Back in the Chrysalis: Grief in Color (Offering 10.4)
When art becomes a way through the hurt.
In this offering, grief moves through two channelsâmy studio and my community. Painting becomes a way to hold what feels unbearable, and climate grief rises into view through the voices of young people who refuse to look away.
(If youâre new to Eclosion: An Artistâs Path to Power and Peace, start at the beginning. Or visit my Memoir Hub for a full table of contents with links.)
Grief in Color
âMamaâs tears tasted like sea water.â
Vermillion by The Waifs
Music has always been a core component of my experienceâof my identity. I remember lying in bed as a child, Guns and Roses flowing through the floor vent from my older sisterâs room as she played âSweet Child Oâ Mineâ over and over again. My brother listened to death metal, giving me my first recording of DRâfull of inappropriate lyrics I can still recite by heart. In high school, in the late â90s, in Bismarck, North Dakota, a friend introduced me to the music coming out of Olympia, Washington. Through the Riot Grrrl movement, I discovered music that changed my life: Heavens to Betsy, Sleater Kinney, Bikini Kill, Bratmobile, and so many others. They fueled my early transformation, exploring feminism, racism, and social change through righteous anger.
In sobriety, I had to let go of much of my righteous angerâas a recovering alcoholic, stewing in anger, righteous or not, is a dangerous place for me to be.
Now though, I was deep in grief. One of the places I took this grief was to my studio, where I scheduled three evenings a week to paint, after Seren went to bed.
This studio time looked different than it ever had before. In recent years, most of my paintings were uplifting, transformative in the realm of claiming and reclaiming the power of the divine feminine. It had been a long time since I painted myself ripping my heart open with the pain of vulnerability.
Over the previous couple of years, I discovered so much amazing musicâmusic that was transformative and positive, that I could groove to while I painted. I began incorporating music into my studio time in an entirely new way. In each session I dropped into my body through drumming and singing. I sang a few songs ritualistically, including âInto the Wildâ by Shylah Ray Sunshine and âWe Riseâ by Batya Levine. They were anthems to claim my power, to transform our world. They were words I needed to hear, and more so, words I needed to say.
To this day, âInto the Wildâ is a favorite song for me and Seren to sing together. I would drum. I would sing. After a while, I would paint. In my grief, my entire color palette shiftedâfrom warm to cool, from light to dark.
The new painting series I was working on came to me while on a run. I literally ran back to my studio, images of the earth crying, and the seas rising flickering through me. My pencil flew across the paper as I started to sketch. The Universe gifted me a creative outlet to cope with my fear and grief. The series is called Sea Level Rise: The Motherâs Tears. In it, a womanâthe Earth, the Mountains, the Sea, the Motherâlies weeping on the horizon. Her tears enter the sea, causing it to rise and drown her sorrows. This is her grief, her fear, her healing, her love. The earth is on fire, and she drowns the flames in her tears.
When working on these paintings, alone in my studio at night, I somehow transcended the fear and overwhelm that were my constant those days. I was lifted out of my worries. At the same time, the creative process allowed me to move through emotions brought on not only by the crisis my family was facing, but the global climate crisis.
The grief I was painting didnât belong to me alone. It was of fire, of floodsâof a world unraveling before my eyes. The act of painting kept me present, moving me forward one brushstroke at a time.
Climate Grief
As I painted my grief at home, I was still working with the Thurston Climate Action Team. TCAT was where the Chrysalis Project began, and I was their Lead Artist and Community Engagement Expertâoften working with young people, supporting their climate clubs and actions.
The Thurston Youth Climate Coalition reached out that spring, asking for support for their upcoming protest. They needed paint and brushes to make signs, something I could easily provide. Iâd worked with most of them before, a few during the Chrysalis Project. I was continually impressed with the creative actions they were taking for the climateâactions with specific and doable steps for our community and local governments.
After dropping off the art supplies, I interviewed the students about their work as climate activists to help promote their upcoming action. Iâll never forget our conversation. One activist shared that adults often told her how much she inspired them. Her response: âWe arenât doing this to be cute or inspiring. We are doing it because we donât feel we have any other options. We are genuinely terrified about this.â
Another talked about the mental health crisis that climate change was causing.[1] âWhen I learned about the climate crisis, I was suicidal for months. Having community and taking action together is the best way to come to terms with the climate crisis. To acknowledge the problem and do something about it.â What she was describingâclimate griefâwas heartbreakingly familiar.[2] Iâd heard versions of it from other young people, too.
Still another showed how much they already knew about the problem. âGetting involved in climate action can get you out of your bubble. Then youâre exposed to the fact that there are solutions that we can implement now. We have the technology. We have the money. What we lack is the political will. We are here to push our elected officials to have that courage.â
Creating art collaboratively is one of the biggest gifts the universe has given me. I love facilitating groups through the creative process, from design conception to art installation. But what keeps me coming back is the transformation. Itâs the aha moment. The light in someoneâs eyes when they get it. Seeing others take that light into their own hands and share it is extraordinary. I couldnât help but be inspired by those students, even knowing thatâs not what they wantedâall they needed from me was some paint. They had the rest of it. My heart warmed with pride seeing them use creativity in a way that supported their own well-being while showing the rest of us what courage and community looks like.
Stepping into my studio to paint Sea Level Rise: The Motherâs Tears was a much more solitary experienceâone that required an entirely different type of vulnerability. I was trying to do something with paint that I hadnât done before, and it took many attempts before I painted the one painting where my vision fully came to life. I kept returning again and again to following my curiosity.
What if I put this brush stroke here? How about if I add leaf stamps in this way? This work was incredibly personal, and my old fears would sometimes creep in. Itâs just me after all, with my paints, brushes, and canvases. And music, of course, always music. Sometimes, though, like when I received the ideas for this painting series, I know Iâm not alone, and that is pure magic.
[1] According to the American Psychological Association, two-thirds of young people today are experiencing climate grief. https://www.apa.org/monitor/2021/03/ce-climate-change
[2] Climate grief is the emotional response to the loss and anticipated loss of ecosystems, cultural practices, identities, and landscapes due to environmental changes and degradation. https://www.climateandmind.org/what-is-climate-grief
Where do you put your griefâso it can move, instead of staying trapped?