Making Space for Happy Mysteries: On Art, Surprise, and Healing

Over the past 2 years I’ve been increasingly drawn to ways of making art that invite ambiguity, surprise, play, and even a kind of un-thinking - working intuitively, with little or no planning or controlling in the process. And to be honest, that’s hard for me.

Like many of us, I developed survival skills in response to trauma, loss, chronic illness, and disability - skills like analyzing, predicting risk, controlling outcomes, and avoiding surprises (because too often, they’ve been the bad kind). That kind of vigilance can be lifesaving, but it’s also exhausting.

And it doesn’t leave much room for trust, play, serendipity … happy mistakes and mysteries that take us to places way better than we could ever have planned.

I believe the creative impulse is a healing one. It doesn’t just ask us to express ourselves; it often asks us to grow. I suspect that’s why I’m so drawn to creative practices that challenge me to let go of control. To step into not-knowing. To trust - the creative process, myself, life.

Looking for the wild, the light, the ease

Recently, I created this piece of art which I’ve titled “And you too have come into the world to do this.”

The title comes from the closing line of Mary Oliver’s poem, “When I am Among The trees”. (Pop over and read the full poem. It’s so worth it. I’ll wait…)

The poem ends with these words:

“…and you too have come into the world to do this,
to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine.”

That line has stayed with me like a kind of compass.

Oliver’s invitation - to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine - sits in beautiful contrast to the tight grip of control, the fear of uncertainty, the vigilance I developed in order to survive. Her words point toward another way of being: one rooted in trust, softness, presence.

That’s what I feel so drawn to and that’s what my creative practice is helping me remember. That I don’t need to strain or strive or protect myself from every uncertainty or risk. That I can show up to the canvas - and to much more of my life - without a map… and know that I will find (and create!) safety, beauty, and meaning there.

Why uncertainty and surprise feel so unsafe

Still, it’s not easy. When I sit down to make art, the fear of “messing it up” if I don’t have a plan still too often pulls me into control mode - planning, thinking, evaluating, trying to steer and protect the outcome. And I know why. Because uncertainty and surprise have often meant loss and pain.

My story of chronic illness and disability has been a series of invisible, silent symptoms and very unexpected loss events. My first diagnosis was in my early twenties and came as a result of a routine doctor’s visit to renew my contraception script. I was living a very active life with no health complaints at all, but when the doctor checked my blood pressure he told me it was so high that I should go straight to Urgent Care to be admitted. A kidney biopsy revealed that I have a rare genetic condition called Alport Syndrome that affects the eyes, ears, and kidneys. I was told I’d likely remain symptom-free for life, since severe symptoms were very rare in women and my tests had confirmed that my eyes, ears, and kidneys were all functioning normally.

That turned out not to be true.

Several years later, during my first pregnancy, despite feeling perfectly well, I was rushed in to see the High Risk Pregnancy Team. They told me that my labs showed that my kidney function was plummeting and I was "very, very sick.”. The loss of our pregnancy at 19 weeks was further unanticipated devastating news.

The news of my vision loss was also a total surprise. At a routine eye test the doctor asked me to close my right eye and tell him what letter I saw on the poster. I couldn’t even see the poster. Further examination revealed a huge hole had developed in my left retina. I hadn’t noticed because my right eye had been compensating.

My kidney failure was also unexpected - the result of an injury caused by a medical procedure I never should have been given. Again and again, surprises equaled loss.

Post successful kidney transplant now, I live with the knowledge of the life-long risk that my new kidney could silently be rejected or fail, and that such losses are often symptom-free, only detectable with lab tests and all too often unknown until it’s too late. And, given the rarity and deep structural nature of my vision and hearing problems, there’s also no way to know if or when I might lose more of those senses.

To top it all off, we’re all living through remarkable global instability with a seemingly constant stream of “unprecedented” and scary events right now. No wonder I try to stay in control, anticipate what’s coming down the pipe, and avoid surprises at all costs.

But also: there are surprises that have saved me

Alongside these painful surprises, life has also offered wondrous ones.

My brother turned out to be not only a perfect kidney donor match, but he had kidney function so unusually high that even after donating, his kidney function remained above average!

Then there was the Cape Town Marathon doctor, who called to find out more about me and my health before giving permission for me to run and, on hearing about the painful mystery symptoms I’d been struggling to get a diagnosis for, offered that it sounded like I may have the same rare illness that she had. Her treating doctor - who then diagnosed and successfully treated me - was based at the hospital just 2km from my home!

I’ve had many more happy surprises in other areas of my life. Friends who regularly bring me unexpected delights and zero wild-card drama. My relationship with Andy, which has been full of beautiful, unexpected joys, including his wonderful family that he brought into my life, and our international travels that have brought us both so many treasured people and experiences. He also offers me the most remarkable level of reliability and integrity that I can completely relax into. And getting to adopt and raise our son is one of the most joy-filled surprises of my life. In many ways, I could never have planned a life as good as this.

Even in my art, the pieces I love most - the ones that feel truly alive - are the ones that surprised me. The ones I didn’t plan. The ones that seemed to make themselves, as if I’d stepped out of the way just enough for something unique and wonderful to come through.

Creating as a form of trust and connection

A friend asked me recently what I love most about making art. “Making things that never existed before - things that surprise and delight me - feels like magic,” I said. “Like happy mysteries. And happy mysteries are so connecting and healing.”

And that’s it. That’s what keeps calling me back to this creative process, even when it’s hard. The happy mysteries. The reminder that not all surprises are bad. And some are breathtakingly good.

This is why I’m drawn to more abstract, expressive, and intuitive ways of working. Because the art I love making most isn’t born from control. It’s born from letting go, trusting, playing. It’s the kind of art that feels almost self-less. Where I lose my edges and feel like I’m connected to and co-creating with something beyond myself. Something between and beneath all of us. Call it Source, Spirit, the Living World, Nature, Wonder, Awe, Grace…

Going easy, filled with light, shining… together

Maybe, as Mary Oliver wrote, “you too have come into the world to do this.”

To go easy.
To be filled with light.
To shine.

Maybe art - and life - can be a kind of re-learning.

A remembering that wonder lives inside uncertainty.

That we are capable of trust, even after rupture.

That not all surprises are losses.

And that sometimes letting go of the plan - going slow, easy, filled with light, as the trees call us to do - will lead us all right to the happy mysteries.