Episode 13: Dragons, Veterans, and Healing Through Art: A Visit to the Warrior Storyfield

Welcome to the Carousel of Happiness Podcast. On today's episode, we learn more about the Warrior Storyfield project in Longmont, and how a veterans are being healed and shaped by a 16 ft. dragon, an 18 ft. phoenix, and the space in between. Join us for an exploration of the healing power of working with metal and fire.

Today's episode is sponsored by the fire-breathing folks over in the Dragon’s Lair.

Don't forget to vote for Mayor of the Carousel – voting ends May 26!

• Learn more about the Mayor Election and the perks of voting! (https://carouselofhappiness.org/mayor-of-the-carousel/) 
• Ready to cast your vote? Here's the link to the ballot. (https://carouselofhappiness.org/mayor-ballot/)

Want to learn more about the Warrior Storyfield?

• Check out their website. (https://www.warriorstoryfield.org/)

Want to adopt one of Cypress Willett's stained glass windows at the carousel?

• Click the link here. (https://carouselofhappiness.org/getinvolved/adopt-an-animal/)
• Check out more of her work on her website. (https://singingcypress.com/)

The Carousel of Happiness is a nonprofit arts & culture organization dedicated to inspiring happiness, well-being, and service to others through stories and experiences.

If you enjoy the podcast, please consider visiting the Carousel of Happiness online (https://carouselofhappiness.org/), on social media (https://www.facebook.com/carouselofhappiness), or in real life; or consider donating (https://carouselofhappiness.app.neoncrm.com/forms/general-donation) to keep the carousel and its message alive and spinning 'round and 'round.

If you have a story to share, please reach out to Allie Wagner at outreach@carouselofhappiness.org

Special thanks to songwriter, performer, and friend of the carousel, Darryl Purpose (https://darrylpurpose.com/), for sharing his song, "Next Time Around," as our theme song.

Transcript

Welcome to the Carousel of Happiness Podcast. I’m your host, Allie Wagner. 

It is election season at the carousel and things are starting to heat up. For those of you just joining us, Mayor Giraffe’s term is ending in May, and we are looking for a replacement mayor. Three of the most beloved carousel animals – lion, dragon, and pig – each have announced their candidacy in a flurry of puns and silly quips. 

This is not Washington politics as usual, this is Nederland politics – quirky, off-beat, and a little tongue in cheek. As the primary carousel news outlet, we’ve got your election coverage here on the podcast.  

Each vote for mayor is $1 and all of the money we raise between now and May 26th, is 100% tax deductible and goes directly back into the carousel to keep us spinning. There are so many ways to participate. You can vote – either online or in-person. You can become a Wonder Scout and rally others to vote. If you get 10 people to vote for the candidate of your choice, you get a free ride on the carousel. If you get 20 people to vote, you get a free t-shirt.

Perhaps you’d like to become a campaign partner. If you donate $100 or more to the candidate of your choice, you get a free 15th anniversary t-shirt and a mention on our website and this podcast. If you donate $250 or more, you get all of that stuff, plus a free copy of Scott Harrison’s new coffee table book, Carousel Soul. In it, he explains the story behind each and every carving in the carousel – the riding animals, the hitchhikers, the Somewhere Else Wall, all of it. If you’ve ever wondered why the rooster has a pearl necklace or why the cow has horns, you can find all of those answers, and more, in that book. Plus, Scott reveals some of his secrets for how he carved each and every animal and why.

Big shoutout to Larry and Jane McGrath, longtime donors and volunteers, who engaged in a little pork barrel spending and became campaign partners for Miss Piggy Stardust last week. Thank you so much. Oink, oink to you both.

And it’s not just pig that received some electoral love this week, we’ve had votes come in for both lion and dragon as well, which brings us to today’s episode. 

Last week, the Porcine Party to Elect Pig for Mayor sponsored a story about a local animal sanctuary just outside Nederland. You heard stories about their two sassy pigs, a baby yak, and a super sneaky dog. Plus, we had a conversation about the power of radical love and acceptance of all.

And because it wouldn’t be an election without a conversation about our troops, today’s episode is sponsored by the magical, fire-breathing folks over in the Dragon’s lair. They’ve taken their talons and their talents to this episode, bringing you a story about how a local dragon has helped veterans return home to themselves and heal from war. Today, you’ll hear a story about the Warrior Storyfield down in Longmont, and we’ve got a great episode about the healing power of art. 

Let us begin with today’s story.

