When pain becomes beauty
Some of the most brilliant artists in the world made their most incredible work because of their pain.
The most beautiful music — the kind that reaches into your chest and pulls something out of you — came through people who were channeling emotion they couldn't contain any other way. The most iconic clothing was designed by people who never fit into anything. The most magical art was created during the roughest, most devastating seasons of the artist's life.
But we don't celebrate that part.
We celebrate weddings and baby showers and promotions. We celebrate love and success and the highlight reel. We don't tend to put a spotlight on the hard things. We don't honor the darkness as the birthplace of the beauty.
Think about one of your favorite movies. There's struggle in it. One of my favorites of all time is Finding Nemo — a story that opens with Nemo's mom and all of his siblings being killed. And then a grand adventure of hardship, frustration, and a rollercoaster of ups and downs begins. We love that story. We just don't love living it.
Most of our lives, we look at the positives as good and the negatives as bad. But very few of us look at the hardship as the most influential part of our story — until we're out of it.
Front Row Seats
I've been sitting on this road trip, truly blessed by everything that's shown up, so I can get very clear about who I'm becoming. It isn't lost on me that I'm walking through some of the darkest moments of my entire life while simultaneously experiencing some of the most beautiful wonder and joy I've ever felt.
I am not financially in a place to be doing this. I don't understand what's coming next after I get home. But as I was driving into Yellowstone to meet my uncle — someone I've rarely spent time with over the course of my forty-five years — I noticed something truly amazing.
Everything was falling into place exactly as it was meant to. Because I stopped trying to control it. I stopped trying to make things right and wrong. I stopped trying to make things good and bad.
We entered the park on one of the quietest days of the year. After Easter. Before Memorial Day. All the kids still in school. A Monday morning. The weather was perfect. And it was as if we had the entire park to ourselves.
At each stop, we had front row seats to the gorgeousness of this place. Every angle. Every height. We even got to see Old Faithful from the mountain above instead of standing next to it, thanks to a spontaneous uphill hike we decided to do at the last moment. Multiple times we thanked President Roosevelt for saving this grand park. Multiple times we stood in silence, just looking.
As we listened to music and cried and laughed and shared stories of our lives, we realized how much the two of us had lived such parallel experiences. This half uncle of mine, only eight years older than me, and this beautiful scenery we got to experience together for the first time — it was exactly what both of us needed without either of us knowing it.
The Darkness Makes the Art
If I think back to some of the darkest moments I've ever experienced, I can also see some of the lightest moments inside of them. Not because it was easy. Not because I bypassed the pain. But because I was willing to look at the truth of it: I had to walk through the darkness in order to find my light.
Roosevelt had to fight to save Yellowstone for future generations. These hardest moments — the ones I felt I would barely survive — would become some of the most brilliant parts of myself.
Poets and musicians and painters and fashion designers and authors and filmmakers and singer-songwriters — they're all here to help us feel something. But we forget that art is all around us all the time. This beautiful earth we stand on every day is something we've become so disconnected from. We've built houses and jobs and cars and bars and churches that keep us inside — rather than sitting in the awe and wonder of what's already here.
That's what all of these beautiful artists remind us of. That we have the art inside of us. That we are the art. That this creation we see is actually a part of us. That everything around us is a reflection of what's inside.
I read a quote by Mark Nepo recently that is summed up by saying:
"I am not my name. I am not my job. I am not my titles. I am the flame of life inside this human body."
That's it. That's the whole thing.
We are using all of our emotions to experience the beauty of life. None of them are wrong. None of them are bad. All of it is just what it is — the experience of being alive. And that experience allows us to tell the story of who we are and connect with every person we meet.
Your Art
So the next time you're walking through the darkness — the next time something feels unbearable and you're convinced it will break you — I want you to remember: this is just art.
You are both the artist and the art. And you can create it however you choose. Because it's up to you.
As I continue this road trip through some of the most stunning places in this country, I keep reminding myself that all of this is just part of the bigger plan. The more I surrender to the will of the universe, the less frustrated and angry I am. The more hopeful I become. The more loving I become.
And since my only job is to love, I will make that my art.
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