Gifts of the Swan

Transcending Old Barriers

Dear Fellow Dreamer,

This letter is about recognizing that the stories we tell ourselves have huge impacts on our lives. And that if we’re stuck, we can change those stories. In a society still largely (and all too obviously) patriarchal, the time is now to re-examine the stories we’ve been conditioned to believe about ourselves. Regardless of our gender, we each have an opportunity to bring forth healthy feminine and masculine energies in order to help ourselves and our world find greater balance. Transforming toxic energies into expanding awareness and actions for true healing and growth may be the most important challenge of our time.

Today I’m sharing a brief account of a personal setback—how I’ve lived with that story, and worked with it. I hope you’ll find it relatable. I’m also sharing a short excerpt from a chapter in my book, Birdlight: Freeing Your Authentic Creativity. It’s called “The Swan: Freeing Recognition,” and it’s about determining how we see ourselves and others, and who we choose to become, regardless of our current circumstances.

Photo by Fabio Jock on Unsplash

Scene Study

When I was a 22-year-old actress beginning to work on professional stages, edging my way past years of performing in university shows, I was also an avid audience member in Toronto theatres of the 1980s. Beyond the city’s few big commercial establishments pulsed a vibrant community of artists playing to smaller houses. For me, those intimate spaces were always best. I worshipped at the “church” of the black box-style venue, reinvented for each production, and the players who brought me to wonder. Back in those days, it was too early for me to see what I’d known as a child. I was a writer.

So, I followed actresses whose work I loved. Women older than I, with intensity, great emotional range and sensitivity, and impeccable timing. Honestly, I never imagined myself going beyond the world of those early stages. No New York. No L.A. No Stratford, either—not really, though I may have given it a shot. I had an agent. And I may have had film aspirations, but I had no vision of a life acting for the screen. In fact, I didn’t have a vision at all—beyond the hopes that arose with each audition, and taking what came. I was simply acting. Aiming to hone my craft. And even when the scripts I was given were mediocre, which they often were, I sought the “truth” in every character.

There was an actress in the city’s small-stage circuit who got my attention, made me laugh, kept my eyes fixed on her edgy-as-the-crow presence—all leather, spiky hair and boots—her comic ferocity. Her command. When an opportunity arrived to apply for her scene study class, I jumped. Suddenly, there I was with her—in an upper-storey studio, in one of my favourite places, studying the work of a great playwright.

My new teacher gave us an exercise she’d learned from another actor out west. Not only were we to deliver the lines from our script, but we were also to state our character’s emotions and to describe their gestures as they were happening.

It was hard for me.

But my scene partner hit his marks. A confident, nuanced performer, he’d go on to have a career in theatre. Yet I was struggling—baffled by the task, perhaps because having to think of emotions took me away from feeling anything beyond low-level anxiety. Or, perhaps because accessing emotions on demand was tough in those days. Out of school, I’d begun to feel older, unaware that I was still so young. So close to the formation of injuries I didn’t even know I had. Close to unacknowledged heartbreaks. Inside addictions I couldn’t see.

I had natural ability and could act reasonably well—well enough to earn awards throughout school, and to continue yearning to perform so I could inhabit other people’s lives. But in that moment, in front of the actress in charge, whom I revered, and beside the actor who took to his part with ease, my strengths seemed to vanish. Did I have any?

Detached from intuition, I kept trying to fulfill the task of delivering the right lines and gestures, my voice weirdly monotone, pausing to ask myself—What was my character thinking and feeling? What was she doing?

Then suddenly, abrasive—as though scrubbing the air clean of me—came the acting teacher’s voice: “WHY ARE YOU SHITTING ON THE TEXT?”

We froze.

Had she really said that? In front of everybody?

The instructor took a step closer, arms folded, chin raised, glaring at me.

In that moment, I had no trouble accessing how I felt—that sick pit-under-the-ribs sensation. “I don’t understand.”

