Healing Through Arts

The Family by Andi Seals Art comes in many forms–painting, drawing, dramatic presentation, song, poetry, and storytelling. It can be used to inspire, to encourage, to capture beauty, and to entertain. But, for the artist, it can also be a way to heal, a way to move forward when you feel completely paralyzed. That is the part of my journey that I want to share with you: how I found comfort and healing through artistic expression. When my husband Danny ( singer-songwriter known to many as Dan Seals ) passed away from cancer, I suffered an unimaginable sense of loss and grief. I had no idea how to process or even express my emotions, how to cope and go on with a life that had changed dramatically, how to live a life that was “we” but now is just “me.” I traveled, I moved, I consulted psychics, psychologists, grief groups, joined clubs, took classes, taught classes, spent time with friends and family, and produced art for two major art shows. And yet, I could not escape the pain that I felt, the emptiness. I thought all of these activities would be very effective in helping me move through my grief more quickly. I was trying to be a good griever, running toward being healthy again. But, somewhere along that journey, I realized that I was actually trying to run away from the pain, to be too busy to notice. Moon Flowers by Andi Seals When I finally stopped running and came home, I remembered that I had been keeping a journal, writing my story, documenting my feelings. When I sat on the couch in silence, it occurred to me that my journals, my scattered notes of my thoughts and experiences, my paintings, my art, were opening doors of understanding, giving me clarity and helping me process what was happening to me and around me. When I realized it was serving me well, helping me face my pain rather than run from it, I decided to put it into my first book, A Crocus in Winter , that addressed the harsh reality of my husband’s illness and passing, and my efforts in learning to cope with my agony. Over the next several years, I continued adding to my story, and I still do. It has always been a part of who I am. I hadn’t travelled in quite a while when I came across an art course being offered in California. I had taken online courses with this artist before so I knew it would be valuable. And it was! I learned a lot about contemporary business practices, and the value of sharing my work on social media. But most of all, I was confirmed not only in identifying myself as an artist, but in recognizing myself as a work of art as well. Seeing my way of being as worthy of my artistry was new for me. Acknowledging how integral creativity is to who I am, I returned home and converted my bedroom into a studio, making the guest room my bedroom instead. Why should I relegate my greatest joy to an inconvenient corner when I could give it space and easy access? The studio is now full of finished work and pieces in various stages. It is colorful, comfortable, and inspiring. But this was more than just a “space.” It was a safe haven to paint, to write, to dream, and to pray. I will never underestimate the power of prayer in producing art, and in overcoming challenges in trying to produce my best work. Abdu’l-Baha said, “When your fingers grasp the paintbrush it is as though one wert at prayer.” During the years that followed, I began to notice and appreciate the simple occurrences in my daily life—such as a butterfly on my shoulder–that would trigger memories, that would allude to things that only Danny would know about. Others may call it coincidence. But for me, I began to understand that this was a real, a true and inexplicable connection with him in the next world. Once I became aware of these moments of connection, I realized they had been happening all along. But I had been too busy to notice. Now I take the time to savor them. And that’s how the real healing began. It was those moments, those gems, that brightened my day. Now, I look forward to them. I truly believe that had I not had to endure the pain, I might not have the ability to recognize these moments of connection. And that is what inspired me to write my second book, The Width of Heaven , to give hope to those in deep grief, and inspire others to consider the possibility that death does not have to define an ending, but can be an invitation to new beginnings. This book is my memoir that shares my journey of marriage, grief, faith, creativity, and healing. It addresses issues of loss and transformation in a way that is very personal to me. In writing it, the question was: how do I address such a heavy topic in a way that’s meaningful to the general public and that shares the Baha’i perspective that the death of a loved one does not have to be debilitating? That it can instead be an opportunity to understand another dimension of love? The answer was to take my readers on my journey. Weaving stories, reflections, paintings, and spiritual insights, I share the life Danny and I built together–the laughter, the challenges, the ordinary moments that became sacred–and the remarkable lessons that emerged after his passing. And I include inspiring quotes from the Baha’i Writings that remind us of the nature of death, and the power of prayer, quotes that have increased my awareness that Danny is still here beside me. My journey has been a long one, and it was not always easy. But it has been fruitful. I’ve learned a lot. I have learned that I am not a recreational painter. It is not a hobby for me. I don’t do it to relax. I wish I could. Most frequently it is an involuntary compulsion I either accept or deny. My acceptance comes in the form of a daily practice whether it’s for 20 minutes or hours. My fuel is not to feel happy as much as to feel in my purpose. Happiness, when it comes, is the by-product. I strive to create something, learn something of value to my process. I rely on those urges I mentioned to lead me to an unusual combination of colors or a particular tool, medium or material. I might experiment with a new technique. I may not understand the why of it or even the choice in that instant but I go with it. The session might be shortened by my not liking the direction the work has taken, and choosing to come back later with a fresh vision. Inevitably, as I move through the piece layer by layer I discover a sense of coherence with what appears. The success of this “give and take” aspect is based on trust in the process and some detachment from the result. I have learned that when I try to initiate intimate communication with the Divine, I find it challenging to get myself out of the way. I am so distractible. I’ve noticed that when I strongly desire or need something, it disrupts the balance of the conversation. If I embark with sincerity, minimal visual intention at the outset, with no attachment to the outcome, relying only on the intuitive urges that come, what others refer to as FLOW can emerge. I cannot consciously create this state, but I try as best I can to remove “my insistent self” in order to receive what I perceive as a gift of the Divine Kingdom, immersing myself in a higher soul-attentive space. That is the ideal. It doesn’t happen as often as I would like. Baha’u’llah stated: “The Prophets and Messengers of God have been sent down […] to educate all men, that they may, at the hour of death, ascend […] to the throne of the Most High. The light which these souls radiate is responsible for the progress of the world […] They are like unto leaven which leaveneth the world of being, and constitute the animating force through which the arts and wonders of the world are made manifest.” 1 If that is so, and I believe it is, then Danny must be part of that leaven now—some measure of living yeast still lifting me. Every minute, centuries of souls radiate the bread of the spirit, an unseen rising that stirs hearts and quickens imagination. Who receives what portion, and when? I do not know. I only know I do not want to miss what is meant for me. Perhaps it comes in a daydream or in the silence that follows prayer. Perhaps in consultation with friends, or while I wait, brush in hand, for the muse. Communication with the next world feels like exchange. I ask. God responds. The Divine Concourse stands ready, but I must open the channel. Sometimes the exchange is whisper-quiet, a wistful wish heard, a barely perceptible whoosh. Sometimes it arrives urgently, like salvation bestowed after one agonized cry. Baha’u’llah said, “I have made death a messenger of joy to thee.” I have always believed that to be true. But I thought it referred to the one who had passed on. I could not comprehend how it applied to the one that remained. Now I understand. My journey has been long, but it is not over yet. Where will the road take me next? I don’t know. Maybe I will travel again, take more classes, create more art. But this time, I will not go alone. This time, it won’t be “me.” It will be “we.” This time, I will take Danny with me. You can purchase The Width of Heaven from Amazon . Find out more about Andi and her art by visiting Andiseals.com! Baha’u’llah, Gleanings from the Writings of Baha’u’llah