UCLArts and Healing

Personal Reflections on Writing to Heal from Ping Ho, Founder and Director of UCLArts and Healing

After sitting in on 4 or 5 expressive writing workshops and 4 or 5 poetry workshops, I am starting to get it. The very first time I did stream of consciousness writing with Dr. Rachel Ballon, the ideas were all over the place - a veritable mess, but out of the three pages of ramble - there was an “aha” that was probably worth hundreds of hours of marital therapy. It is freeing to “let go” and let a piece evolve. Quite often after I write for about 10 minutes - the REAL issue emerges in the last minute. So, at least I know where I should begin next time.

I recently returned from China, where I decided to keep a journal in poetry format - in order to keep my entries pithy. What I discovered in this process was that all it took to write well was to take in life with all five senses, and my attempts at writing poetry revealed how much I was not taking in. This newfound awareness kept me in the present moment more often, which filled my day with more rich memories than blurs. Sometimes the pieces flowed forth freely; other times, they took a while to craft, yet all were immensely gratifying to read.

These classes in Writing to Heal are a genuine hybrid of art and therapy, which gives them a depth that is fascinating. A sense of community rapidly develops among an impressively diverse group of strangers. Emotions surface at unexpected times, usually when reading what one has written. Participants often report that they get more out of reading their work than writing it. Listening to others can be as enlightening, moving, and inspiring as reading what one has written oneself. Writing with authenticity, even by novices, can rival the work of the masters. With self-awareness comes the possibility for change.

Since writing is so powerful and accessible, it should be offered as a therapeutic tool in a multitude of settings.

by Linda Ralph

When I was going through a crisis, at about four years sober, my friend, quazi sponsor, told me to write a journal. I don’t remember if it was her idea or mine but I decided to write to God. So, every night I would get into bed and start, “Dear God.” At first it was a kind of laundry list of the day but then I think I started to write more about “stuff”. I always signed them, “love Linda.” I think around the same time I started calling God, Max. I wanted to personalize the vastness, the awesomeness. Now, back to why writing heals. It’s like purging. Getting out the poison, getting out the lies. Seeing your stuff in black and white. Concrete. It’s a relief. I remember before I got sober, over 20 years ago, writing a letter to my father. I had a big resentment that had festered. It was time to let it out. With a borrowed typewriter and my glass of wine (my drug of choice) I sat and typed. I typed over a four day period. Somehow I managed to slip in some good stuff. It was 8 pages long. Phew! I did it. I had tried to figure out how to get it to him as he can’t really read. But, the miracle was, at the end, when all was said and done, there was no need. The magic of pen to paper had worked. Freedom. It never got sent. It never got read. There was no need. Healing had happened.

[Note: In addition to the healing insight that comes from the writing exercises, part of what one learns in the Healing Power of Poetry class is how to express oneself authentically and effectively with words. Examples of evocative poetry are read and their effectiveness is explained. Inspired by the examples and the work of others in the class, novices begin sounding like seasoned professionals. To quote one regular participant: “In the class you learn to let it flow. You get better at getting out of your own way.” Poetry is just prose broken into lines for effectiveness, which is why poetry springs up prolifically in response to significant events like 9/11. Anyone can write poetry. A number of these poems were actually written by individuals who had rarely if ever written poetry before taking this class.]

Love Shredder by Angela Salgado

You pulled me apart
letter by letter

Each page of my heart
You put in the shredder

As I lay scattered in disarray
I found I had new things to say

The truth is that you set me free
To live my life more truthfully

After the prom I no longer go steady
I spread love around like New Year’s confetti.

Seeing My Mother by Steven Chee, MD, MPH

I walked into your office
and the couch which had become familiar like a pair of jeans waited for me I sat I took off my shoes removed my watch laid my wallet beside me and looked into your eyes you sat before me, waiting I spoke of my trip home of the moment I had seen my mother the moment she had picked me up from the airport she briefly questioned me about my flight and this time I saw her how her knuckles gripped the steering wheel her back rigid her chest 2 inches from the car horn her furrowed brow the oncoming traffic speeding past her the looks from the other drivers her myopic view I told and recounted this to the warm being in front of me I looked at her and I wept and wept and wept from a place no one had ever seen before and I knew that I had seen my mother

Stars by Steven Chee, MD, MPH (a transformational view of the previous piece)

The stars are my real parents
they are the ones to whom I belong
to whom I obey
to whom comfort me
they are the lap upon which I sit
they are the ones who rock me to sleep
they birthed me
they love me
and to them I will return
they tell me of their origins
of galaxies, super novas, distant solar systems, quasars, and all the such I do not understand them all but I listen like a child hearing Grandpa share that story one more time I know not my path I know not my next step but I know that back to them I will return for I am one of them

Imaginings by Anita Sircar, MD, MPH

The world offers itself to my imagination,
If I allow it to,
So allow it.
In the dark crevices of a hollowed vacancy,
Where the frailty of my own mortality lays framed,
Shines a tinkerbell,
Lays a looking glass,
Lives a wonderland,
Sails a pirate ship,
Stands a magic castle,
Echoes a fairy tale,
Told by myself,
For myself,
Waiting to unfurl,
Like a magic carpet ride,
Flying high above the landscape of my doubts down below,
Releasing the infinite possibility of where my reality can take me,
If I would only let my imagination lead the way.