She repeated her question, all caps. But whatever she said afterward didn’t reach me. She might as well have been reciting the national anthem. I had no idea. My expression blank, I was numb. Gone.

I remember after the class ended, how the other actors gathered around me. They were speaking softly, trying to be kind, not wanting the teacher to overhear. I remember the pale blue eyes of my scene study partner, his gentle smile.

And I remember exiting the building, stepping into the fall night air. Dragging on a cigarette in the dark, walking alone through the Annex in my grey suit, though something of me must have remained on the studio floor and ceiling tiles, on the roadside trailing from trees, part of me spread thin as a web I couldn’t shake, or remake.

Five days later, I phoned the actress to ask for her apology. She scolded me again—this time, for not calling sooner. How could I have waited so long? She’d been way out of line, she told me. Thought I’d been trying to undermine her approach. “I was sure you’d have called me days ago.”

At the start of our next class, she apologized to me in front of the group, again stressing that last week, she’d assumed I’d been critical of her exercise. She hadn’t realized that I’d been struggling. Because, she said, I seemed so confident.

Did I smile? She was courageous. And of course, I accepted her apology. We must have laughed a little. And we moved on.

Except, a part of me didn’t move on.

A part that would for years keep telling me:

I could be better.

I should be better.

I must be better.

Photo by Molly Blackbird on Unsplash

The Stages of a Story

Let’s face it. We’ve all experienced moments like the ones I just described. Times when we were singled out and felt humiliated. Incidents when we were triggered—by a psychological complex, perhaps, which may have happened with the teacher who read my struggle as tacit criticism. A passive-aggressive kind of attack. And so it goes—attack, counter-attack. And even after things are “resolved,” so often the open wounds of resentment remain. I have no idea what that acting teacher’s experience was after our encounter. But I’d be willing to bet she felt as awful as I did.

As a young woman, I would tell the tale of our exchange very differently than I do now. I would see the incident as an outrageous affront—sharing the story with a few close friends, repeating it again, with a couple of others, and finally, repeating it only in my mind. Again, and again. Her apology, proof that I’d been wronged. And that as a penalty, she’d been embarrassed. Regretful.

But the self-doubt and toxic shame I experienced weren’t part of the narrative I ever voiced to my friends or even to myself. I held those contractive waves down deeper, where they lived under the surface. To be fair, they’d been living inside me for years before that teacher came along. Her actions, unskillful as they were in the moment, only excited negative emotions that were already exerting a force within me. Retelling my victim story raised my doubts of not belonging—the idea that I somehow didn’t have what it took to be an artist. Yet in my “off-stage” righteous indignation, I didn’t want to recognize the destructive effect that thinking of myself as a victim was still having on me.

There are stages of grief. And you could say, back then, that even if the event had never occurred, I wasn’t ready to face the sadness and self-doubt in my shadow.

At a later phase, I thought of the scene study episode differently. After working for years as a professional teacher, I attempted to view the memory as a gift. An affirmation that skills specialists, including professional artists, often lack the training and awareness necessary to be highly effective teachers. Yet while I’ve witnessed examples of that over the years, I also know that there are many great artist-teachers working in their fields. And that my story of what had happened still fell short of what it needed to be, in order to release me from its hold. Under the surface, the person I was mad at most, even in my revised narrative, was me. An old part of me that wished I’d been better, and still felt bitter and doubtful. A part I needed to forgive.

It was only after I embraced my own artistic work fully, whole-heartedly, as a writer—engaging in coaching to help raise my awareness and build the resilience necessary for overcoming obstacles—that I was able to forgive that teacher and myself. In doing so, I found peace.

