Rhythm and Blues

When details of the parade for the world champion Cleveland Cavaliers were released, I was tempted to head north on I-71 to join a million of my closest friends in celebration. However, I decided to make the ultimate sacrifice and offered to take care of the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday so their parents could cheer on our beloved Cavs instead. And cheer they did.

As I watched the revelry on television, filmed through the lens of my son Dan and countless other courageous camera operators, I decided I’d made the right decision, as I don’t do well in crowds. While I whooped and hollered as loud as everyone else did across Northeast Ohio on Sunday night, it seemed appropriate to express my sense of delight through words rather than physical presence, words that appeared in Thursday’s edition of the Times-Gazette.

It’s such a typical reaction for me. When I’m joyful and excited, I write. When I’m angry or frustrated, I write. When I’m saddened by what’s happening around me, I write. When I’m frightened for the future of our world, I write. What I’ve discovered is that no matter whether I’m mad, sad, glad or scared, the act of writing about my emotions helps me get a handle on my situation, no matter what it is.

Writing doesn’t work for everybody. Some people sing, some dance, some walk, some run 5Ks, some create art, and some even attempt to eat their way out of their emotions (not so good for the waistline). As for me, I’ve discovered the truth in Anne Lamott’s words. “The writer’s job is to see what’s behind it [the forbidden door in the castle], to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words – not just into any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues.”

Over the past eight weeks, I’ve been privileged to spend Friday afternoons with about a dozen people who are turning the unspeakable into rhythm and blues. Supported by the Mental Health and Recovery Board here in Ashland County, and funded through the Margaret Clark Morgan Foundation, we came together to explore the relationship between creative writing and mental health recovery, not as an instructional exercise for caregivers, but for ourselves. As people who have struggled with mental illness, or perhaps have had times of darkness and discouragement along the way, we’ve come together to learn, to listen to each other, and most of all, to write.

In life, we’ve known the agony of defeat far beyond what even long-time Cleveland fans understand, because, after all, sports are inherently a game. Often those with serious mental health diagnoses have lost family, friends, and jobs over the course of their illness, while others struggle to hold onto any hope for a brighter future. That’s no game. And yet every Friday afternoon, I’ve been reassured by the resiliency of the people gathered in that room as we’ve laughed, cheered, and shed tears together. We’ve discovered, with Georgia O’Keeffe, that “to create one’s world in any of the arts takes courage,” recognizing that our own fears aren’t so different from those sitting beside us, creating lists of our hopes and dreams, and composing heart-wrenching yet life-honoring poetry.

I’m not sure that our next step is the New York Times Bestseller list, but I’m guessing our communal efforts and the subsequent extra dose of bravery that comes through transparency and validation may jump-start a piece or two for publication.

Years ago, I had what I now know to be a prophetic dream, as I functioned in the role of a midwife to a room full of birthing mothers, while at the same time giving birth myself. I’ve thought a lot about that image over the last few weeks, reminiscent of the days before my own sons were born. With a baby bump the size of Alaska, there was no turning back. That’s what I’m sensing for my Friday afternoon writing companions. Not sure how pregnant we each are, but I look forward to the impending birth of some beautiful babies, maybe even before the Tribe wins the pennant.

JoAnn Shade, June 2016