All of the Feelings in Okemah
Poets and musicians are the real reason god made Oklahoma
After a moving morning of poetry and music at the Ofuskee County Historical Society, I was in the enviable position of not knowing who to hug or talk to first. My long-time Woody friend Barry sat down beside me, and then Cathy had a moment for a hug during her David Amram sherpaing duties. I snagged quick conversations with several of the poets whose readings had touched me.
And then I spotted Bonnie Whitmore, a musician I adore and didn’t expect to see, so I had to butt in and talk to her for a minute. All of this while the poets were clearing out, and the stage was being switched for a panel discussion on musicians and mental health. Since Bonnie was on the panel along with Betty Soo and Adeem the Artist, I decided to stick around, along with my new poet friend Emily.
Led by photographer Chad Cochran, founder of the I Didn’t Want to Tell You project, which works to destigmatize conversations about mental health, he led the musicians in a conversation about how the musicians manage conditions like ADHD and depression through the ups and downs of their work.
Soo could have been speaking directly from my brain about how the combination of an unstructured home life and the structured life on the road benefits her ADHD. I felt that on an atomic level. As much as I joke about being the Type B traveler without itineraries or plans, there’s a structure to travel that makes me far more productive and much more likely to get out of my pajamas than my life at home, especially since I lost the structure of working on someone else’s schedule.
But Whitmore’s the one who got my heart when she started crying early in her talk. Not only did she not apologize, she explained that she’s learned that her easy tears are a part of who she is, unrooting them from the shame that nearly always accompanies public crying for those of us who are on the emotionally extra side.
Being emotionally extra? That’s fine. That’s a part of who we are. It’s a part of our sensitivity that makes it possible to write songs and poems and perform them in a way that touches people and helps crack them open, which is what art should do.
Whitmore talked about how creative acts can help manage symptoms, and I remembered a time when one of her songs gave my ragged feelings a place to rage when I needed it.
I raised my hand to share, and immediately started crying.
For once, crying with all these eyes on me felt just fine. So I acknowledged that yep, I’m a crier, too, and kept talking.
During an L.A. trip a few years ago, I went into a panic disorder tailspin one day. One of those situations where my overworking, overthinking anxiety brain had me convinced I had fucked up one of my most important relationships, leaving me feeling unloved, unlovable, unwanted, and foul. I found myself driving around, scream- and sob-singing my favorite song by Bonnie (and co-writer Jaimee Harris, who was also at Woodyfest) on repeat:
Is that okay, honey? Are you looking for the exit sign? Are you coming with me? Know whatever you decide I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'll be fine.
That repeated mantra, the holy words I’ve always used to calm myself, “I’ll be fine…” sung in her beautiful voice that builds to a phenomenal howl at song’s end, remains a source of both comfort and power for me when I need it.
I don’t know what catharsis writing “Fine” might have brought, or if there was a situation that inspired the song. But I know the other half of the story, the part where this song has repeatedly mended me. Especially on a day when I hated myself so much all I wanted to do was crawl out of my skin and into someone else’s, leaving what was left of me on the side of the road for vultures.
Not that I said this quite so eloquently on Saturday. It’s hard to talk on the fly about your worst feelings while boo-hooing in front of a room full of strangers that includes some of your favorite musicians. But I think I made my point, adding my own mental illness to the mix.
Adeem mostly added comic relief. Bless them for that.
The panel didn’t last nearly long enough. I would have loved to have seen some of Cochran’s photography from his I Didn’t Want to Tell You project. I’ll do that on my own, and hopefully our paths will cross again. Maybe in Okemah. Maybe somewhere else. You just never know who you’ll meet on the road, and what they might get out of you that needs to be out.
Torrential rains were moving into Ofuskee County, making the vertigo from the migraine that started the morning before even worse. I quickly hit the road after the panel, making my way to Tulsa for a quiet, stormy night in a cozy hotel room with Mexican take-out and poetry reading practice. Going to sleep early so maybe I wouldn’t be dizzy on stage at the Woody Guthrie Center the next day, secure in the knowledge that I’d be fine.
Want to support without the commitment of subscribing? You’re welcome to buy me a coffee. It’s my favorite currency.