Mr. Stevens' Haven

I have been wanting to write this letter to you for years. It's kind of crumbling out from an old, yet sacred place in me. Somehow, I know if I keep writing, the way you quietly saved my life (and no doubt countless others) might go noticed; even celebrated.

I can't believe a couple decades has passed since I was a tall, gawky student in your high school art room that you skillfully crafted into a haven for all of us. You must have had quite a life in art before teaching it. It is only in my maturity that I discovered to make art, is to reclaim yourself, to unfold into your more authentic self through the adventurous journey working with the unknowns in clay, ink or paint. What you did for us hormonally-taxed teens though, was more than create a wanted space away from the usual roller coaster of adolescent drama. You let us turn the stereo up pretty loud, as if you really remembered what it was like to not hear music but to feel it in every cell. You just got us. You treated us with dignity and equanimity. What I didn't know then is that you understood more about me than I actually was aware of about myself. It is safe to say that you saved my life, and even better, helped me figure out how to make a life worth telling a story about.

I remember you vividly, Mr Stevens; red skin, freckles and wild, longish strawberry blonde hair. You smoked often on lunch breaks and often in between periods. I think this was your main vice, but it looked different on you because you had this kind of purposeful walk and easy smile that composed the kind of energy of a person in touch with his natural, inner rising greatness. Strangely, you never felt anxious to me, like your obviously close friend -our math teacher- who you used to smoke and talk with in the courtyard. I saw you counsel him often, and most of the time, you were making him laugh. Taking a deep breath, and refreshing the view, that was what you did. That was pretty much what your presence was for us claiming the art room haven as refuge for a moment to settle -just long enough- to hear a good thought, to find the right words, or to make a good friend. In a small town where it seemed everyone had a vice, I think yours was supporting our potential. You tended to those flames in us students as well as your colleagues, each in the way we needed. I didn't know I was watching a master until years later when I found myself developing my own programs using art to reconnect to the authentic self.

I also remember that I was slightly afraid of you, or really, of disappointing you. I couldn't bare that since you were the first man in my life that believed in me, that I might not live up to the expectations I was so trained to be vigilant of in adults. Instead, your words, and more importantly, your actions focused on offering me a better world - one beyond the cinder-blocked high school walls - that shaped my five years in our tiny, seaside village. Thinking of it now, you saw something in me, maybe never really talking too much about it aloud. You gave me opportunities to go out into the community and discover that I had something unique and valuable to offer. The conversation wasn't so much about talent meriting these little jobs you created, (there were a few artist that were technically more adept than I at that stage,) instead, I think you noticed that I had enthusiasm, idealism, highly romantic notions and a sensitive nature that spoke volumes louder than my own words.

Everybody seemed to see me before I saw myself. What I mean is that in the past six towns and 4 schools I attended before grade 8, I was continuously dubbed "the artist." Most oddly, without anyone seeing my art, they had a sense of who I was at some level I hadn't really accepted. I rebelled against this label of artist often and for years, setting my sights on social change as my goal, devouring commentary on systemic psychology and yet it would all filter (eventually) into my art and design concepts. Even my dreams for social change influenced my appreciation for conscious rap and punk music in the 90's.

The art I grew to care so much about over the years was relationships. I kept seeing how the pain of disconnected, dysfunctional relationships affected families, workplaces and other arenas in life that were supposed to be relatively safe. I felt like I could do something, but what? I could sense so much more than I had skill to impact at that age and it boiled in me like a pressure cooker, you must have noticed it in me even back in highschool. I hope you had some good belly laughs at us kids, as we tried on different flavours of beliefs and expression during those 'testing ground' years. As my clothes and hair changed from hippie jeans to thrift store vintage punk and - of course- rave culture our expression knew no bounds and no threshold for change. A kaleidoscope of ideas were borrowed, upcycled and eventually somewhat integrated into our identities as much as our art projects. With all that change, I noticed the constants, the supports, the encouragement.