GONG

When you enter the Carousel of Happiness and approach the front desk, on the right side of the counter you’ll see a metal stand with some butterflies. And, if you look closely, you’ll notice these aren’t just any butterflies. They are forged from metal and absolutely spectacular looking. With beautiful gold coloring, rich in texture, and formed as if they could fly away on their own. For most folks, that’s all they see. They see a beautiful piece of art in a gift shop to be admired.

But, if you look closely, you’ll notice a flyer nearby with more information about these butterflies and the people who made them. They are a product of the Warrior Storyfield in Longmont and part of a larger project that will absolutely take your breath away.

In 2013, artist Robert Bellows was a civilian artist working in metal sculpture. He was working on a private commission to build a metal rooster when two Iraq War veterans, Brad Gallup and Danny Moore, showed up in his shop. “Can we help?” they wanted to know.

Robert said, “sure,” thinking they’d stay for a day or two. And 9 months later, they were still there. They had shown up nearly every day to work on the project with Robert, learning how to forge and shape metal feathers, how to weld, and how to bring a piece of art to life.

And in between cuts and beads, the men talked about ghosts. About demons. About what it was like to come back from war. And it was through these conversations that these men, Robert included, found themselves changed. Robert noticed the vets were softer, more embodied, more relaxed. And he himself found a new artistic challenge. 

Slowly and gradually, over time, Robert gave the veterans more and more artistic agency and responsibility. He challenged them to make decisions about the work, he encouraged them to use their bodies to express the work, and he invited them to listen to the work itself. How did it want to be expressed? How did it want to be shaped? And, in doing so, Robert learned how to collaborate, how to delegate, and how to articulate his own unique way of making art to others. 

And, after 9 months, the private commission completed, the three men looked at each other and asked, “what’s next?”

And, for the next 12 years, they began asking some unanswerable questions. Like, “what does it take for a veteran to come home from war?” “What does it feel like to fight for your country?” “How does one carry the lessons of war back into civilian life?” “How do you protect and nurture a human heart?”

And, for the next 12 years, upwards of one hundred veterans, civilians, and their families have been contributing their own answers to these questions in the form of two massive metal sculptures. A 16ft dragon and an 18ft phoenix. Locked in a permanent stare down, eye-to-eye, with space in between.

In today’s society, there is pressure on all of us to know all of the answers, all of the time. The Storyfield is different. The intention of this work explicitly is to ask unanswerable questions and speak the unspeakable. Through these sculptures, participants are encouraged to reach into the depths of their guts, and the depths of their hearts, to express the emotions within. 

Robert knows the power of expressing what is within. While not a veteran himself, he struggled with depression as a young man, and tried everything to “fix it.” Therapy, drugs, even the “woo woo” stuff, he said. But the only time he felt genuine relief from his symptoms was when he was polishing a pair of pliers. There was something about the simplicity of it, the utilitarian nature of it, that gave him comfort. 

And when, as a teenager, he was given access to and free reign over a metal shop he began making metal sculptures. “Little junk sculptures,” as he called them out of whatever metal he could find. And, in doing so, he discovered that the other side of his depression was not happiness or joy, it was expression. Through his own personal expression he was able to lift himself out of the depths.

And he knew all of this when Brad and Danny arrived in his shop in 2013. After the private commission was completed, the men wanted to work on a piece that reflected themselves, the experience of veterans. And they told Robert they they wanted to make a ghost or a demon. 

Robert refused. Because, according to him, that wasn’t reflective of the men standing before him. They were neither ghosts nor demons. He saw in them something they could not yet see. They were complex human beings with depth and richness within. And, if the sculptures were to be about them, they needed to reflect that.

According to Robert, the beauty of art is its ability to dismiss filters, to ignore rank, to force its participants to feel what they don’t want to feel. To drop a line deep within themselves, and fish out what is festering inside.

In the end, they decided on a dragon and a phoenix. Locked eye to eye with space in between.

The dragon represents the warrior’s experience in training, in service, and at war. It is ferocious and focused. Intense and confident. 

But it is also fearful. And angry. Isolated. And betrayed.

The phoenix, on the other hand, represents the many transformations every warrior must face when they return to civilian life. The phoenix is vigilant, still scanning for potential threats. It is fierce, having come back from the depths of a crucible only a handful truly can comprehend.

