Someone sent me a heart in the mail. A clay heart. Heavy for its size (we have that in common), beautifully glazed. It looks like a pastry. When I unwrapped it, it made me smile immediately. Then I did what I do with all such heart-touching objects–I rubbed it with my fingers and palm. It was very satisfying.
I can’t identify the artist because she is a coaching client of mine, and I promise them anonymity. She’s an artist who works in several media, but this heart made me think she was working in the right area when she made this out of a clay called “Storyteller.”
Now, I have to admit I don’t like hearts as representative icons. They have been
over-sentimentalized, overused, made twee and kitschy by relentless use as a symbol of wedding-cake-topper sticky-sweet love. Ugh. But this one wasn’t that. This one was a tough little heart in pastel colors. It looked sweet but was hard.
I rolled it over. On the back was an inscribed spiral and a hole. The artist had sent a note that said, “I had to put a hole in the heart or it would explode in the kiln. Remember to breathe when in the creative fire.” Perfect. That is what every heart must endure–to be pierced and bruised, marked and damaged and healed to work effectively. Now that’s a heart that even I can love.
It came into the studio with me. The hole in the heart had been made by a pointy object of some sort, so I grabbed a skewer (I use them to write and hold papers together) and slipped it into the fire-hole of the heart. It balanced. Just like creative people–we put our hearts on spikes and show them to people, willing to be accepted or rejected, loved or hated. Being creative means risking it all.
What a perfect lesson. What a perfect gift. I think I might make room for a heart in my life. At least one that won’t explode in a kiln.
—Quinn McDonald is a writer and certified creativity coach. She’s beginning to notice hearts around her, now.