After more than a decade as a curator, critic, and cultural worker, I hit a wall. People often told me how lucky I was to work in the arts—that it must be magical to be surrounded by creativity all the time. But behind that image was the reality of constant problem-solving, managing difficult personalities, and navigating rigid, often uncaring cultural institutions. I felt drained, disillusioned, and out of place. During the pandemic, I made a difficult decision: I left a secure job and salary to teach part-time and deepen my meditation practice.

 

Eventually, that path led me to Buddhist monasteries in Bacolod, Manila, and Kaohsiung, where I lived and practiced for three months. I studied sutras, meditated, chanted, and took part in the simple daily life of the monastery—learning to make paper art, sing, dance, cook, garden, and drink tea with mindfulness. I thought I might stay and ordain, but something held me back. Maybe life had a different kind of calling for me.

 

Later, I joined the second cohort of TAHI, the Expressive Arts Facilitation Program at The Arts & Health Institute Philippines. Over 10 months (with a short break for an art residency in New York), I found myself reconnecting with the arts—not as a field of specialization or expertise, but as a space for healing, connection, and human expression. Grounded in Sikolohiyang Pilipino and decolonial approaches, I gravitated toward hands-on practices: visual and tactile art, drama, guided visualization, and creative writing. This became Sining at Meditasyon at New York University in February 2025, and eventually, Likha at Linaw, held online in April 2025—a practicum, offering expressive arts and mindfulness for people experiencing displacements: those far from home, always on the move, or feeling uprooted in their lives.

 

The exhibition A Balm and A Bridge brings together the works of these participants: visual narratives, inner landscapes, and creative reflections on healing, clarity, and resilience. It’s not simply a compilation—it hopes to be a space of continuity and presence. As both facilitator and witness, I now engage with the works through deep listening and intuitive writing, approaching them phenomenologically and framing each encounter within prompts that honor every participant’s story. In expressive arts facilitation, a skillful prompt finds a middle ground: it gives just enough structure to hold someone, but leaves enough space for personal interpretation, imagination, and agency. The facilitator also carries a set of core values that shape the space they hold—choosing to witness without judgment, to contain with care, to affirm each participant’s truth, and to gently guide without control.

 

This is a collective offering, held with care: a balm and a bridge back to self and community. There’s a Zen proverb: “After Enlightenment, the laundry.” I return to it often. Art used to be something I took very seriously—structured, demanding, heavy as a wall. But I’ve come to see that it can also be soft, fluid, and simple. A line, a circle. Art could be like breath. Our work doesn’t end when we arrive at something; in many ways, that’s when it begins. There’s nothing we need to achieve—only something to return to and rediscover, again and again. 

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John Alexis Balaguer