I was afraid of talking to you long enough that you might ask me something about my home life (and that I would answer honestly,) and back then, I was terrible at small talk. I also didn't want to be seen for the horrible part of my story I had been living in at that time. I just wanted to be seen for the parts I chose, and created. I was afraid you would see me, as I was. Outwardly, a colourful, edgy butterfly, yet plain and simple on the inside. I just wanted simple things like love, honesty, service, play, adventure and wisdom - all these seemed so simple in that complicated age filled with angst. I was afraid that you would see that I was consumed with concerns that most adults take on, that I was not just me. I hadn't felt what "just me" was yet and I was equally as scared that I would be invisible if you looked long enough.

I was only truly clear on my identity based on the full time job I had at home as my mother's best friend, helper, coach, cheerleader, matchmaker, counsellor. I was also my brother's protector and our family's surrogate source of funding when money was short, meals were missed and the trauma my mother clearly hurled in our direction took its toll on the family. I would clean up, make it all better etc.

I was concerned you would ask why I looked so tired, puffy eyes and homework undone for one of those many nights after school that my mother rattled off at us kids for 18 hours solid making us miss dinner, be late for school, home work undone and heart's aching to end the pain. I think because I was so privately afraid of everything in life, everything outside of home brought a delight, freshness and relief. Though not many people could tell, I think you could see enough of what was going on with me to want to help. I did my best to hide behind a smile, helping others with their lives which gave me joy. It made me feel essential, integral to the story of my life outside of home and it became the way I made myself belong somewhere. Your art room was where I counselled others with such a sense of responsibility to keep their private struggles in confidence. I did as much counselling as I did making art in your haven. Mostly, I started to notice what I cared about. You were showing me what an adult who cared deeply about others looked and acted like. That lesson was priceless.

Because your belief in me was so precious, unique and untethered by transactional expectation, I never wanted you to feel let down by me. Maybe that is why I didn't bother rebelling against your perception of me as an artist when you invited me into community projects. I could feel the pressure I put on myself and how that would get in the way of saying YES without first leaning into the gruelling inner critic "who do you think you are to share your art?" You saw that I had a procrastination problem pretty bad back then and your presence often put me at ease - when I tuned out of my own fear of failing- to be that person you saw in me. You never put that pressure on me, I simply felt more of myself in your space. I would also often complete my other class homework in your art room because the inner critic had fallen to a quiet hush for all the focused, playful and honest expression that us in touch with who we were becoming.

If I am being honest, I think you saw much more about my life pattern back then than I did. Whether it was how, in class, I would be asked by other students to help them with drawing the iris on a model or figure out composition on a particularly challenging project. They would always ask when you left the room. It made me wonder why because I wasn't the best artist, but I felt so honoured to help them. That they trusted me to ask for help made me feel valuable in a way that I trusted myself to deliver. I think I was glimpsing the beauty of being a teacher without wearing the hat of the authority figure back then. It was possible because you chose to believe in us versus control us or dominate us with authoritative demands that we could hear our own thoughts and make our own decisions. You gave me the ultimate gift that art can be, a context for realization of the authentic person, my sense of who I was naturally to be.

You saw me on many occasions shrink away from authority in general, a bit of a clue of my other environments, wasn't it? Back then, I saw you as a kind man with a twinkle in his eye, who was worldly yet humble, understanding, and you listened for what kids really needed; treating them like adults with kindness and respect. When I think about it, of course, you would have had to have taken 100 level psychology at the very least to obtain a teachers certificate, which means you would have been able to figure out what was likely happening at home for most of your students based on our speech and behaviour. Even if you just gave it a couple seconds attention, we were all such open books with our postures, our comments, our degree of engagement in expression. You never made us feel ashamed, you gave us choices. You were and adult training adults. When I think about it, you being titled an art teacher just doesn't come close to the impact you made on us.

