“Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain…”
Macbeth, Act V, scene iii
It has been three weeks since I last posted. I am not sure where they went, and I am not sure what all of my reasons for it where…
In those three weeks, I have survived a hurricane, discovered hard truths, lived through nightmares, and lost a mentor.
I am battered, friends. There are wounds all over my soul, some deep, some light, some acid-laden.
In those three weeks, though, I have also written poetry, painted pictures, crafted stories, and sung with the saints.
Art is healing.
The act of creation stems directly from the soul, and the soul is healed thereby. It hurts more to sing the hymns when you are grieved; to lay bare those wounds before God and the world–but it is the hurt that heals. Your notebooks may be tearstained, you may write your poems in jerky cursive, your pictures may be darker than what you customarily draw–but you heal.
It is also healing to be the recipient and not the originator of art. To listen to those grieving with you, to read, to see, to be touched.
Art is communal. And therefore does it heal.