Getting Free

Maybe it’s a mix of getting older and being an American in these weird times, but I felt nothing on the Fourth of July this year. It’s not that Independence Day ever really meant that much to me, aside from an opportunity to eat grilled meats and party down. It never did stir me in my feelings. But there always was a sense—even just a little one—of shared experience, an awareness between all of us that this was a day signifying something good, something redeemable about us. This one didn’t even come with a whimper; just a dud.

But The Fourth did tug at my attention as it approached last week, pulling me to one word: Freedom. I’m not going to say anything about the millions (billions?) of people living and dying under serious oppression right now; because I don’t think it’s my place and I don’t have the answers. What I can reflect on is the degree of freedom I do have and my responsibility to use it wisely, and I can re-commit to getting even more free as I grow into my future.

My dad tells the story of my “Old Nana Gaughan” and her immigration to the States with veneration and pride. Catherine was a bottle washer in the west of Ireland, 19 years old and set to become engaged to a man she didn’t like. Her older sister had secured a ticket on a ship out of Ireland, where their family—poor, Catholic, barely literate, and involved in the violence of a civil war—had struggled for generations. At the last minute, Catherine’s sister sacrificed her spot on the ship, giving my future great-grandmother a ticket out.

For a long time, I failed to be grateful for Catherine’s courage—and for that of my 5 other Irish immigrant great-grandparents. If I acknowledged how brave they had been and how hard they had worked to give their children better lives, and if I recognized I really did have this same strength in my bones, then I’d have to be brave and do the hard work, too. It was easier to be angry about what I didn’t have, about the unfairness of the world, and about my powerlessness to live a big and abundant life. It was easier to sulk, to drink, to ignore the bills, to make myself small in the company of unwholesome people.

As I’ve been sharing my writing and artwork for a year now on Substack and have been engaged in so much “creative recovery,” I’m astonished by the depth of my fear—fear of failure, embarrassment, poverty—but I’m also astonished by my ability to face it. To take the ticket I’ve been handed in life and GET ON THE DAMN SHIP. If Catherine could face her fears and grab that chance at freedom, leaving behind everything she ever knew, then so can I.

Maybe making collages, doodling, writing little essays, and forming clusters with other artists and writers isn’t going to end global conflict or save democracy. But I imagine that if we—those of us with the freedom to create—could dig down within ourselves, beneath all those fears and inhibitions, to bring out something true and beautiful, then we might have a better shot at it. When I set aside time to create and actively challenge the fear of “what they’ll think of me,” I become a better person; my thoughts are less catastrophic, my heart is more open, and I’m empowered to speak and act authentically. The more free we are, I think, the more our talents and perspectives can be a service to those around us.

My ears have the freedom to hear the call of intuition, my eyes have the freedom to see things as they really are, my mouth has the freedom to speak with integrity and intention, and my hands have the freedom to give shape to whatever comes through them. Taking this for granted and sitting idly on this gift, I dishonor myself and my ancestors, as well as all the people who have these basic entitlements taken from them.

While this year’s Fourth of July lacked the usual sense of connection, I’ve marked it down in my own personal history as a day of gratitude for the freedom I have, which I vow not to take for granted. There’s much letting go yet to be done, but this task is a gift and it’s not worth wasting.

Catherine. <3

Thanks for reading!