I want you to know that it matters so much to me that you thought more of how to give attention to my life. I was not the only one, I know. You went so far as to casually invite me to consider that I could use my talents for a few projects to beautify our little town on the Sunshine Coast. You would have had to have told the story of youth with promise or something like that in order to garner interest in our neighbors and store owners to kickstart that mailbox painting project. I can imagine you taking your precious, personal time after school talking to neighbours -maybe friends-and sharing that this opportunity could help youth discover their voice or aesthetic language. However small or large the project, it would help young people see themselves differently, beyond the myopic emotional stages of individuation that adolescent life must include if it is to successfully create fully functioning adults.

What a life you lived, and I do hope you are still alive, saturated in what brings you joy. I hope you received letters like this in your career. It isn't a small act, easing the expression of one’s voice into some material form - whether symbolic or practical- you used your life force to midwife our very tender, evolving personalities as they started to emerge beyond the competitive and normative survivalist halls and cafeteria landscapes. You were a portal to a quest inward, where we could exhale from our dutiful adherence to the dizzying school schedule and just be.

I think you knew that I always dreamed of making great change in a way that would truly impact lives, where we live them most intimately; in relationships. I always wanted to change how love was understood and expressed in the world because I saw so much suffering by those who used love as a place to control for more attention, more power, starving for relentless need for more of anything. They were missing the point of who they were and who they could be received and celebrated as. Most of my sketchbooks in high school and later college were filled with observations on the various levels of love whether in terrible poetry or moments of pictographic glory. In fact, I filled those sketchbooks with about %40 art and the rest I was writing and counselling myself on love. I was not a star student, was I? Haha. If I hadn't centred my awareness on love, I might truly believe I wasn't worthy to be there, to belong to high school at all. You probably noticed when I shrunk into my tall thin frame to avoid standing out, avoid taking up space, and avoid the possibility I might hurt someone. Like my mom did to us. Thanks to you, even though I felt life deeply, I rose above my shyness to express my voice so that people could actually know me (because you got that practice started for me.) You might have noticed that in art class, whether in ceramics or painting, I eventually entered into a state of flow, of just being purely alive, free and creatively channeling a birthright I believe we all have which is to be happy, to experience contentment, curiosity and to have faith in the yet-to-be-unfolded expression that would come through. Because of you, I painted some mailboxes for neighbors, and like any artist, noticed what I could have done better, yet stood back feeling I was part of the community. I had made a mark. You painted me into a more free expression of who I could be in my life with these gestures. Even now, I cry to recall the courage you had to see in students so much more than they saw in themselves. I started to come alive to a redeeming personal story then because of you. I wasn't just a daughter, sister and student with an absent father and my ever-broken heart from so much change, so much loss, so much torment from my mother. Instead, I could be an entrepreneur. Yes, it was a bit young for our culture, but I had started working at the age of thirteen, babysitting, and later at a local, private airport and then again (officially) when I was 15, in a restaurant. I recall serving lasagne and red wine each night to a surly Bruno Gerussi, (an actor from a famous Canadian CBC series filmed in our town.) I was learning to be brave in all this work outside the house. I was scared to use my voice, to be heard and noticed, to be made fun of, and to laugh at myself. I was afraid to be misunderstood because if I was going to correct anyone, I better know who I am.

You saw in me just enough value that you set me up on a big mural project far from town. My first "adult" gig as an artist! You trusted me with a team of senior muralists in Vancouver. Working on the side of a building that took 3 scaffoldings to paint was such a baffling moment. To this day, I can travel to see it on the side of a huge heritage building and remember climbing up that scaffolding and shaking the hands of the artists who had chalk lined the first layers of the mural. They welcomed me so warmly. I feel so much gratitude because that was something you initiated because you trusted me. Nobody had loved me like that in my life a that point. Can you believe it? Because of you, I had a different reference point where I knew -at least in some area of my life- I could show up brilliant, messy, tired, scattered, traumatized or generous and enthusiastic, and I still had value. You gave me a world, you gave me to myself and you gave me a chance to shape my own identity from a healthier perspective.

