Clear Hearing

Dear Starlight, 

My mother is visiting. Her hearing is suddenly unclear. She hears words as if they are being pushed through cotton wedged into her ears. The resulting sense she makes of words is clouded by her imagination, as she cannot hear the sharp T’s or high I’s. Additionally, her lack of hearing is causing her physical balance to be off, making her steps wobbly and uncertain. Being in her company under these new conditions is, at times, hilarious and, at other times, frustrating for us both. Luckily, she has an upcoming visit to the ear doctor.

Earlier in the week, I was rummaging around old paper files, looking for the many folders of Creativity + Courage Curriculums I had created. I’ve been wanting to revisit that body of work and make it available to other practitioners in the future. I found a box next to my filing cabinet with a red folder and an old composition journal. The folder was filled with my mother’s collection of my school reports and awards from throughout my life. The composition journal was from this exact time of year, but in 2018 when I started developing Place Corps. It was like finding an echo of myself—I could easily turn to Sept. 16th, 2018, and read my thoughts six years earlier. Eclipse energy.

What was surprising was that my internal thoughts and feelings about what I am doing—or not doing—have persisted. The doubts I named then are the doubts I name now.

A few years ago, I wrote about the snail’s whorl, the curling shell that is an annual rotation. I described how I feel as if I’ve dropped things or stopped things in my life in a way that I can pick them up again later, in another part of the whorl, in another future time.

When I look at the snail’s shell, I consider its cochlea. This is the same word for the inner ear—the small sensing organ in mammals that makes meaning from sound. Just as the cochlea helps us hear, the spiral whorl reminds me that our calling can persist through a circular journey.

I am also curious about what we describe as a “calling.” The inner sensing people have that directs them toward their unique purpose—the vibrating desire, a hum they feel within.

Thinking of my mother’s clogged hearing and how her meaning-making ability is skewed, I see a parallel with my own struggle. Just as my mother’s hearing is blocked by invisible cotton, my own calling has been muffled—clogged by capitalism, patriarchy, and trauma. For much of my life, I’ve been like her—guessing what I’m supposed to do based on what I think I’m hearing I should be doing. My calling has often been drowned out by the societal mixed messaging that artistic paths are impractical, unworthy, or destined for failure.

Digging through the red folder, I saw that every report card from kindergarten onward described my artistic talents as exceptional. Year after year, my teachers spoke of my creativity, my bent toward beauty and perfectionism, and my ability to inspire my classmates. The community around me consistently recognized my gifts. And yet, those same gifts came with contradictory messaging: “Artists are dumb, broke, disrespected... no careers there. You have to be rich to be an artist. You’re too smart to be an artist. You can be anything you want to be—except not really. You can be a mother, a wife…”

This conflicting narrative didn’t just come from the outer world—it came from my inner circles. Both my mother and grandmother were artists, yet they were ashamed to fully embrace their identities as such. They disqualified themselves as artists. My grandmother became an arts administrator and would only classify “real artists” by their technical ability and sales records. She was not a “real” artist in her eyes, nor was her daughter. Yet, my grandmother had a kiln, a weaving loom, and hundreds of abstract pen-and-ink drawings that she was embarrassed by.

This tangled messaging—has shaped my own path. Last week, in my writing, I recognized a pattern in my life: I’ve historically created spaces driven by my own desires and needs for creativity, but I end up structuring them to support others. In doing so, I’ve locked myself out of those spaces. I become the administrator, the manager, the coach, the promoter, the fundraiser, the advocate—rather than the artist. I have also done much of this work, recognizing that artists and underdogs need and deserve support, particularly misfits, women, and mothers. I also have done this work from a place of duty. I feel like I’m paying a price that will one day be paid, and in return, I will be supported and free to finally play. It’s a pattern that doesn’t fit me well and feels unbalanced.

As I turn around the whorl again, I feel a deep inner hum. It’s a hum that’s both familiar and sorrowful—a recognition that my history is repeating itself. And yet, despite the sorrow, I also feel hope.

In these past few years, I’ve begun to pull the wool out of my ears. I’ve started recognizing the sabotaging messages society has fed me, and I’m beginning to untangle my trauma-informed decisions. I’m finally hearing myself clearly.

I don’t know exactly what shape I am growing into. But I know that if I can continue to listen to my calling and trust in it, I will grow into the artist I have always been, perhaps right here in the middle of the life I have created for myself and for others.