Creative Play Heals, Part 1: Personal Rhapsody

Creative Play Heals: a Rhapsodic Intro

I've been looking for a truth. One that only I specifically can answer. I really mean me, Holly Mae Haddock, the person pictured below:

This unrepeatable human being, born as the second child into an unraveling marriage between two unhappy, white, European intellectuals in 1980. Sad parents, sad baby. In the then-sleepy, boozy, ramshackle glam of Santa Barbara, California.

Who went to Montessori pre-school. Who grew up on an organic veggie farm (goats, river, oaks). Who lived in a filthy trailer. Who played outside until the stars came out. Who staged performances, tunneled homes in the un-mowed mustard, costumed her siblings, for and with said wildly wonderful, unspeakably loved siblings (eccentric, original, unsupervised).

Who was privileged and educated, especially by today's measures (California public schools, GATE programs, small classrooms). Haphazardly cultured (piano, Nabokov, Van Morrison). Steeped in a sociocultural brew (Reagan, me era, betrayed 68ers).

Who was let out like a fish into the wider streams of life (hurt, mad, insecure). Who met the 90s. (K records, Food Not Bombs, UC Berkeley). Who degreed (painting, counseling, therapy) and careered (mental health, addictions, organizations).

Who moved. Europe (London, Milan, Berlin) and USA (Detroit, Portland, San Francisco). Who created-or-tried. Real Art: paintings, bands, songs. Fun with friends: dance, movies, improv. Who loved unguardedly (women, men) and married intuitively (man) and didn't kid (cat).

Who broke open and wasn't ok at all (psychodynamic, Parts Work, 12 step, friends). Who cracked and the light got in (Sufi, Tibetan, What the Bleep, ascension). Who soloed and suffered (figure it out alone, all alone, so alone).

Who darkened, gestated, waited, and cried. Who sprouted gorgeous living leaves, and lost them. Who saw greening flowering trees. Who knows the personal, loving, kind beauty of the All-that-is.

Who sallied forth and shrank back. Who gained ground, and fell down. And got up. Again and again and again and again.

What can she, this Holly Mae, speak to with natural authority?

I'm not looking for a concept that I like. Not a fact or framework I learned. Not even something resonant, which came from someone else's lifestream.

I'm looking for what natural truth lies, undefeated, at my own core. For the naked inevitable conclusions of my own experience.

I have (one) answer, as of today.

A summary statement of my most essential, core, lived experience is this:

Creative Play Heals.

This, I know for certain.

In another post, I'm going to unpack this statement in an orderly, reasonable way.

Thanks for reading!