Inspiration . . . Or, I’d Rather Be Breaking Plates . . .

by Deidre Lorenzo

Someone made me a license-plate frame that said, “I’d Rather Be Breaking Plates” . . .   I got some strange looks driving around, though that might not have been solely from the words on the back of my car.

I wasn’t prone to big fits of pique where I’d throw the crockery (at least not very often;-).  I wasn’t Greek, either, though I’m not sure if Greeks still do toss their plates down after a particularly fulfilling dinner…or if they ever did.

No, I was all about breaking plates for therapy. Art therapy, specifically- Pique Assiette, or broken plate mosaics. There was unbelievable stress in my life, and I wanted – needed – to do something destructively creative with it.

It was the mid 1990’s and you couldn’t go anywhere without stubbing your toe on a colorful stepping stone, decorative rabbit, mailbox or kitchen table.  They were astonishing, whimsical, festive, and I was completely hooked.

I was attracted to the mindful attention to detail, paired with the freedom of physically breaking apart what was, and gluing back together what could be in a creative game. I was playing with possibility, on all levels.  I got out of my head, and made time and space to create with colors and shapes that pleased my soul.

Breaking plates became fun, and necessary for my mental health. I went from a smash-and-grab approach, with a hammer and paper bag, to using tools which made precise and calculated de-construction possible… Anyone who knows me from that time might see parallels with my emotional process, searching for and practicing with tools and creativity to fix what had blown up.

I needed a break, literally. I was going through a pretty nasty divorce for even nastier reasons. My daughter was just starting school, and I was finishing my college degree, and working full time to pay for it.

Those late nights after all of our homework was done, while she slept and I couldn’t, those were the hours I needed to connect with my shattered spirit. I wanted so desperately to re-construct my life. To take what was broken and make something beautiful from the pieces… To let inspiration guide me up and away.

In the end, friends were gifted my art-therapy creations, and I moved on, mentally and emotionally.  I had found my aliveness, my spark again, and was making something beautiful from my life.

I’d laugh with rueful fondness whenever I encountered one of my projects (usually collecting dust in someone’s backyard), but I knew the process was more important than the product. The utter ridiculousness of playing with my hands and creative spirit in dark times had gotten me through them.… I moved on, and I moved away, and my plates and tools and projects just didn’t fit into the moving van or my new life.

Fast-forward twenty years. I’ve got my degree, and my daughter is past college. I’m married to the love of my life, running a successful, fulfilling doula practice, surrounded by amazing friends…life had challenges, but I was the happiest I’d ever been.

Then my mom passed unexpectedly, my dad moved in with us, and we began hospice care for him at home… A year later, I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and every aspect of our lives- emotionally, financially, our relationship, our future…all broke apart. Then my dad passed… It was a deep, dank hole and the climb was steep, to give you the short version. We were lucky.  I responded to double mastectomy, chemo and radiation, my sweet husband and I stuck through it together, and dear friends and family pulled us out and into the light.

I’m through treatment now, just follow-ups and prevention. My health and my hair are coming back, I’m slowly learning how to balance the work I love with self-care and a focus on joy in the moment.  My husband and I are working towards post-traumatic growth, together and in our own lives… It’s harder than we thought, but we’re taking the busted pieces and cementing them back together in new and beautiful ways.

Even though the circumstances are completely different, I feel similar to the way I did in those dark times twenty years ago. I’m missing that spark of joy I used to wake up with, before cancer.  To open my eyes and feel truly alive, just because I am…

I’m looking for that muse within myself again- there’s plenty of external motivation out in the world, though there’s heartache too. I have to choose, every chance I get, to reconnect with what fills ME up instead of what could tear me down… To reconnect with what feeds me, not eats me.

I crave innovative re-construction, to physically put the puzzle of my life back together. I’m going to nurture and blow lightly on that spark of inspiration, to create a revolution so bright in my heart nothing can snuff it out.

Maybe I also need to break the shit out of some plates… after all, one person’s birthday gift can be someone else’s art therapy, right?   Process, not product, as the mantra goes.