RETURNING TO THE NEST

By Carla Beatrice

It was a clear and crisp day in early spring. The nest spent the winter in a dark storage facility. It needed to be revitalized, and I knew exactly what to do; go back to the nest’s birthplace on the ocean. The path there was barren since new growth was yet to emerge. Brooke, my nest builder ally, told me she felt the path was like an umbilicus leading to the nest’s wombspace, birthing new life.

I remembered this as I led three new survivor friends down the path. Claire, Jen, and Joanne traveled from afar to be there with me. We enjoyed the ocean view together, cut and dragged new vines up and out, ready to be added to the nest’s next two days’ events at Boston’s State House and Beverly’s Cabot Theatre. New art flanked the sides of the nest this spring; collages inspired by survivors’ writings.

What we all experienced together was new but also familiar to me, echoing the gathering in September 2021 for the Survivor Nest Project. New bonds were formed. We nurtured each other in the most profound ways — through tears, laughter, and the quiet spaces in between. Powerful and poignant moments emerged. I felt the magic again, the magic that comes about every spring when nature wakes up.

As long as we tend to the nest, more and more of us will find each other and healing through the arts will continue. Thank you nest for bringing Jen, Claire, and Joanne down your path!

Love, Carla

Simply put, the nest is a home.

I grew up in Massachusetts, and as soon as I graduated high school, I needed to get as far away as possible. I was never going to return…. Until I did. Eleven years ago, to be exact. Instead of going to my hometown, I went to the cemetery. The Seaside Cemetery in Gloucester. As I drove up, I whispered, “Nonno, I’m back”.

Nonno is Italian for grandfather. My grandparents, immigrants from Italy in 1940, lived in Watertown, close to Boston, but wished to be buried facing the ocean, towards their home country across the Atlantic. Nonna, who made the best homemade lasagna ever, taught Italian at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education and Nonno, who enjoyed drawing, took some art classes there. Nonno was a doctor at Mount Auburn Hospital, and one of the few who still made house calls.

Simply put, a nest is nurturance.

When I was almost five my grandfather had a debilitating stroke, leaving him speechless and half of his body paralyzed. I became the helper, and the observer during the ten years my mother and grandmother took care of him. “Nonno, what’s my name?” I’d say as part of his speech therapy. “Carrrr-la” I would say. “Naaaaaa-Na”, was his answer.

Nonna was determined to rehabilitate him at home, so she invited the art teacher from the Cambridge Center to give him private sessions. I witnessed those lessons, in awe.

You see, to 5-year-old me, art was magic. I watched as this real-life artist made magic happen with a pencil—right there, at the kitchen table. You see, I loved to draw too.

Simply put, a nest is safety, and connection.

Now what does this all have to do with that nest, right there? My story now brings me to Rockport. 11 Story Street, to be exact.

Shortly before the stroke, my grandparents bought a house in Rockport, hoping to retire there. I spent the summers going to Front Beach with my grandmother, getting taffy at Tuck’s Candy House, selling lemonade with my brother at the ballpark down the street and hearing that loud siren call to the volunteer firemen.

My grandmother was cooking lasagna. A special guest was coming over for Sunday dinner. Nonna wanted to thank the art teacher for helping my grandfather. Lessons ended for him, since his abilities had waned, but on that day, that summertime day, when I was six and a half years old, the adults decided that private art lessons would start for me.

Imagine my excitement when the art teacher offered to do my portrait. I remember rushing upstairs to pick my prettiest shirt. It was light blue cotton, scoop neck, with an eyelet ruffle. I remember sitting with my back straight in my grandfather’s smooth, wooden chair, at the head of the table.

That man with the magic was looking at ME. That man who could help me become a famous artist was now going to teach ME. It was a dream come true.

Seymour drew me out and he drew me in. Both literally and figuratively. He drew the excited innocent child. And, he drew the hidden, sexualized, already abused by incest child. With that magic pencil, Seymour was able to put me under a spell.

Art was everything to me. Art is what brought me alive. Now Seymour and the attention he gave me became everything as well. Now Seymour brought me alive. My perpetrator groomed me and sexually abused me for nine years. He told me I was special, wise beyond my years; he told me we were soul mates. He told me other things too.

He told me that I was inappropriate when he ended our art lessons at the beginning of high school. I was inappropriate. It was my fault. That crushed me. I felt dead inside. I couldn’t draw anymore.

My dream betrayed me. My dream became my nightmare. And when 18 came, I flew the coop.

Tell me, how inappropriate is it for a child to want a home, to want nurturance, to want safety, and to want connection?

Simply put, incest and childhood sexual abuse is far from simple.

But a nest? A nest is a place to heal all of that.

I needed to come home. Come home to myself. Come home to the exiled artist. And “come out” as a survivor.

I couldn’t do it alone. I brought together a group of artists, advocates, and allies to create the Survivor Nest Project, a transformative healing arts project for survivors of incest and childhood sexual abuse. I returned to the cemetery where my grandparents are buried and built the nest at the end of a winding path that opened to the ocean.

When I went inside the nest, I faced that little girl artist and let her know that she can draw herself back out and be safe. The ocean had her back.

And now I can say, that because of this project, I have a survivor family who has mine.

A community built that nest, and as I stand here on solid ground at this podium, there is a sea of children living in our state today who need the safety and protection that a home, a nest, is meant to provide.

Simply put, I implore you to pass all legislation that is going to help our children, who like me, were not safe or protected.

Every stick counts. Help us make Massachusetts a home for our children protected from sexual predators. Let’s build this nest together. If you know an adult survivor, or a child that is not safe, add them to the nest today, with a stick, a drawing, or a note for them.

About The Author

My name is Carla Beatrice and I created Survivor Nest to offer art experiences for survivors of incest and childhood sexual abuse. As an artist and energy healer, my passion is to help people connect to their creative center and support community, connection, as well as offer an opportunity for healing.

When we all feel held, supported and safe, we can live a life that allows us to integrate all of our life experiences, even the most challenging and painful ones.