we become ourselves once more.
This illumination has stayed with me, and those close to me have remarked that I have been more myself since then. The change can become permanent because once you receive this knowledge, you can’t un-know it. This is why your creativity, your direct engagement with life, is so important: it reconnects you, for life. I want this for you.
Engaging your innate creativity is one of the quickest, safest, most available, satisfying, and positive ways to do this. As Above, So Below: reclaim your creativity, reclaim your life. On the Bright Way, it is an article of faith that you aren’t broken. The Bright Way doesn’t try to “fix” you. Rather, it reminds you of who you truly are. By being creative, by actively engaging in your life, you will remember who you are. Welcome to the magnificence of your true self.
Engaging your innate creativity is one of the quickest, safest, most available, satisfying, and positive ways to restore your connection to yourself and to the world at large.
Welcome home.
The creative quest is one of the most thrilling journeys we can take. Yet it can also feel overwhelming at the outset. I understand this because I lost touch with my own creativity for decades.
Adrift starting around the age of ten, I only regained my bearings in my early thirties. Despite years of musical study and accomplishments, I felt as if I was clawing around in darkness for a thread of security. Those nightmarish fears performers have? You’ve already seen that I endured them in public: suffering major memory lapses onstage, throwing up before performances, feeling humiliated as I shook like a leaf in front of hundreds of people, running offstage, refusing to go onstage — among other horrors. Performance anxiety is one of the most traumatic and seemingly mysterious problems artists endure. This fear isn’t just theoretical; it was physically, emotionally, and spiritually crushing.
Years of teaching confirm for me that our stories reflect one another’s. My guess is that you already relate to much of what I’ve shared. Allow me to continue weaving our stories together so that you can walk this path of transformation with me.
How did I find myself in such a predicament in the first place? My creative journey started optimistically, as many journeys do. I took up piano at age eight. My delight in playing, practicing, and generally being around the piano as much as possible made it clear right away that I would become a professional musician. Perhaps you have joyful early memories of creative encounters, too? As I entered the magical world of music, everything became hyper-real for me. Regular life seemed less vivid, less true, while the musical world bathed me in something golden, bright, eternal. I was home.
It didn’t take long for this reverie to fade. Yes, I was following my bliss, but the ride got rough, and fast. The pressure of exams, recitals, and competitions crushed the joy out of everything. I started avoiding practice, fearing lessons, agonizing over whether I had the exceptional talent to be a professional musician. Maybe you recognize some of these feelings?
Nonetheless, I persevered. I loved music; surely that was a sign that I’d been chosen as gifted? How impossibly cruel life would be if that were not so! But the fears made me doubt my abilities. Were my fears warning me that I didn’t “have it”?
I hoped the fears would fade with time, but they grew worse. The more I accomplished, the higher the stakes became. The battle was relentless. My performance anxiety infected all areas of my life. My short fuse blew small disagreements into major showdowns. I took offense at even the most innocent comments and interactions. I lost trust in my body’s ability to heal itself, became deaf to its signals, and even began to see it as my enemy. In all areas I tortured myself about the ever-present prospect of making public and private mistakes. If any of this sounds familiar to you, I send you a beam of love to fuel your courage going forward.
Casting about for a lifeline, I grappled for that treasure trove of knowledge others seemed to possess. Those in-crowd people who create and perform with joy — why was I so different from them? I needed to exit this vortex, and fast. Performances cropped up regularly. The next exam was always around the corner. And, ironically, the intensity was only going to increase as I got more accomplished. I needed to show up with confidence and inspiration, not as the pathetic figure of weakness I embodied. My ears rang and my eyes watered. I went from vortex to black hole, endlessly craving and swallowing positive feedback, which vaporized instantly. There was no relief. The pressure kept mounting. Nothing made sense. I felt the greatest of fears: that I was alone.
Finally, during my second semester as a music major at the university, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I quit music cold. I was only eighteen years old and believed the life I had hoped for was already over.
Retreat
My self-imposed exile from music lasted four long years. I worked in the health field, mostly in social welfare and psychology settings, and studied classics, a favorite subject for me in high school. Among the places I worked was a battered women’s shelter and hotline; the front desk of the Berkeley Free Clinic, which provides healthcare to the homeless; and a halfway house. As I witnessed people suffering the extremes of domestic violence, poverty, addiction, and ill health, I noticed a common thread connecting them all.
They all wanted to experience joy and belonging, just like everyone else. Whatever their particular circumstances, in all cases their personal power had been obliterated. How could they reclaim that power? I didn’t have an answer then. But these fellow travelers in life told me that finding at least one answer was a quest I couldn’t refuse. They directed me to my starting point: the knowledge that reclaiming your power is essential to human fulfillment. Yet I remained mystified about how to take on what seemed an outlandishly large mission.
Still separated from my music making, whenever I’d hear even so much as piano Muzak in the elevator, I’d burst into tears, stabbed by the pain of loss. If you are living with this kind of pain right now, I hold you in my heart. Your pain is real, and you need to listen to it. Your pain is not your enemy; it is pointing you toward a better way, a better life.
Looking back, I see as clear as day that I was disconnected from my true self and, as an inevitable consequence, disconnected from my power and creativity. How did I discover all this on my own? I didn’t! Despite having believed I was alone in my struggle, it turns out that clues and quiet assistance had been present all along.
Your pain is not your enemy; it is pointing you toward a better way, a better life.
Enter the Allies
Take heart. I discovered that my allies had been gathering around me my entire life, and I’ve found this to be true for almost everyone. You have far more support eagerly waiting in the wings than you know. We’ll be finding out who and what your supports are soon. Who and what were my allies?
My parents were still college students when I was born. I enjoyed being the novelty only child among the young, wild Dublin intellectuals of the ’70s. My father became a diplomat for the Irish government when I was three, giving me the opportunity to grow up all over the world, moving countries every four years or so. I got firsthand experience of the wondrous variety of ways that cultures encourage and interpret human creativity.
You have far more support eagerly waiting in the wings than you know.
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