[This piece is taken from Wishstudio: The Necklace Project. Jennifer Quinn has written a warm and moving piece. I had to share it.]
As a kid, I was thrilled to spend the entire day on my bike: creatively transforming the steel frame and the long banana seat into a time machine: riding down dirt hills that warped into Mars, zooming over flat asphalt while vocalizing a larger than life muffler. My bike could transport me to a multitude of magical places without hesitation or limitation. My bike could transcend me to extraordinary experiences without judgment or ridicule. My bike was a joyful creative practice. Exercise was an art form married to my imagination.
As a kid, I was thrilled to spend the entire day making art: painting and drawing flowers, clowns, designing houses minus bathrooms (no time for a bath when you want to be out on your bike). Making art was a joyful creative practice.
Most children love bikes and most children love art. As adults we often misplace the practice of riding a bike and/or the practice of making art. Art is viewed as childish or fun. Who has time for fun? A bicycle carries the same undertone. Exercise is viewed as an extra rather than a necessity.
Most adults only see a bike as an object to get you from here to there: a straightforward and healthy mode of transportation. Can a bike help your emotional and spiritual outlet? How I learned to ride a bike might have started in childhood but how I learned to ride a bike has taken new root. (and I am all giddy with the discovery)
Over the past 11 years, I have been given the privilege of making art with adult cancer patients. My goal is to offer a much needed distraction from the hospital environment and to offer an outlet to safely explore/express emotions. A patient can create an image of their favorite place or even a symbol of hope. When subjected to defensive statements such as, “I can’t draw a straight line”, my immediate response or rebuttal, “Great, a croaked or curvy line is far more interesting”. Making art requires taking a risk. For a cancer patient making art can give a gift of power and control.
Life happens in the curves of the road, not on the straight and narrow. Art is made with the intention to stimulate thoughts and emotions (during the process and while viewing the product). Art can channel worries, anxieties and fears into a positive outlet. When a patient makes art, they are transcending into sacred time and space where healing can occur: the clock stops, the anxiety lessens, the pain subsides. Studies have shown that making art can lower your anxiety or depression as well as increase oxygen levels and respiration.
As a working married Momma of two, creativity slips into my day unexpectedly: my job is to recognize and honor creativity’s presence: sweet morning songs for the two year old, allowing creative clothing choices for the five year old. Art embraces the heartbreaking stories I hold from cancer patients: the dying 32 year old mother who prepares to leave her grade school daughter, the elderly woman who yearns to cradle her unborn grandchild. I paint the hurt, the anger, the joy and survival. I know art. I am art. Art provides me comfort, release, hope and inspiration. Making art blends my world, providing that flat asphalt road.
This Spring I took a risk to purchase a bike: put aside my fear of not being good enough, questioning if I had what it takes to venture 50 miles down the road. Just like the risk a cancer patient takes when I ask, “Would you like to make some art?” I swallowed butterflies and put trust in those who have ridden miles ahead. For the cancer patient, art models creative problem solving. Art welcomes the patient with the opportunity to exhume their very own trust; betrayed by the body and struggling to find solid ground.
From the moment the bike wheels set in motion, I was hooked. You know that creative itch or cloud nine motivation to keep painting into the wee morning hours? I found that itch on a bike, the “get out there and ride” whisper. I regained a mode of communication that I didn’t know was missing: a childhood delight. Unearthing a playful side shelved during adult goals and hurdles, exercise and creativity have been reunited.
How I learned to ride a bike is a joyful creative practice. A bike can transcend me into sacred time and space where healing can occur: the clock stops, the anxiety lessens (the pain is only temporary: filling those lungs with fresh air, pushing muscles to do new work). I arrive home refreshed by shifted gears and better able to focus on the terrain: the crying toddler who feels misunderstood, the cancer patient who is metaphorically lost. How I learned to ride a bike has taught me to be in the moment: seeing what is presented just as it is: the climb to the top of the mountain, the tears of worry in an elder’s face. Art is in everything I do.
For The Necklace Project, I created a charm using a bicycle chain and glass beads to symbolize the marriage of art and bike. The chain symbolizes the here and now: pushing ahead pedal by pedal: consistently, confidently. I hope my patients succeed, find that giddy point within the art process to shout out “I am still here, get out there and ride” finding the point they connect to reconnecting. I hope to succeed on the road mile after mile paying attention to the scenery, honoring what is and always taking the risk to learn how to ride a bike. Who knows maybe next year, I will learn how to cook, no maybe knit.
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