Conduit

Have you ever wondered what you are doing here on Earth? It's the great human existential question, isn't it? Your kind has been asking that question for millennia. I've got to tell you; it's been a wild ride watching your struggle for enlightenment.

Let me explain.

My time on earth was beautiful. I lived and died in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. My great-grandfather settled the land and our family made it a home for generations. Over time, a newer dwelling was built, and the original settler's cabin became a storage shed. I loved that old building. The cabin was my safe place and where I discovered my gift.

The first time I put paint to paper I knew creating art would be my salvation and painting my voice. A could tell a story in each creation, each brushstroke. This changed everything for me because before I discovered painting, I didn't have a voice at all.

Painting was my contribution to the world. Some say my legacy inspired the kind of change seen once in a generation. From my perspective, I merely shone a light on a truth awaiting discovery.

What follows is my human story. It's unique because there aren't many people on the planet like me. But I like to think I lived a life as important as anyone else. I wouldn't trade it for anything.

You have to understand, where I come from, there is no living. There just "IS". The "IS" is what we are all made of and what we return to in death. Simply put, the "IS" is Love.

Here's the thing (and it's not common knowledge): Love doesn't exist.

Wait! Hear me out.

What I mean to say is: Love doesn't exist in the physical world. Love isn't a core element like oxygen, it isn't made from physical matter. We bring the beauty and light that exists outside human experience to Earth.

We are the conduit for Love.

With love, humans are capable of creating immense beauty. This is why humans create art. It reminds us where we came from.

Ahhh, but back to my story ....

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I came into the world screaming. This is ironic because I spent much of my time after birth in complete silence. As I grew, it became evident I wasn't like other children. I didn't hit the developmental milestones my parents expected. I was irritable and isolated, antisocial and non-verbal.

After being diagnosed at six years old, my parents learned everything they could about Autism. Despite everything they tried, I struggled. I wasn't wired like other children. My needs were different, my experience unique. Worst of all, I didn't know how to communicate what I needed.

Despite these struggles, I always knew my way of being in the world was a gift. My particular brand of Autism made traditional communication very difficult. I didn't have the natural inclination to express myself with language. As a child this was difficult, but in the end, I found many other brilliant means of expression. Language became an afterthought.

It wasn't easy. There were dark times in my life. Physical touch was painful; a gentle hug felt like a vice. Sound, in general, was overwhelming. The world might as well have been a clamoring orchestra; nails on a chalkboard.

Color was something else entirely. Color didn't just delight my senses; it was a love affair. The world a series of shapes and shades blended together like a Monet.

This was my expression.

The day I found my father's black sketchbook in the shed behind the house changed my life forever. I had gone there to seek refuge from the world. The old shed, a one room cabin, had the original wood-burning stove in the back corner. It was long cold and rusted with age. My parents used the space for storage, old boxes stacked high throughout.

On this fateful day, I knocked over a box as I pushed open the shed door. As the contents spilled at my feet one thing, in particular, caught my attention. A sketchbook belonging to my father fell from the box. When I was young, he sketched in that book often. There were pages etched out in charcoal, some in dreamy watercolor.

I always admired the intense look on my father's face while he worked. Something about watching the act of creating made me feel good inside. After he'd sketch a scene or an object he'd been studying, we'd admire the creation together. He'd tell me what inspired him and the methods he'd used to capture the essence of his subject. I knew this was his expression of love.

I picked up the sketchbook and as I did, found a set of paints and brushes. From the moment I put brush to page, it felt natural. The paint flowed in easy strokes. Form and color appeared effortlessly. For the first time, I felt alive. With a brush in my hand, I could do anything.

It wasn't long before my parents noticed my newfound love. For some with Autism, it's a way with numbers, musical talent or a special relationship with a family pet. For me, it was the total and utter joy of painting.

After finding my dad's old sketchbook I started spending my free time painting. This was a shock to my parents because I hadn't shown this much interest in anything before. My dad was thrilled I had found his forgotten sketchbook and was using it to paint. I practiced with acrylics and watercolors and quickly graduated to oils. The moment I filled that sketchbook I started looking for bigger surfaces to cover. I was obsessed.

One day, left to my own devices, I covered the four walls of my bedroom in oil paints. That's when my parents found Miss Isabelle. An art therapy teacher for children with Autism, Isabelle encouraged me to develop my craft. To my parent's delight, she also kept me from redecorating every wall in the house too. With her help, I felt free to create whatever brought me joy. I learned to tap into something bigger than my Autism. For once, I was in complete control.

Turns out, I was extremely talented too.

As we worked together and my style developed, my art started getting noticed. It started small - the local newspapers would call and write a piece on what Isabelle and I were doing. The achievements of those with autism weren't well documented and my art was bringing awareness to the cause. News of my painting spread. Before long, we were asked to give interviews, speak at schools and inspire a whole new generation of children.

I was lucky I found Isabelle. Meeting her changed my life. Isabelle's older brother was autistic and because of him, she took an interest in kids like me. Growing up, her brother didn't receive the help he needed. Sadly, Isabelle and her brother grew up in a time Autism wasn't well understood. Instead of fostering his abilities, Isabelle's parents sent him to live in a group home. Isabelle swore when she grew up, she'd be an advocate for children with autism. That's how she found art therapy.

Shortly after meeting me, Isabelle inherited her parent's estate. In passing they left her with an inheritance of twenty thousand dollars. Isabelle was never able to take care of her brother in the way she always wanted but she knew she could use that money to help others.

Together, we started an art therapy foundation for children with autism. In the beginning, it was just us. I was the artist; she was the inspiration. We used that money to educate and inspire other art therapy teachers to connect with autistic children and develop their talents. Slowly, our message spread, and our foundation grew. What started out as a local get-together at a community center turned into a nationwide campaign. Autism was a gift we needed the whole world to know about.

Until I found painting, people dismissed me. I didn't fit the mold humans are expected to fit inside. I didn't care for social graces, I just wanted to be me. It might have appeared that I didn't live a full life, but the truth is, I did. My inner world was deeply satisfying. I cultivated rich inner peace and experienced life wholeheartedly from the inside out.

Isn't that what Bréne Brown is teaching all of you anyway?

I lived a full life. I created art well into my eighties and became known for my style of expressionism. I worked with autistic children throughout my career teaching art therapy. Just as Miss Isabelle had done for me. I knew what a difference it had made for me and I wanted to make a difference for others.

I died on a warm September morning. I was sitting on the porch of the house my parents built on the old homestead at the foothills of the Rockies. I moved back home after they passed to live on the land my family held for generations. The shed in which I first discovered painting still stood, weather-beaten and aged by the wind. I used it as my studio until the day I died.

That day, the sunrise was mesmerizing. The sky exploded into every shade of pastel you can imagine. As I sat there, taking in the scenery, I reflected back on my life. I thought of the people who helped me along my journey and the love that surrounded me even in my darkest moments. Mostly, I thought about the joy I brought into the world and how it spread to others like me.

Some people think Autism held me back from even greater things. I disagree. The person I was on Earth wanted not fame nor fortune or riches. I wanted to bring the Love that exists outside the human experience into the world for everyone to enjoy. In the end, I did that the best way I knew how.

I painted.