This past weekend I spent three days surrounded with creative souls from all over the country. They had come to visit Bedlam Farm, the home of Jon Katz, the best-selling author and his wife (and fabric artist) Maria Wulf. Every year, the two of them open their farm to visitors and fans. They do this twice a year, once in the early summer, and once right at the peak of fall color here in New England. This year, in addition to the open house, they also sponsored a Creativity Conference spearheaded by Lisa Dingle, where there were classes on writing, poetry, blogging, photography, art, and music.

Over the three days of conference and open house, I mingled and talked with writers and artists in every genre you can imagine. There were people who do all kinds of crafts and photographers and storytellers. There were soulful people who would not call themselves creative, but who probably are, that came to experience the animals and places of Jon’s books.

There were things to do and see. Jon did exhibitions of sheep herding with his two border collies, and there were sessions on shearing sheep, shoeing donkeys, and the use and history of draft horses. I have been going to these for three years now. First as sort of a visitor, drifting on the fringes of the group, and then, as I have come to know many of the people there, more as part of the creative family that has developed.

Saturday, one of them, Deb Rahalski, gave me a gift, the Japanese teacup in the picture.

She gave it to me, she explained, because one of my stories, The Chinese Teacup, had touched her deeply. The main character in that story is a small Japanese woman, who suffers a terrible loss, and finds her way back. Throughout the story, teacups emerge as symbols of life, and ultimately hope. Deb recently went back to Japan, and her story is full of temples and discovery. This teacup too, had a story of serendipity and chance, and she shared it with me as I opened it.

Most artists I know, no matter what their genre, do what they do because it’s a passion. There’s a need to do it. I write, for instance, because it is how I sort out my world. I am not good at sorting things out directly. I could go into all the reasons why, thanks to a wonderful therapist that took me through years of hell to find deeper self, but the why are not as important than the fact. For me, thoughts and feelings struggle to get emotions and thoughts out. They struggle to sort themselves into rationality by the normal paths. I struggle to make sense of what’s happening in my head and heart.

For me, writing helps. It’s powerful therapy and I write constantly: Journals, poems, fiction, and professionally, even copywriting and magazine writing.

Somewhere along the way, I came to realize that far from being something to keep to myself, my struggles and stories had the ability to touch others. Not everyone of course, but there are people that my words resonate with, partially because I am decent writer, and partially, perhaps mostly, because in the end, we all go through similar struggles in our lives. So many of the things and emotions we all go through, the people around us are going through as well. Only, we don’t realize it. We think we are going through it alone. That we are unique. That our stories are unique.

They really aren’t.

What IS unique is how we share our stories. And how we hear the stories of other. Some things I write touch some people deeply. Some things I write leave people flat. The same is true for any way we choose to share who and what we are, be it paintings, crafts, calligraphy, photographs, music, fabric art, all of it. It doesn’t matter if what I do hits the whole world. There’s no way it could. But when I know it’s touched someone, anyone, then it gives my story, my struggle, purpose.

Deb left a note with the teacup that was articulate and heartfelt about the story and why it had touched her. What she could not have known, even though there was nothing in the story that looked like me at all, is that this particular story was my own life story. A story of brokenness and the slow path back. Putting it “out there” was hard for me. It felt vulnerable publishing it. And I am no different than anyone else – vulnerability is scary as hell.

But her gift, and her note even more, gave my story purpose. It didn’t matter if it was good or bad, it had made a difference. It mattered.

When you read something. When you are touched by a piece of art. When a singer in a choir or festival stirs your heart, tell them. Stay after the show. Write them a note. Make a comment. Let them know you were touched. Tell them why. When you do you encourage them. You alleviate the little child fear most of us have when we expose our truths. You give them purpose and permission to keep doing it. You let them know that the vulnerability most of feel has meaning. You help them understand they matter. And in doing so, you will find that you matter too, that the emotion you felt as you read or watched or listened has not been yours alone, but that it also has purpose.

It’s a cycle of encouragement that costs nothing and is life giving. And in today’s world, encouragement is rare, and because of its rareness, of precious value. And you help lift that creative person and give them the courage to expose their heart and create again.

And that is worth everything to most of us.

We live in a world that seems to thrive on cycles of destruction. Politics. Relationships. Companies. Even faiths and religions. It’s so easy to tear down. It’s harder, more intentional to encourage. But imagine a world where encouragement was the norm.

What would blossom? What wonderful things would emerge? How many wounded hearts would be healed? It’s a staggering thing to think about. And yet, each of us can make that difference. It’s not hard. It costs nothing. But it does take intentionality.

Scary? Or exciting? To have that much power?

Be well. Travel Wisely.

Tom