by Mary Clifford Morrell
“Creativity - like human life itself - begins in darkness,” writes Julia Cameron, in the “Artist’s Way.”
Certainly, the darkness of the past year and a half is proof of that, with both adults and children struggling to find a way to not lose their sense of security, purpose, and passion in a unique time of isolation.
Many are finding, as we emerge into the light, that there is still work to be done to confront the residual anxiety, grief, and fear.
The simple and profound act of creating may serve as meaningful support for many. It helped me tremendously.
When my dad died unexpectedly, leaving me to care for my terminally ill mom, my emotional life started on a downhill spiral. I had six sons at home, all at different stages of maturity or lack thereof, I worked full-time and was trying to finish grad school.
As an only child shouldering the final arrangements for my dad, grieving was put on hold as I also made plans to take my mom home with me to live out her days with her family.
It required a year off from grad school, relying heavily on the wonderful team from Haven Hospice and cooperation from all my sons and husband. Still, I found myself slipping. I knew I had to do something to maintain my emotional health.
My lifeboat came in the form of the parish choir.
Actually, it was not my idea to join. It so happened that, on one particular Sunday, I brought my grief, frustration, and fear to church and gave God an earful – because I knew God could take it and I needed to give it. I demanded of God, “Just how do you expect me to handle all this?”
Immediately, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a very tall and handsome man smiling at me. He said, “You should join the parish choir.”
Seriously? I thought, directing my irritation to God. That’s your solution? One more thing to do?
Not wanting to be rude to the gentleman, I replied sheepishly, “You think so?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “You have a lovely voice. I can take you up to the choir director and introduce you. She’s up there playing the organ.”
Jerome and his wife, Pat, both choir members, would become good friends, as would many of the other choir members I would meet and sing with over the next 25 years.
I discovered singing was a way for me to create something beautiful, and my new choir friends were a lifeline to care, compassion, and presence that I have turned to frequently over the years for support, especially when singing was no longer possible because of the pandemic.
There are few among us who haven’t been knocked down by a crisis, but not everyone is fortunate to have the kind of support that is needed to get back up. Sometimes you have to create your own support network.
Music and singing are powerful tools of transformation, but the same can be said of all creative endeavors—art, dancing, writing, gardening, cooking, jewelry making, carpentry, recycling trash into sculptures, whatever moves your soul. The human person was designed to create, and when we do we find the piece, or pieces, that make us whole.
This can be incredibly healing for children, as well as adults, especially when they have been deprived of physical interaction with friends and family. Creating is an outlet for wounded emotions, and an opportunity to develop a sense of accomplishment and pride in their own creations.
I am continually inspired by my grandchildren when I hear them say, “Look what I made!” I also keep a favorite quote from author and creator, Austin Kleon, on my desk as a frequent reminder to nurture my creative spirit: “In my experience, it's in the act of making things and doing our work that we figure out who we are. You're ready. Start making stuff.”
Mary Regina Morrell, mother of six and grandmother to nine, is a Catholic journalist, author, and syndicated columnist who has served the dioceses of Metuchen and Trenton, New Jersey, and RENEW International in the areas of catechesis and communication.