Meet Miss Esther.
In all honesty, my 20s were super tough. I lived a dissonance between the life I had grown up believing that I “should” have, (an expectation fueled, perpetuated, and reinforced by the culture I lived in), and the life I actually encountered as I set about “growing up” in the world. Many events that occurred I had not chosen willingly, in fact, would have never picked, and yet, these were the cards I was dealt.
In hindsight, and with age, it is much easier to see that I did not have as much control over the proceedings of my life as I had grown up believing I did, and that the older I got, the less I knew. There could never be a one sized fits all pattern for everyone to follow. It was ALL the experiences (both the pleasurable and the painful ones) that fully shaped the person I am today. Despite it all, I wouldn’t have wanted it to be otherwise.
5 things that helped me stay real in my 20’s
Saying YES to new experiences:
(even if they felt scary)
In my 20’s I said a lot of YES, and quite enthusiastically. Many jobs and opportunities were offered and without thinking too much, I’d just jump right in. Once I answered an ad on a bulletin board asking for volunteers for a puppet group, never having done that before but liking the idea. A month later, I found myself working as a fairy and granting people wishes at Glastonbury music festival (a very noble endeavour). I even made it to the front page of the Daily Telegraph.
You can imagine though, that saying YES didn’t always turn out so well. Sometimes it was clear that I was out of my league within the first few minutes. Like being employed last minute in a nursing home and having to cook steak and kidney pie for 100 residents in less than 3 hours, never ever having worked in a commercial kitchen before and being a vegetarian… Or taking a job as a waitress only to find myself unable to balance the wobbly tray on my fingers, and dropping a round of drinks in a customer’s lap on my first shift.
Despite the embarrassment at times, I learned to think fast and figure it out quickly, and to improvise (this is hands down one of the most important skills to have). I made a lot of mistakes, asked questions, failed, fumbled, looked really stupid sometimes AND…
I also acquired a lot of experience, met people from many different walks of life, and learned to laugh at myself (humour comes in handy when you are in tough situations). Saying YES also awakened me to the benefits of service, that giving to others was just as important, if not more so.
When I got accepted into art school, my first year of the program was spent coping with an activated fight/flight response in my body, daily. My heart raced, my palms sweaty, I had an anxious shake to my walk, and probably looked like a twitchy rabbit on my best days. It was the kind of fear that just made me want to run, fast and far away (this same fear also surfaces whenever I embark on any creative project even today). At art school, I felt like a fraud. Everyone else there was so cool and artsy; they were talented hipsters that drew (what could be more intimidating!). The thing is being artistic was something that I aspired to be. I knew I was very creative and this is what I longed to do, but I felt like I was a pathetic scribble in their presence.
Despite the fear, I stayed. By saying YES I came to know that learning often happens when you aren’t good at something. Learning is the dangerous uncertainty that occurs when you step out of your comfort zone, often initiated with a sometimes un- thought-out, but enthusiastic, YES.
2. Talk to everyone. And then, listen.
I grew up like many immigrant kids in suburban Toronto in the ‘70’s: between two cultures, yet an outsider to both. I grew up speaking a ‘borrowed’ language; English was not my first, or second, and yet is what I speak most comfortably today. Hearing the various intonations of English being spoken around me, the dialects and interpretations from those stumbling with the language of a new place, I developed a good ear and an interest for listening. I could hear what was being said, and also what wasn’t. My uncle, who moved to New York city after being a famous pop singer in the Old Country once told me that it is better to have 100 friends than $100. I believed him. He would speak to everyone, and being with him you could say that the whole city of New York felt like one large
extended family as he made his way around the town.
Everyone has a story to tell, and for the most part, likes telling it. All you have to do is ask, and then listen. The more languages that you can speak, the easier it is to do this. I have met so many people who have brightened my world, because I was genuinely interested in what they had to say and took the time to speak with them. Sometimes these people would become friends, or would help me out. Sometimes I had something that could be of service to them.
Talking to people makes the world bigger, friendlier, and much more fun.
3. Asking for help (before there was Google):
This is easier if you have already done #2.
I would like you to imagine a time, oh not so long long ago, when people lived without the ability to type in any sort of question on a keyboard, and have within a fraction of a second, a plethora of answers of which to contend with. When a problem or question arose (and there were still many of those in my time), there was no youtube tutorial or handy app, or 10 easy steps of HOW TO. Most of the time you were left to the quiet recesses of your mind, your wondering about it, AND to find answers you had to actively engage yourself in the world. In my time, books were important, but you also relied on your senses, your ability to observe and figure out, try, fail and repeat.
