I have always wanted to be a mother. To create a child and birth her. To hold her close to my breast and nurse her to give her strength. To stay up through the night with her when she can’t sleep. To show her the beauty in the world, and to hold her hand as she sees the pain and suffering that also live here. To remind her of the hope that walks beside her even when I can’t. And to watch her as she walks out into the world as a force of love and peace.
Ever since I have been a child, I have wanted a child of my own. I have borne no children yet, but I know that my desire to have children and my desire to create art stem from the same passions, the same longings and the same love.

I did not always wanted to be an artist. In fact, it wasn’t until my junior year of high school that I really became enamored with graphite and charcoal, which led me to the wide world that is Art. My journey of becoming an artist is one of watching the definition of “an Artist” dissolve into the faces of the people around me.

It has also been a journey of healing. Until I started mixing art and words in my journal, I had never felt the overwhelming power of art. Discovering the therapeutic power of art has intensified my love of people and story and expression.
I first observed the healing power of art when I was seven years old. My cousin, also seven years old, suffered a head injury and during his recovery, he took part in art therapy to express himself while he was learning to speak again. His three-year-old sister, who witnessed the accident, also practiced art therapy to process her own trauma.

At the time, art therapy was just another type of therapy that my cousins were doing to help them heal. It wasn’t until much later, only recently in fact, that I was overwhelmed at the power of this type of therapy that can guide all members of a traumatic event to healing, no matter their relation to the accident or their age.

As I have continued to use art as a means of processing suffering and joy and as a path toward healing, I am continually amazed at the way art unearths my subconscious desires, longings and wounds. And I have watched artistic expression reveal such things to other artists around me, who also use the act of creation as a form of emotional processing.

I have seen art prove itself over and over again as a powerful channel through which to process story. And through this processing, my story is simultaneously recorded both as a reminder of the dear people who have walked beside me and as an Ebenezer Stone proclaiming the truths that have been dearly carved into my heart.

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