The Shadows of Streetlamps

I am not a fan of winter. I’ve probably made this clear in other blog posts, but I think it bears repeating. Every winter morning I wake up in Buffalo to a snow covered lawn that resembles a graveyard of tree limbs, I ask myself, why am I still here? And when I get off a plane from some warm place in mid-January, (say California, or Austin, Texas recently) I’m stunned and saddened by the knowledge that I have once again failed to figure out how to make a living, just for a few months, in a place that doesn’t force me to go out when the temperature dips below freezing. Way, way, below. Like 2 the other morning.

But aside from the weather, I am feeling pretty fortunate to be turning 58 and starting a new job doing something I love as an Artist in Residence at Women and Children’s Hospital. I am employed by the Arts in Healthcare Program sponsored through UB’s Center for the Arts which means I get to spend a few hours a week engaging patient-artists and their families in the creative process. By patient-artists, I mean anyone who’s willing and feels up to doing something that engages the imagination and that includes a lot of people. I’ve worked in arts education for years, but never in a hospital and I must admit I wondered at first if this was the right place for me to be working.

In all likelihood, you and almost everyone else, hate being in hospitals. Visiting one meant that someone was ill, or you were ill and in crisis and needed to enter an institution that would take away all your rights, expose you to life-threatening super-viruses and not let you leave until you’d wracked up a bill so big that it would swallow your entire life savings, your house, your car, and any stray cans of soup you had stored in the basement for emergencies. But that’s not how I feel anymore. Being in a hospital to serve others is an absolute privilege and as soon as I walk through those doors, frozen or not, I want to be able to let go of any hateful thoughts about the weather or other baggage that may be sticking to my boots or lining my coat pockets so I can give to those I’m working with, who may be feeling a lot of anxiety about where they are and what’s happening in their lives, my absolute best. Relaxed and comfortable me, which after a 45 minute drive through ugly, annoying city traffic is not always easy.

Yes, I hate winter and I hate my ride to the hospital which includes driving on the expressway in heavy traffic, piles of lumpy snow black with exhaust, cars caked with salt so thick you can barely guess their color, and motorists in every direction making decisions I don’t quite understand. Stopping, starting, pulling in front of me, speeding around me, making me feel like a befuddled and very old person who shouldn’t be driving herself anywhere.

So I decided I would try and find things along the way that were…how do I say this? Beautiful. Yes, I think that describes it. And it all came together quite naturally when I approached the Deerfield Street overpass and saw on this ugly morning the shadow of streetlamps across the concrete above me, their curved silhouettes mirroring the arch of the bridge both unassuming and elegant. It made me want to pause and take a picture or at least write it down but I was speeding along and just needed to remember. Then I saw the billboard that I’d noticed many times before. The one for United Men’s Store which shows large headshots of two black men smiling, one in a fedora and the other in a newsboy cap with the caption above them, “Number 1 in Hats.” I smiled too, thinking, I really like that sign!” Then when I exited the Kensington and went on to Delaware Ave, I noticed the word, “kiss” in the Kissling LLC sign, the shape of a heart on the Cardiology Building and bam, I was there at the hospital, filled with positive images, and feeling quite lucky to have seen these things along the way.

It’s not hard to find beauty once I’m in the hospital and see the gorgeous faces of the children I work with and the nurses and other healthcare providers who are absolutely radiant in their roles as caregivers. I’ve never had the pleasure of cooperating with such lovely women (mostly) who share a common goal with the other artists and me of making the children receiving various treatments as comfortable as they possibly can be under the circumstances. And in the artists’ case, we also get to make them feel creative and empowered because they can choose to make something; a story, poem, painting, whatever, that screams loudly and clearly of their individuality beyond their label of illness.

I hate that I can’t make all the children well, or make the winter go away, or even better, fly over the city on a mythical dragon that breathes down warmth and eradicates disease. But at 58 there are still some things that I am very capable of doing and as long as that’s the case, I will drive to wherever I need to be, noticing the subtle and profound beauty that if I choose to see it, is always there to transport me.