I've had so many topics to post on that I haven't even been able to write about my wonderful experience this past weekend where I was able to finally complete Creative Facilitation I, through Power of Hope. Their mission is to unleash[es] the positive potential of youth through arts-centered programs that value self-awareness, leadership, community and social change.
I had such a good time. Creative Facilitation I is all about experiencing the arts because you can't ask youth to do what you are unwilling to do, right? And so, I had the opportunity to spend two days being purely creative in a very immediate and oh so what if it is not perfect and perhaps even silly kind of way. Very releasing.
One concept that really stuck with me after the weekend was the idea of the social artist, someone who brings people together by means of the arts. This is what this workshop did for me. It gave me the opportunity to be creative with others as a participant and not as a facilitator as I am with the kids. I realized that I missed being creative and making art with people, but that is a story for another day. Today, in this post, I will concentrate on the fun I had with my group members and the very raw performances we created. The following is a group poem that R., S., L., Y., and I created. We picked our favorite lines and organized them into this poem:
I find my home in the laughing daisies,
It is going, that seed who grew up to be a jungle.
It is going, like salt, into the pot.
Fear can play on the outside and when I'm ready,
I'll come inside.
I'll come inside.
I know, I know, I know,
Like falling down,
It's like falling down and telling everyone to shut the fuck up,
Amongst black suits and blazers where pipecleaners are exotic and fun.
The baby has grown into a mouth with words that hurt like fists or daggers,
Slicing my ribs,
Making me wonder why my stomach hurts more than my heart.
Without ceasing to notice the sun or cookies that remain perched on my belly...
It is going in circles and cycles,
Sometimes trapped in corners and judgment
Yet always escaping through portals and wormholes.
Sing, she is whispering, and the notes fly.
A rock watching a tree grow.
They called him "Hey coffee eye," I remember
Short, stubbled rough gnawing
Her and Cindy, they are the same red and trapped.
Ultimately, the seed wins the war.
Another group that I participated in at the workshop, somehow convinced me to do percussion. I have no rhythm and despite my efforts to replace rhythm with a visual element instead or with me lying in the child's pose while everyone created rhythm, the majority opinion won out. And so dear sweet D. offered to guide me in the simple beat and encouraged me to look into her big brown eyes instead of at the plastic percussion tubes. The result was a collective in praise of the goddesses we all are piece where we were so busy looking into each others eyes and encouraging one another, the audience became secondary.
Y. was in both of my groups which may be why they were so musically centered. She is very convincing. I encourage you to check out her website.
L. also reminded us that our dear Governor G. signed the Domestic Partnership bill into law that day.
How proud I am to have a governor who gets excited about such events.
All in all, life is good and there is reason for HOPE!