Vulnerability in Art (and Life).

There comes a point each summer where the weather is too miserable to be outside, so I sit inside flipping channels on TV, becoming increasingly agitated that all the good shows are on hiatus and WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? Then I see a commercial for So You Think You Can Dance, and the heavens part and angels sing and I rejoice.

Even though I forget about the show every year until it’s actually on air in front of my face, I am a huge SYTYCD fan. I’ve watched all but the very first season, and I could easily rattle off my favorite dances.

This year, one particular dance was added to my favorites list. It featured Amy, now a finalist, in a dance choreographed by and partnered with Travis Wall. You can watch it here if you’d like (though I know dance somewhat personal and will resonate with people differently). I watched her throw herself into the dance, emotionally and literally (see 1:32 in the video). With tears springing into my eyes as they finished the piece, I contemplated what exactly made her dance different from so many other less memorable dances on the show, and what it had in common with my other favorite dances.

All of my favorite pieces share one quality: The dancer in each holds NOTHING back. We are a witness to their emotion, their fearlessness, their trust in their partner. Their technical prowess is only a foundation for the true emotional artistry of the dance and intimate connection to be made with the audience. They don’t hold back, they’re hungry, they’re IN IT. They push beyond themselves far beyond performing a series of steps and movements. In short, they let themselves be completely vulnerable.

Vulnerability is a total buzzword these days. Much of the blog world I’m a part of is fully immersed in the Dr. Brene Brown fan club, myself included. I think it’s great and necessary for us to speak more openly about vulnerability and examine why we hold back. I mean, can we ever create great art of any kind if we aren’t willing to break ourselves open and let ourselves be seen?

In Cheryl Strayed’s “Tiny Beautiful Things,” one hopeful writer asks for advice about how to confront her self-doubts to become the kind of writer that she wants to be. In her response, Cheryl reflects on her own experience writing her own book and creates this image of a second heart beating within her chest. I love this idea-- that we have a living thing inside of us that we have to give life. I imagine there’s more than one writer who has felt that their book is a living, breathing part of them that exists outside their body. I bet every parent feels that way about their children. It takes bravery and humility to extract what lives inside and let it live on its own in the world. Another blog post I read this week phrased it so well: "You’re constantly turning yourself inside out, sifting through miles of debris for a nugget of gold. You bare yourself to the world, with no guarantee that the world will notice, or care. There is only one reason to do this: because you have to. Because a still, small voice inside of you is insisting that you have a story to tell."

I’ve been thinking a lot about this as I’ve advanced in age. In my experience, somewhere along the life line, many people transition from a state of childlike abandon to youthful idealism to disillusioned and cynical adult. So many people I know are bitter about politics and getting/keeping what they deserve, complacent about jobs that don’t fulfill them, chained to superficiality, a stranger to their own creativity, and generally disconnected from the universal language of the heart.

Over the past several years, I’ve felt tempted by this cynicism. It’s so much easier to put up those protective walls than to bare yourself to the risks that come with opening up. It’s easier to be the bully and quiet your own voice than to risk sharing it and have someone else judge or criticize you.

As I’ve grown to see how writing is becoming more of an important presence in my life, I’m coming face-to-face with the ways I’ve hardened. It’s often physically uncomfortable to write. I fidget like mad whenever I sit down, and I’m incredibly easily distracted by social media, which I know is just a way to avoid the feelings that are arising. I choose the comfort and ease of zoning out to Netflix far more often than I spend an evening writing.

I’m learning how to not run away from the vulnerable feelings. I know I’m a decent writer as far as the technical aspects go, but I still have a long way to go before I feel the words and the feelings come together on the page. This disconnect is similar to the way some SYTYCD dancers are flawless when it comes to the physical movement but still fail to connect with the audience. You can’t fake emotion, passion, and love no matter how skilled and perfectly poised you are. In fact, as Amy pointed out in a recent post, perfectionism is boring. As she says, “vulnerability is what makes us relatable and likable.”

As I’ve reached 30 years old, I’ve been surprised to notice that I’m more emotional than ever. I cry more easily and more frequently. I tear up at the sweetness of a little boy climbing the steep steps onto the school bus, his backpack almost as tall as him. I cry when I hear Katy Perry’s “Roar,” because I can just imagine a group of Mizzou college girls belting out I’VE GOT THE EYE OF A TIGER, A FIGHTER while wearing those fuzzy tiger-ear headbands and game-day t-shirts. I downright sob at commercials including any of the following: soldiers coming home, babies being born, people talking to far away loved ones, and anyone accomplishing anything of note (crossing a finish line, graduating college, etc).

Most likely due to the creeping cynicism I mentioned above, I think I assumed that I’d get less emotional as I got older, or at least get better at controlling (read: hiding) my emotions. I’m happy to find that the opposite is happening-- and I’m letting it happen. My body is not big enough to contain the love and sadness and joy and nostalgia and reverence I hold for this life. My tears are a witness to it all, and with some hard work, my pen can be as well.

But I don’t want to limit my relationship with vulnerability to my writing. I want my whole life to be a more honest display of  what’s inside. I’ll likely always be an introvert and therefore a little more guarded and quiet than I intend to be, but that shouldn’t stop me from being brave in my relationships, asking hard questions, telling people what they mean to me, commenting on the blog posts that choke me up (whether the author intended that effect or not), celebrating big and small moments, complimenting strangers, smiling at people I pass on the street, hugging the shit out of the people I love.

At the end of it all, I want you to be able to see my heart. And I hope you will show me yours.