Out in the world, I was becoming Aeryana, the artist. I learned that I could put myself in unknown situations and discover I would be alright, that the recipe for creating any life I could imagine would include taking opportunities, seeing how it was possible, rising and doing my best and seeing where that would take me. Back in art class - a sacred constant in my life - I was starting to see where I had been previously blind to myself. I was trained at home to serve, to give everything I had that when my mother was around, I was unsafe to spend time with me, my dreams and my gifts. My happiness often became the trigger for her jealousy, rage and games to try to make me feel powerless so she could feel a temporary relief from her own self-hatred and agony. I stopped my conditioned response of trying to console her and playing small. I started to have a voice. I saw my life away from her and I couldn't help but smile and sing.

I believe now, that I was born to be a person who deeply knows and trusts how to come back to love in a way that is healthy. I learned so much from the dysfunction of my family. It included immense pain and suffering that held my attention long enough to become skilful in that journey back to love. We don't get skilful in things we only have to do once or twice. In a lot of ways, my first PhD was in overcoming the (what I would later learn the proper term) Narcissistic abuse. I learned about how trauma shaped people before I knew the proper terms and concepts I would later learn in college. I saw how my friends -who I wanted to save from their pain because I knew it so well- suffered in their own lack of healthy identity. I observed and wrote often how certain kinds of love helped people come home to themselves again, refresh, restore their faith in life and find courage to try again. You were my first example of that healthy kind of love. Your art room was a healthy space where I didn't have to experience pain and suffering in order to feel and learn about love. You taught us by believing in us, offering opportunities to work in the community and see our creativity as part of the everyday fabric of a shared reality. This is what parents can do when they are healthy, and you did this year after year. It couldn't have been easy on you, teenagers are rough on adults as they separate from their parents as their primary gods or centers of the universe and begin to find their own center, within. You were like a healthy father for so many of us, I am sure.

Your art room gave us sovereignty over our daily experiences in little lunch break vignettes. Simple gestures, like to use the stereo with whatever music we wanted, created the space we needed to introspect through our art projects. We were free to encourage each other and find a healthier relationship to our own minds. We also had healthier friendship patterns nourished in that context you set there because competition and transactionality weren't the core culture cues. By staying open to the potential in each of us, you made a concrete impression on my life. You were an example of how important it is to remain open-hearted. As an adult, a creative, and an entrepreneur now, there are many moments where I do not know what is going to happen next, I can know what I want it to feel like and create according to inner guidance. I can trust, that presence has lifted others from their neuroses and enjoyed surrendering only to discover the magic of "happy accidents." Trusting the path is an art form and I have you to thank.

I always wanted to find a way to thank you, to give you something so big and impactful in your world as you had offered mine. I, maybe like an artist often does, felt I could do more than words.

I can, actually.

I will.

Already, I am discovering in my life what it feels like to be a mentor. It’s still new and fresh, as each person is so very different. But I can see now how easy and powerful it is to believe in someone, to help them see themselves beyond their neuroses. I have gathered the tools to help them see themselves and I am sharing those. The common thread between what I have to share now, is the power of emotional intelligence, of returning home to oneself and to creating a village in our own circles, where we lift each other up.

Without your influence, I likely would not have made it this far, creating a life I actually want to tell the story about. You believed in me at a pivotal time in my story where I had already wished a hundred times to die, to be relieved of such immense sadness that comes when you want one -or in my case both parents- to simply love you. When nothing would work for them to receive love and to give it back, I looked to my community and gratefully had your presence to guide me. In my past five years of research on the psychology of recovery from such a ubiquitous -and yet hidden- kind of abuse I endured in childhood, I now have so much more gratitude for the healthy, kind and generous souls like you who had the courage to step out of the norm of doing the minimal asked of oneself at work, and instead stand for a kid who would one day remember you and dedicate her service to your memory.

I want to tell your story, the character you were in my coming of age chapter of life. Amidst a cyclone of less conscious life outside the art room doors, you made a little sweet spot of heaven. I realize now, it was an extension of your heart. I will always remember you and carry your story with me in those who I share the intimate space of belief and support with.

Thank you, Mr Stevens, for saving my life, and causing me to make it one worth living and sharing.