Healing from Creativity Wounds
There are voices we never forget.
One I can still hear in my mind is the voice of my childhood dance instructor. Clad in drab-colored leotards and leg warmers, she flits breathlessly about the room, smacking buttocks with a rolled-up newspaper. Little girls in skirts and tights swish their ribbons and banners in unison, as part of the “worship dance” class.
“And one-and-two-and-three—stretch your feet! And-five-and-six-and—Kayla! Do something about that posture!”
Mrs. Mince, a former ballerina suffering from the beginning stages of Multiple Sclerosis, led a dance troupe tasked with fronting the church’s outreach program. We’d go into the mall, set up a stage, and perform something that would draw a crow do linger. Then someone would go around and advertise for the church. That would explain why our pastor sat in on every dance practice, offering “constructive criticism” to Mrs. Mince on our performance.
As nine-to-thirteen-year-olds, we were the face of Salt and Light Church. Every move had to be perfect.
“Tuck in your derriere!” Mrs. Mince smacked my behind as she sauntered past. “I could have a tea party on that.”
Almost everyone can identify a time in their life when they created something messily beautiful. The child who paints her mother a smiling sun with vampire-like teeth is as proud of her creation as the artist splashing paint on a canvas that will go on to sell for millions. But more often than not, something happens between crude scribbles of joy pinned to the family fridge and the career in fine art that damaged their self-confidence. Someone in their life shamed their expression related to writing, art, music or performing arts.
Creativity “Wounds”
Brené Brown, research professor for University of Houston and well-known inspirational speaker, calls these instances “creativity scars.” Perhaps the shamer meant well. They felt their feedback would goad the artist to making their expression a better, more perfect representation of real life. But the way that feedback was delivered produced shame around that person’s creativity, drove them into the closet so to speak. When people feel shame, they shut down and cease their expression. Unused creativity “metastasizes,” causing misery and self-destructiveness instead of joy. (2012, Brene Brown, Daring Greatly).
Art for Art’s Sake
Despite the rigorous standards, I loved the way dancing made me feel more alive. When my favorite songs came on, I would leap and twirl around in my pajama pants, bending and swaying like a graceful willow tree. Dance classes themselves were stressful, but they gave me the skills to express myself. I memorized every move to keep in sync with my classmates, focusing on my turnout, arm position and the graceful dip of the wrist like our lead ballerina had. Dance became a metaphor for joy in my life.
When it came time for our dance troupe to perform the routine we’d slaved over for three months, only three girls were picked to perform it. I was not one of those three.
It was a devastating blow. Up until then, I hadn’t thought of myself as an object on display—a thing to be measured as Good, Best, or Not Good Enough. We had all worked on the dance together. We all wanted to dance. Even the little five-year-old, who held her arms stiffly overhead like the plastic ballerina that twirled in my jewelry box.
I watched with a growing tickle of envy as the three girls chosen for recital danced our song while I sat on the sidelines. They were good—better than me—and their technique was flawless. I took mental notes, studying the way their bodies flowed from one move into the next.
No matter how much I was determined to be as good as them, or even better, no one ever did pick me to be part of the church’s living, breathing human advertisement. I remained in the choir, the mobile backdrop, the flag-holder. The thing that I loved ended up leaving me feeling stifled and sad, like a child having their drawing ripped up. I eventually quit dancing, questioning why I came. I clearly didn’t have the body for it, or the talent, or something. I still wanted to dance, but I never thought of myself as a dancer.
“Just because we didn’t measure up to some standard of achievement doesn’t mean that we don’t possess gifts and talents that only we can bring to the world. Just because someone failed to see the value in what we can create or achieve doesn’t change its worth or ours.” – Brene Brown
Healing
In college, as part of my Creative Movement class, I had the opportunity to create a group dance routine with four of my classmates. It was a struggle to stay in sync, an after each practice session everyone went home exhausted, complaining that they were “not good at this.” I couldn’t help but remember my childhood dance class, and the night I threw my ballet shoes in a corner and stomped on them, proclaiming myself “not a real dancer.”
In an effort to foster equity, I had the idea of working in a “solo” for each member of our group to show off their particular skill. The results surprised me. Each person came out of their shell—whether that was with graceful interpretive ballet moves, or spinning on their elbow over a cardboard box. Suddenly there was no gatekeeper telling them what was correct, and who was a “real dancer” and who wasn’t.
Not everybody may be destined for Broadway, or create a New York Times bestseller, or have their painting valued at a million dollars, but that doesn’t mean your creativity has nothing to offer the world. Whether it is perfect or not, your expression matters, because you matter.
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