BUT more importantly, it was essential to have good people around to help and who you could ask. I would be the first to admit when I didn’t know something and I would ask, “who could help me?” and then begin my search. It is a dangerous myth that you can do it on your own, or that it is more admirable to do so. What I found is that it can be much more meaningful to work in and with the company of others. There are just many more stories to tell.
AND… I could not write this today without expressing the immense gratitude for the many teachers who I have had the good fortune of studying with. Much of my learning, an unpaved, irregular and at times, treacherous path, took place in both formal and informal environments, indoors and outside, with people younger and older than I, as well as animal and plant teachers. Some of my teachers were still living and some had died before I met them; their legacy continued in the forms of their words, art, and poetry. They came from a variety of different disciplines and traditions, informed by diverse philosophies of encountering life. Their passion for the craft awakened in me the devotion to spend countless hours listening in their midst. It is by virtue of witnessing their patience, dedication, their ability to stand by their teachings, and most importantly their deep unwavering love for the work, that I can be here today, fashioned in their likeness.
4. Life is a gift, not a privilege or a right.
For some of you it can be difficult when you are in your 20’s to fathom how fragile life is. You have been told that the road ahead is supposed to be long, the promise of your whole life is ahead of you and your potential is something to strive for developing. You run up against the need to produce and prove yourself, create goals and aspirations, not waste any time, and you are fed with the promise that something great will occur when you tick off all the boxes on your mythical to-do list. I was there once too.
For others, and I would consider you the luckier ones, the limits of life have made themselves known to you much earlier, and so life is foreshadowed with the actuality of its ending. My encounters with death through my earlier life were real, and not abstracted as a cool new age idea of transition or growth. When I was 16 I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, which resurfaced on two other occasions later in my life. This led me to pursue an interest in plants and natural modes of healing. At 18, I moved to England to study herbal medicine in the UK. When I was 23, my younger brother Sasha died. Other friends of mine had also died “young”.
Admitting the reality of death was a hard and lonely pill to swallow amongst a culture that denied its existence at all costs. I began working in palliative care and in nursing homes, attending to people in their dying days. With my colleague Karen, we initiated a textile and story-telling project called Collecting Loss: Weaving Threads of Memory (www.collectingloss.com) to address the lack of discussion about death. This project served to remember loved ones who died, creating a collective fabric with their clothing and their stories, and a gathering place for grief.
I started meditating daily after I had my last thyroid surgery, when I lost my voice for 6 months. My voice did come back, and the meditation I never stopped. This led me to study kundalini yoga and immerse myself in yogic philosophy. My morning practice (sadhana) is what I return to day after day. It teaches me the skills of showing up, staying present with whatever emerges, and that there is a way through every block. Each morning I express my gratitude for the day that I am on the receiving end of.
And I attempt to live it wisely.
5. Art is food and you need to eat good food. Daily.
When I enrolled in art school I was in my mid-twenties, I had graduated from a science degree, with a toddler on my hip and another baby on the way. At 23, I was a new mom, I was grieving the recent death of my brother, and needless to say, I felt pretty lost in the world. Swimming against the current, all my friends were getting jobs or building careers or travelling the world, while I was fully immersed in the routine of looking after a young child, like most new parents, sleep deprived and plagued daily with not knowing what I was doing but somehow managing to figure it out anyways.
What I did know, and what I felt deep in my bones was that I needed to make art. When I began I had no idea where that longing would take me. At art school I had a chance to explore many different media, learn techniques, try out different projects, but mostly, I had a chance to play. It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.
I was drawn to the materials that I liked working withand with time, practice, and dedication, my hands gradually fell into the rhythm of the work.
The art came first, the therapy later. Art was the means by which I began to re-learn myself, and the world. I could sit with the depths of my grief, as well as the exaltation of my joy, in their full intensity. From this place I could create, and allow something honest to come forth. I could connect to others in a meaningful way.
When I came to study art therapy at Concordia years later, it was after many years of apprenticing with the creative process. In my 20’s I learned firsthand that art is not a luxury, or something that you put aside to do in your spare time. It is an essential part of life, as important as food.