to adequately glaze my right underarm with the product.  I satisfied myself with several feeble applications over the same area.  I thought about how hard Mom always worked and how nice she always smelled.  As a kid, I knew when she was going out somewhere special – the scent of Cover Girl face powder, hairspray and a hint of floral cologne. I awkwardly applied a little guava and peach body crème; coaxing two able fingers from my injured hand to pull their weight in the process, and taking care to massage the ligaments and muscles of my right leg. I was temporarily house-bound, but Mom would approve – I was training to "get back out there" as soon as I am able, a butterfly beating its wings against hard glass.

Trajectories

By Pam Hadder

Sometimes you clearly see the changing path ahead – a hairpin curve on a rain-slick road, the plump kitten that chooses to flop down between your moving feet, or sudden wind and hail that rustles rosy fruit from the apple trees.  Timing varies, but in these instances there is clear cause and effect laid out for us within milliseconds: slow down, step with care, and harvest what you can while you still can.

At other times our actions and thoughts are circumvented by influences we did not foresee.  Sometimes the shift ingratiates itself so subtly, that we cannot logically trace the point at which we took an unplanned turn.  These changes can be incredibly complex, and they may grow or lay dormant for many years awaiting a certain stimulus to launch to the next step. 

Whether influences simmer or spring into full bloom, we may be shocked one day to realize that our opinions or interests differ vastly from a partner, family member, friend or group.  In reality the shift started a long time ago, and we attuned ourselves to different frequencies, initiating the transformation. Yet how often have you heard that cliché “we just grew apart?"

Even in sleep we are receiving, analyzing and responding to stimuli.  It makes me wonder about people who need complete silence and darkness to rest versus those that prefer a bit of background noise and light. I am also wondering if changing my sleeping environment could have shifted my personal trajectories.  Do we undervalue the influences bombarding our sleeping bodies? How much of us is shaped while we sleep?

Reflecting on these things, I am appreciative of how time continues to improve my editing – I am more selective of how I spend my time, more appreciative of simple things, and much more keenly aware of my vulnerabilities and strengths. Life is a beautiful symphony, layered with interpersonal, environmental and purely sensory experiences, meanings, and harmonies.  Incredible richness lies in the discovery, the surprises, and the unknowns that fuel our dreams and keep us engaged and curious. But all the while, we hit the brakes, dodge kittens and grab as many apples as we can before they hit the ground.

Old Windows

By Pam Hadder

Winter is hanging on - and I’ve been kicking myself for changing all but four windows in my little war-era home. Affectionately called “the sugar cube,” the house is modest but solid, with touches of character and craftsmanship that used to be basic, but are a lost art today.

A few years back, I received a performance bonus, and used it to change out aging windows in the sugar cube, musing happily about the improvements I’d see on my heating bills – all but a small-ish bathroom window, a mid-size kitchen window and two leaded glass piano windows with harlequin-suit-like diamond panes were removed and replace.  The old windows which remain are more predictable than the weather channel - you know it’s getting cold when they fog over, and eventually form icy glaze that can transform into elaborate Jack Frost works of art – unique crystalline patterns, feathering, swirling and spreading across the hyper-chilled surfaces; never two works the same.

My old windows made me recall my young self – perhaps seven or eight years old, coming into the back entrance of the family bungalow to change out sopping wet mitts bedazzled with confounding ice nubs, and warming frozen toes by the electric baseboard heater, before returning to the snow drifts, starry night sky and fort-building.  I was rather famous (in my mind!) for my snow fort construction, including manufacture of my weapons-of-choice: double-iced snow balls!  At all times, my army of one was ready to fight off the enemy.  Of course, my warrior fantasies were only acted out in my imagination, and the ammo was never used. The stockpile would freeze to the ground in a lumpy mass – no surprise that it was the last thing to melt in March, leaving a dead spot on the lawn that my parents attributed to the dog’s “business!”

I recall dreaming about being a princess, a Spanish dancer, a cow girl and other fanciful things while staring at the frost patterns on the back door glass; seeing fanciful shapes in the intriguing abstractions. Sometimes I would drag fingernails through the frost and contribute my interpretations to the surfaces; carving and tracing my visions.  I wonder how many kids still do this?  Have they even seen Jack Frost’s paintings? Could I sell admission tickets to the daycare kids across the lane?  I am doubly blessed – windows that predict the weather and which create artistic interpretations of winter schemes.