The Creative Outlet

There is no art therapy on the unit. When I fist got here there was sort of hap-hazard art group that was halfway organized for the weekend slot but mostly we just sat around reading the newspaper. The woman who was supposed to be there for the purpose of the group never had anything specific planned. She was presumably around my age and, although very pleasant to be around, seemed as though she was only with us for the means of filling a quota. One day though, about three weeks into my stay here, she came in and announced that she would be replaced with someone better suited to the eating disorders unit. Its been almost two months since that announcement now and the scant, bedraggled, art supply remnants sit collecting dust.

The general consensus around here seems to be that the lack of an art therapy group, a real art therapy group, is not the ideal. There are few select groups that art therapy seems to be very beneficial to and one of those is the treatment of eating disorders, especially where body image is concerned. All of this, not so much taking it but counseling with art therapy is something that I am extremely interested in. It is something that has caused a whirling excitement of hope for a while now. Every time I think of being able to help others in that way I can’t help but feel almost a giddy centering sensation.

I’m scared too, of course. I can prospectively see myself getting passionately woven into the thick of art therapy dynamics but there are aspects of this dream that I am not so solid on. First off is how the get there. I can’t readily be of any accountable access to others if I’m still engulfed in an eating disorder myself. I have taken that step though. I am on my way to recovery and, although I wouldn’t feel comfortable really practicing with potential clients until I was at least a year in, I now need to bring some focus onto whats next. What scares me about the whole thing is the possibility of disappointment. I’m terrified of wanting something so badly and having it fall through like so many other miscellaneous dreams. If I expect the worst and prepare myself for possible failure then it surely will be laid to rot but if I hold hope too tightly then I’ll be broken if I can’t achieve.

I’ll need help. I know I’ll need help with this just as I’ll need help with recovery once I get home, but it’s hard to say so. I’m so used to not relying on people. sometimes I say that if I’ve learned anything in life it is how to be self-sufficient but thats not always a good thing. In general I don’t like to believe that people will do what they say and, because of that, I try to do everything myself. Past experiences have just taught me that its easier that way so I don;t have to be mad at people if they do let me down. I’ll work something out though. Asking for help may very well be the hardest part of this endeavor.

The lack of descent art therapy here versus the heightened interest in it from the group has put a new and unexpected spin on things though. It seems that I have been voted the unofficial leader of a new impromptu art therapy group. I have checked out project ideas and inventoried the supplies at our disposal so I think I’m at least somewhat close to prepared. Its another new adventure and it kicks off tomorrow morning. I have my fingers crossed.

The Cloisters

Holy hand-stitched intricacy!

The hard seat is chilly beneath me, its orange plastic not yet warmed by previous human bodies on this commuter-sparse Sunday morning. We are on the A train, Nurse Greta, Diane, Molly, and myself riding just a few stops to avoid the uphill trek to the Cloisters Museum and Gardens. We get off almost as soon as we sit down and exit the station into a world that could be countries away from the Manhattan I have come to know in these last few weeks. The stone stairs, as we emerge from the city’s underground, unfold and climb through more foliage than I have yet seen in New York.

We pop out into the daylight of Fort Tryon Park. It is astounding. The multi-level layout with its granite walkways, walls, tunnels, occasional short sets of stairs. It provides a beautiful view of the Hudson from almost all of the different paths and trails and apparently we are not alone in thinking its weather-perfect day to be out here. If it wasn’t for Greta there is a good chance I would have done my time in the city without ever knowing that any of this existed.

The paths through Tryon Park weave gracefully along as we pass people with dogs, babies in strollers, yoga on the lawn, and a weekend game of ultimate frisbee before opening up to the base of the museum. A cloister itself is an integral part of a monastery. The name was given to a square or open-air courtyard surrounded by covered passageways. It was basically a sheltered, sunny place where the monks or nuns living there could enjoy nature without leaving the confines of their home and place of worship. The Cloisters Museum contains 4 different cloister gardens, each with its own theme, time period reference, and sculpted fountain designating the center. They are placed throughout the two floors of the structure. Medieval art of all different times and origins, collected in bits and pieces all over the world, grace the rooms and hallways throughout. As a branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art it has been open to the public since 1938 and teems with architectural fragments of antiquital beauty incorporated into the fabric of the building itself. As we wander through, our allotted 50 minutesof touring time flying by almost unnoticed, I am nothing less than bombarded with jaw-dropping works of art. Here there is everything from ceramics, metalworks, stone carvings, wood sculpture, stained glass, immense hand-woven tapestries, and much much more.

Going in I know instantly why Greta has said several times that she wishes we didn’t have to be back so soon. Its not a huge museum but, with such a magnificent and well-kept collection, it deserves more of our attention than we can give it today. Sooner than I would have thought possible its time to scuttle outside and catch the bus back home…

But I’ll be back. I can guarantee that.