In Seattle, the Chihuly Garden and Glass Museum showcases the Wonderland-worthy creations of master glass artist Dale Chihuly. Glass is my favorite art medium, and so I wandered the halls and gardens like a spellbound Alice, transported and awestruck, photographing nearly every corner of the place.
At my favorite indoor exhibit, the glass, beautifully lit as it seemingly floated in a narrow wooden canoe, its texture a contrast to the slick glass and mirrored floor, called to my heart. The vibrant color juxtaposed against the sea and walls of black, the sparkle and sheen of the glass, I loved it. It felt so clear, so clean.
Glass is heated to a temperature of over 1,000 degrees Fahrenheit so that the artist can shape it, whether into orbs, spirals, or vases. Only in extreme heat can the master artisan mold beauty. Here lately, I’ve felt the fire of stress and isolation, inertia and closeness torching the lies I tell myself about who I really am. I’ve endured a couple of rough patches as anxiety and the constant close quarters of seven humans in my formerly serene home do a number on my mental health. I talk a big talk about peace, serenity, and loving one’s self. But circumstances and the people I love, who love me too, are burning away the filters, impurities, the need to self-flagellate, the pattern of lies I tell myself.
It’s impossible, apparently, to be quarantined together for six weeks without some truths floating to the surface.
So, moving forward, I am going to write my truth. Perhaps poetic, hopefully crafted beautifully, poignant truth about walking the path of restoration from trauma. I’ve come to that place in my journey, that fork-in-the-river where I decide: do I follow the stream I know, the one made clear by my damaged family history, or do I choose the uncharted? I’m ready to climb into my own canoe, surround myself with clarity and reflection, and do the work of making art of my soul.