But there’s also a softness to the phoenix. A tenderness and a slight clumsiness. Of a newly born being in the process of dusting off a throbbing, wounded heart to share with others. How does a veteran learn to trust again? How does a veteran learn to love again? Only the phoenix knows the answers to these questions.

And then, there’s the space between. A third sculpture seemingly without form. The space between the dragon and the phoenix was intentional. When complete, the dragon and the phoenix will be placed in a large park facing each other in an eternal stare. The space between these symbols will become a community gathering place. A sacred field of expression where art and healing can take place. Where veterans and civilians alike can listen to and share their stories of what it means to come home from war. What it means to come home to themselves. 

Last Friday, a group of carousel employees, board members, and volunteers visited the Warrior Storyfield for the first time. We had the opportunity to sit in conversation with Robert, as well as a handful of veterans and civilians who’ve worked on the project. Some of them have been working on the piece since its inception. Others have popped in and out. Each of them had their version of the “storyfield story” – the meandering list of synchronicities and coincidences that led them to the storyfield. The moment they were called.

We learned what it has been like for them to participate, what the sculptures mean to them, and how they’ve been shaped by the work itself. And, a handful of us got the opportunity to experience what it’s like to work with metal. We made butterflies and dragonflies just like you see in the carousel gift shop.

And that, was the story I intended to share with you on this podcast. The story of how others were shaped by this work of art. But, instead, I found it only fair to reflect on the way I was shaped by that visit, like so many others before me. 

The decision to visit the Warrior Storyfield was an entirely selfish one, I’ll admit. Because the question of how veterans heal is a very personal one to me. While I didn’t serve myself, I come from a long line of people who did and do. Military service is in my bloodstream. It is in my lineage. My father was a Navy pilot. My grandfather, a Marine. My cousin is an active duty Navy pilot, my brother works for a defense contractor. When I was little, the big family scandal was that my aunt chose to become a Black Hawk helicopter pilot. You see, that is how you rebelled in my family; you joined the army instead of the navy.

And, in 1981, in a Navy hospital out I came, all big, brown eyes and a big, throbbing heart. A touchy feely empath who did her best growing up to feel all of the feelings of the adults around her, as if to suck up their pain. There was so much grief in my household that I thought, if I could feel it all for them, if I could suck it all up inside me, maybe my parents wouldn’t be so sad. 

But learned quickly that feelings weren’t tolerated. And neither was error. Anything that could be done, should be done right. The first time you tried. 

No exceptions. No excuses.

Which is scary for a kid because, in general, kids don’t know how to do anything. They’re just learning how to be. But being a kid was not a justification for imperfection in my house. The bed was to be made. The grades to be achieved. All the time. 

No exceptions. No excuses.

And I learned pretty quickly to hide my feelings. From myself and from others. To tuck them neatly away, just like the hospital corners of my bedsheets, deep into my belly, deep into my bones. Feelings were weakness. Feelings were girl stuff.

Speaking of which, I was a girl. And that was also a problem. Because girls were not boys.

And I spent most of my life hiding who I was, not only from my parents and my teachers, but from myself. When I found out I was good at physics, my dad and my teachers were delighted. It didn’t matter that I hated it. It got me attention. It got me praise.

And a long line of meandering choices and decisions, all technically made by me, landed me in a windowless cubicle in a secure D.C. facility as an intelligence analyst for the military.

My dad was proud. I was miserable. 

But as anyone who’s ever made decisions on behalf of others knows, they tend to catch up to you. My body was destroyed, I was told I’d never be able to have kids. I was 28 years old. 

That year my mother and my step-father passed. And shortly thereafter, I left my government job intending to become a yoga instructor. Yoga had helped me learn how to hold space for my feelings and safely feel them. It helped my body heal. I had the courage to start writing.

My father’s response was to attempt to have me committed.

Turns out, studying downward facing dog is not grounds to hospitalize an adult woman. And while I was incredibly angry at the time, I understand it now.

My dad was terrified of the unknown. He was petrified of the gray area. He was scared of his own feelings. He went from his bedroom in my grandmother’s home to a dorm room at the Naval Academy. For the entirety of his life, decisions were made for him. He was told where to live and what to eat. He was given order after order, do this, don’t do that.

And that imprint trickled down to me. It shaped who I was, and who I am now. The military calls spouses and children “dependents.” My early life, my foundation was dependent on that of my father.

Being at the storyfield brought all of this to the surface. Hearing the experience of other veterans navigating uncertainty helped me extend more compassion to my late father. It wasn’t just him. Turns out, some of this is a byproduct of military service.

