Creative Connection

A life lived in black and white suddenly burst into color, thanks to the healing power of art

While I was growing up in Atchison, Kansas, my childhood was somewhat lonely. I was the youngest of five and my siblings were all significantly older, so I spent a great deal of time alone, entertaining myself with my imagination.

My mother, who was an artist, often took pity on me and invited me to paint with her. I can’t say I had much talent back then, but the act of spreading various shades of mud with a paintbrush always lifted my spirits.

Unfortunately, my childhood experience of Catholicism did not. From a very young age, I knew I was different from other kids. A type of different that was not accepted in my conservative household at the time. Try as I might, there were never enough “Our Fathers” or “Hail Marys” to pray my gay away. I hid it well on the outside, but internally I feared for my tiny soul. Underneath it all, I felt bad and impure.

As I grew older, my loneliness morphed into a dark depression. I felt completely isolated from my peers, and cruel inner voices would constantly remind me why. Unfortunately, I never had the words to describe my experience. My language always fell short or seemed inadequate. I didn’t think in words; I thought in colors. Art class became my saving grace. The 40 minutes I spent in that class each day was the only time I felt normal or experienced any sort of connection.

Facing Down Depression and Identity

At 21, my depression hit a record low. My father suffered a heart attack that caused a traumatic brain injury and severe heart damage, my boyfriend/best friend at the time dumped me so he could spread his wings at art school, and I was in the process of coming to terms with my sexual orientation. I felt devastatingly alone.

No words could ever do that kind of pain justice, and the color that saturated my thoughts and feelings was a dark midnight blue that quickly faded to gray.

On a particularly cold February night, I picked a fight with my ex and justified drinking one too many. I was belligerently outraged at the entire world and no longer wanted to be part of it. I methodically drew a bath and began to cut into my arm—until, that is, the hot water suddenly ran out and the faucet began to pour freezing water into the tub.

Dying alone seemed depressing enough, but to die cold and alone seemed unbearable. I stopped cutting and went to bed, and shortly afterward, my siblings discovered what happened and took me to the hospital.

There, they gave me two choices: outpatient treatment or inpatient psych ward. Thinking I could outsmart the system, I negotiated outpatient treatment but insisted on being able to see an art therapist. The profession was still somewhat rare at that time, but, to my surprise, the social worker found two art therapists in my area.

No words could ever do that kind of pain justice, and the color that saturated my thoughts and feelings was a dark midnight blue that quickly faded to gray.

Drawing Myself Alive Again

Art therapy saved my life. For the first time, I could express everything that was locked in my Pandora’s box of a brain with someone else who could understand it fluently. That was a miracle in and of itself, but the real miracle was the transformation that happened internally because of this.

I began creating art outside of therapy. Sometimes I did it just for me, and sometimes I did it to share my story with others.

When I created just for me, I would grab the closest charcoal or pastel and go into a meditative trance. My problems would instantaneously lessen, and I experienced a clarity on life that was almost divine. Making art became my private communion with my higher power. When a heavy problem or thought began to weigh on me, I used art as a tool to communicate with others. When I would reach a breakthrough in therapy or felt a need to express how something affected me, for example, I could visually document it instead of talking about it. This gave anyone I shared my art with a chance to see my innermost thoughts and feelings. They might not understand what I was expressing as clearly as my art therapist had, but they would feel something—and to feel with someone else is one of the greatest gifts we as humans can give each other.

Inspired by the power of art and by my own transformation, I decided to pursue my master’s degree in art therapy.

In graduate school I learned just how life-changing art can be. I witnessed an at-risk teenager who was quiet and unsure on her first day of art class eventually find her confidence—and earn a potential art school scholarship.

I watched a group of addicts use art to grieve the parts of themselves that no longer served their sobriety, staying clean for another night.

I observed domestic violence survivors use art to create a safe space to process their trauma, using images when the words were too difficult to speak out loud.

Most important, studying art therapy helped me realize that art is a language we all can speak and understand—even people who don’t think they have much artistic talent. Art helps connect us.

[S]tudying art therapy helped me realize that art is a language we all can speak and understand—even people who don’t think they have much artistic talent. Art helps connect us.

Unity: Call It Kismet

The eventual death of my father left me in a sacred slump. I still had my beliefs, but I stopped feeling God.

Spiritually speaking, it was like eating bland, low-sodium chicken noodle soup when you have a terrible head cold and can’t taste anything anyway. I began to resent anything or anyone that remotely smelled of religion. The word faith became more offensive to me than the f-word. Prayer was worthy of an eye roll. I even lost my zeal for art.

As someone with a history of depression, I was alarmed, to say the least, at losing my greatest coping mechanism. I began to look for something—anything—to grab on to.

I can’t remember how I initially heard about Unity, but I remember driving around the Village campus and wondering what it would be like to be a part of it—whatever it was. Was Unity a church? A spiritual school? A business? I began to do some research.

As it turns out, the answer to all of those questions was yes (and then some). I was immediately attracted to the openness I found in Unity. The lack of black-and-white, right-versus-wrong dogma was refreshing. I loved that Unity was spiritual, but not religious. Though I was not ready to start going to services, Unity seemed like the work environment I wanted and needed.

Like a crazed stalker, I began to check the Unity job postings weekly—both those at Unity Worldwide Ministries and Unity World Headquarters. Finally, after months of checking, a graphic design position opened at the ministries.

I will never forget my interview. As soon as introductions were made and we shook hands, the interviewer asked if I would be comfortable praying with them. Insert record scratch. They want me to do what? At an interview no less?

Thankfully, I had a poker face, and the level of calm I felt despite being interviewed for a job astonished me.

After I was hired, it was not long before I felt as if I were part of a family. Everyone was so welcoming. For the first time, I felt as if I belonged. As I dove deeper into the Unity beliefs, I realized I shared the same understanding of higher power and Truth.

Even in my most devout time of being a Catholic, I didn’t think it made sense for God to be some old dude in the clouds. Nor did I understand why perfect, innocent babies were at risk of going anywhere other than paradise if they died without being baptized.

When I begin a new project, my first question is always, Who will see this? … Then I ask the same question I asked myself years ago when I first learned I could use art to communicate: How can I give them what they need without saying a word?

When I read Unity minister Ellen Debenport’s The Five Principles: A Guide to Practical Spirituality (Unity Books, 2009), I felt as if she had written it for me—especially since she made valid points delivered in the type of irreverent tone that matched my sense of humor perfectly.

The book addressed several things I had struggled with. If God is omnipotent, why wouldn’t that include me? Like all humankind, I am innately good. I finally had a solid argument for those persistent inner voices that had dogged me from childhood.

I had found my community of like-minded weirdos, and it was clear that I wasn’t alone. My sacred slump was officially dissipating.

Illustrating a Message

A renewal of one’s faith is a wonderful gift—one that needs to be shared.

I began to wonder, How many other people are there like me who crave spiritual connection but don’t know where to start looking? How can I reach out to them?

Now working in the Communications Department at Unity World Headquarters, I am motivated to visually inspire people to feel more connected and less alone.

When I begin a new project, my first question is always, Who will see this?

Then I try to imagine all the different scenarios. Will it be someone who is joyful and wants to celebrate? Or someone who just suffered a great loss and needs comfort? Maybe it’s a community that needs a little more empathy and a little less thoughts and prayers.

Then I ask the same question I asked myself years ago when I first learned I could use art to communicate:

How can I give them what they need without saying a word?

This article, designed by Laura Carl, was a 2020 Folio: Ozzie Award winner.