Today, if I were to meet that actress again, I’d give her a hug. Because I choose to believe that as two women and passionate creators, not so very far apart in age, we came together in that class to help each other—though likely neither of us saw it that way at the time. Furthermore, if the actress is still teaching, as many artists do, I choose to hold a vision that she’s a wonderful teacher—one who’s learned much along the way, as I hope I have, including how to take deep breaths (as I must do) when situations trigger anger. I see us both as humble to the process of learning, doing our best to create good work, and helping others to do the same. For me, keeping an open mind, not just about my own potential for growth, but about hers—the other person’s—that’s the true gift from that long-ago scene study class. And a way forward.

What follows is the Birdlight excerpt I mentioned earlier, including a few questions. Let me know if this letter resonates, and if you’ve learned through an experience similar to the one I’ve just shared. Let me know if you’re stuck and struggling in an old story. Any and all heart-centred responses are welcome.

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From Birdlight…

The Swan: Freeing Recognition

“Endurance is a gift, not a trial.”

—Joan Halifax

Creating Your Self and Your World

You have the power to create the story of your experience. This is an essential understanding, and one I encourage you to return to habitually as you navigate the beautiful journey of your life. This ability to hold the thought you choose in the face of present circumstances is an awesome gift. You can shift from reacting to life’s facts to responding thoughtfully and skilfully from your creative centre. With awareness and practice, any of us can learn to hold to our truth, regardless of the facts. This book is about learning to see the beauty in all experience, even in the face of apparent challenges and setbacks. It’s about recognizing and honouring a creative calling, and staying faithful to it. Those are not the words of a Pollyanna. They are not mere “cheer up, be positive, things will turn out fine” words, but a serious and sober directive. The advice to respond rather than react to life’s challenges may at first seem simplistic; indeed, the process is simple. But it is not easy.

Making the shift from programmed reacting to thoughtful, creative responding requires commitment, open-mindedness, and a willingness to experiment. Repetition is the key to mastering any skill. When employed repeatedly, the process of responding rather than reacting makes a breakthrough not only possible, but welcome. We cannot engineer breakthroughs in our lives, but we can make them welcome. Trust in possibilities that you still can’t see from your present vantage point by learning to see all the good in your present situation. Seeing with new eyes is nothing short of grace.

The swan is a traditional symbol of grace. It is also, of course, the creature whose self-recognition we celebrate in Hans Christian Andersen’s classic children’s story “The Ugly Duckling.” Ted Andrews identifies the swan as the totem of the child, the poet, the mystic and the dreamer: “It can show how to see the inner beauty within yourself or in others, regardless of outer appearances.” I love the invitation in the words “how to see.” Here, the creative possibilities are expansive; we are encouraged to read beneath the surface of appearance, into the depths of meaning that only we can make. Stephen Farmer picks up on this message in his book Power Animals when he encourages us to witness not only our own inner beauty but the beauty which surrounds us. “You’re no ugly duckling. Neither is your world, even with all its dark and shadowy elements,” writes Farmer. “It’s always for you to choose to notice the magical dance of shadow and light in all its mystery and allure, without fear of judgment.” Whom do you see when you look in the mirror? How do you feel about the face staring back at you? Where are you in your magnificent story?

Quote of the Week:

“Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.”

—Pablo Picasso

Video of the Week:

What’s Ahead:

In the next couple of letters, I’ll share more on the topic of the stories we tell ourselves, offering suggestions for “revision,” release, and vision work. On the final Friday of the month, paid subscribers will receive my third talk in the Wonders Within series. (Details to follow soon.) The first two videos, “Wings for Dreaming: How to Receive, Write, and Soar with Your Creative Vision” and “Begin Right: Aligning Vision and Soul,” are now available for anyone who upgrades to the paid track. Ranging from 45 - 55 minutes, these immersive presentations offer prompts for quiet reflection, journalling, and greater clarity of vision and action steps. Join here:

Having a vision you love, and the creative confidence to act on it, is liberating. I hope you’ll take advantage of these trainings, especially now, unlocking powerful tools for transformation and fulfillment.

I’m grateful to you, dear subscriber. Thank you for being here.

Robin