I listened to men explain how welding a feather or a claw allowed them to feel the violence within them without getting violent themselves. I learned how the act of showing up day after day, not being forced to talk, gave them space to learn how to talk. As I listened to these men share their experiences, I was given permission to share my own.

After our discussion, we had the opportunity to make art ourselves. Amy, our resident butterfly, chose to make a butterfly. Melody, the executive director, and I decided to make some dragonflies.

Have you noticed the stunning stained glass windows in the carousel? They were made specifically for the carousel by Cypress Willett, who is a civilian artist who’s been working on the dragon and phoenix for 3 years now. 

She always wanted to learn how to weld, and it turns out she’s pretty darn good at it. She was there during our visit and she helped Amy, Melody, and myself bring our little metal pieces to life.

I started first by pounding my dragonfly with a ball peen hammer. That’s what gives it that gorgeous texture. And, to my surprise and delight, Robert emphasized multiple times that there was no wrong way to make a dragonfly.

It was music to my ears. I could not get it wrong. I could not mess it up.

And, if I did. I could heat the metal and bend it another way. If I didn’t like what I saw, there was always a way to fix it.

Relief washed over me.

So, I started whacking my dragonfly. Whacking it with wild abandon. Whacking it for fun. Whacking it to see what it would do. Whacking it without consequence.

I was filled with curiosity. I was filled with awe. I felt like a kid. Not like I did when I was a kid, but like other kids felt when they were kids. So I’m told. What would happen if I tried this? Whack. What would it do if I got this part hot? Let’s try it and find out.

And I bent the metal this way and that. I tried hitting this way and that. It was so incredibly freeing to be in a space where there were no wrong answers. Where there weren’t any answers.

The only obligation, the only expectation, was that I was to be present and allow whatever was within me to express itself through the metal.

Robert encouraged me to yell and grunt. He encouraged me to feel inside my body and see what wanted to come out. 

Turns out, an ache in my solar plexus yearned to be expressed. Not surprising, as it is the location where human beings feel feelings. Where emotions are processed. And I’ve got a couple of lingering ones inside. 

And for the first time in as long as I can remember, the ache within me started to soften. The ache, which had been impervious to therapy and to yoga and to all of the other things that I had tried, started to release. Turns out, there’s nothing more healing then whacking a piece of metal.

And I’m not alone. The veterans who shared their experiences of working with Robert on the dragon and the phoenix recounted similar experiences. There was something about feeling the violence of it all, feeling the anger of it all, that allowed it to pass through me. As we drove back up to Nederland, my beautiful dragonfly sitting in the backseat, I realized I felt lighter. Like a heavy backpack was no longer on my shoulders. 

There’s this strange divide between those who have served in the military and those who have not. As civilians, we think it’s not “our problem.” We think the wounds our warriors bring back home do not have consequences for us.

But I am proof of the lingering effects military life can present to the loved ones of those who served. I am proof that service does not come without a price. I am one of the ripple effects of service members who don’t feel safe enough to express their pain.

But just like the phoenix, I am learning to come home to myself. I am learning that it is safe to drop a line deep within me and fish something out. I am learning it is safe to not know all of the answers. And the Warrior Storyfield, in just 5 hours, helped teach me that lesson.

Much like Brad and Danny, I am softer as a result of working in Robert’s shop. I am more embodied. I am more flexible, more malleable, and more expressive. As a result of being in a sacred space, with others who are exploring their own depths, I have come home to myself just a little bit more. In just 5 hours. Imagine the impact and imprint of those who have been working on the project for decades.

Because the storyfield is a place unlike no other. A place that encourages uncertainty. A place that allows someone to learn how to feel again. I am different because of my time there because I gave myself permission to be shaped and molded just like the metal. 

And my story is one of a hundred. Each person who has contributed to the project has their version of my tale. And those individual details and nuances are all captured in one 16ft dragon, one 18ft phoenix, and the space between them. 

If you, or someone you know, would like to participate in the Warrior Storyfield or donate to their efforts, please check out the show notes for more details. Also, if you know of a place where this work of art can be adequately displayed and celebrated, please reach out to Robert. They are in the process of finding a permanent home for the piece, and could use your help.

And those stained glass windows in the carousel? If you love them like I do, you have the chance to adopt one of them. Check out the link in the show notes. 

In the meantime, take care. Be well. And, as we like to say at the Carousel of Happiness, “don’t delay joy.” And we’ll see you next time around.