Walking in a Park by John Seeman

When I hear birds calling to one another
on a warm spring morning
when the air is extra clear and clean
and light shines on flowers and trees and grass
in a way that makes everything appear brand new
my heart opens a little

And I wonder if
maybe today
I will meet you
and my heart will
be open enough
and brave enough
to say hello

My Father by Nancy Weiss

Darling Father,
you no longer know what I love
and how I live
(although you ask, “how are things in California?”).
Nor do you know
the challenges
and joys
of my days:
these matter no more.
But your heart
–pure and full–
trusts itself,
wraps itself around me,
and I crawl inside
my Daddy’s chest.
And your eyes twinkle when they look at me;
bid me enter,
and I soar inside
my Daddy’s gaze.
You, old man,
encased in silences
beyond context:
you ask nothing
but the presence of family
and the love of family
and your eye on the Good Lord.
A simple life, yours:
few questions pondered,
and always the march forward–
always forward;
you never looked back
nor wondered why;
progress, you sought,
one slow step at a time,
as day became night,
and work defined life.
Old man,
you may not remember me
sitting by your side
the moment I turn my back,
but still,
you wrinkle you nose
and curl your lips into smooch,
blowing I love you’s
everywhere.

Untitled by Bhalin Singh

I meet the stranger in a dark wood.
I am afraid.

His silhouette portends unknowing.
I approach because I must.

I sense, I see
more animal than man.

My heart pounds. Breath heaves.
I am near.

One more step, and
IT is gone.

I read that natives here worship
the Gorilla.

Now, I, too.

Untitled Poem of Healing by AnnElaine Cipriano

…the instructor asked that we find a poem that spoke to us and, using a line or two, create a poem of healing for ourselves. I had noted at the beginning of class that Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese was included in the poetry handouts. Using the first four lines of this poem, I wrote my prayer:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

Tell me about despair, yours,
and I will sing you a song about life, yours.
Tell me about sorrows and darkness, yours,
and I will weave you a tapestry of laughter and light, yours.
Tell me how you have failed
and I will show you the miracle you are.
Tell me how your life is not worth living,
and I will tell you you have so much
left to do.

Tell me how you are lonely and tired,
and I will sit by your side, hold your hand, put your
head upon my shoulder, and let you rest.

What Struck Me Was…Mrs. Fixit! by Marjoyrie Kunzle

What struck me was
Mrs Fixit
The poem Mrs fixit
By James Cavanagh
I’ve been diagnosed
A Mrs fixit
And I know that
She - Mrs fixit
Really does
Only
Want someone to really love her
And yes
To tell her now
I love you and
What can I do for you
Rather than you do for me.

You can STOP.
You can rest
You can STOP fixing it
Fixing everything
Fixing the pain
Fixing the world
Fixing the endless
Cries of pain
You can STOP it because
Guess what?
They have to fix it themselves!

You were misdirected
You were misinformed
You were wrongly trained
Guided as a child
To take on all those duties -
None of them had your name on
You knew your name but
Santa Claus called out Margaret
And not Marjorie
And so you didn’t go
Forward to get your gift.

Something was wrong
But what?
Better fix everything
Fix the lot.

Years later the effort
And the pain is too much
And bewilderment
Figures big
Why if I’m doing
And giving so much
Why?
Don’t I get loving
approval and thanks
and understanding back?

Why am I blamed and
Accused?
Why does it not work out?
Why are people always
telling me I’ve done
the wrong thing
and I try again,
to fix it
fixit fixit
fix it fix it

What if it does not
need fixing?
And I was just fed the wrong information
The wrong co-ordinates?
What if I’ve wasted 64 years
Fixing it
And it was all wrong?

Oh that’s another one!
I mustn’t get it wrong
I mustn’t do the wrong thing
I must get it right
And perfect too
All of that is teamed up with
Being loved
Or not being loved.
Rejected, ridiculed,
Spurned -
Made to feel a total disaster
Totally unacceptable and unloved

So that’s why James Cavanagh’s poem,
Mrs Fixit
Strikes a bell, a big note with me
But thanks to therapy
I know about wanting to
Be loved so much as a
Child and
Terrified of the punishment
of rejection and the
punishment of withdrawal of love—–

(Wait a moment, that behaviour)
I did that, I remember
To my sister Jen
6 years younger than me
I was probably 10 years or 11
And she 5 or 6
And I tell her
I’m dead
And lie dead on the floor
I tell her this to get her to do what I want.

That is the same, an enactment
Of the parent, my mother’s behaviour
towards me
withdrawal of love until I did what she wanted.

And then I spent the next 55 years
Fixing it for her and everyone
Just to be acceptable,
Just to be seen
Just to be loved
Just to be counted
Just to be included
Just to be acknowledged
Just to be counted.

The good news is I’ve been
Helped to find out
About my training
The ruthless destructive
Childhood training and that
I’ve spent the past 20 years with
A kind although not very
conscious but kind
and loving man
to enable me to find
who I really am
and to ask for the love I want
and to get to know
what it is I want -

I want to write
I want to be loved
I want to love others
I want to be nurtured
I want to fill in the gaping
Holes of non nourishment of
My childhood
And at this poetry workshop
I’m starting that infilling.