Notes of A Native Son

I can still see her. My maternal grandmother was more than my mother’s mother. She was in every sense of the word, a Grand Mother. One of those epic divine figures from antiquity returning to live out this human journey to leave clues for the next unfolding of the story. She worked as a domestic from her late childhood to when she could no longer work. On her gnarled hands was scripted a life of consistent physical labor. Even still she loved to read. Those hands made the best pies, cakes, and created homemade delicacies. Those hands inscribed in the most beautiful handwriting words in her journal. I never read them. Now I can only imagine what she may have scribbled down on those pages. She also loved to grow things. It might seem easier to say she loved plants but that would diminish the scope of her reach. Her gift was growing things.

From about the age of seven or eight, I would take some type of plant to her small two bedroom house, when we visited. These plants were never store-bought. I would gather them, fresh dug from the earth, and place them in anything I could find from cut-off milk cartons to old mayonnaise jars. With pride I would sit in the back seat of my parents car with my prize for Gran’ma tucked between my knees. No matter what I brought, she beamed. That gleam in her eyes always lit up mine. Then we’d plant it. It didn’t matter if it was a sprig of wild honeysuckle or a volunteer maple tree, she planted it.

Over the years, I bore witness to those trees growing in her front yard. For me I felt a partnership with the forces of the universe that made me feel like a giant. Those tall monuments towering above her house had been lifted from the earth and transported by my hands. She eventually moved from that house. But not before it had etched itself in my memory and tethered her to it in my recollections and dreams. That’s where I still see her-in my dreams. Although she left the planet in human form at the turn of the century, she never really left. She’s still planting. Still growing things. I’m her hands now. Her words flow through my mouth. That gleam of hers still sparkles in my eyes. Warm brown skin, the color of mine still soaks up the sun, loving the feel of fresh earth beneath our feet. Her stature is unforgettable. She walked her days on this plane with pride over prejudice as a four foot eight inch giant. Her foot print is immense. She plowed as she walked and planted experiences that grew into memories and now blossom as dreams realized in my own life. I knew I wasn’t her only garden. I am, however doing my best at being her most prolific.

Her favorite flower was the African violet. I keep one on my desk at the studio. I call her Gran’ma. I get to see her every day I’m in the studio. She reminds me on those days when I feel halted or not quite up to snuff to keep on keeping on. Her memory keeps me stretching my legs to fill the gaps between what is and what is to be. She’s a reminder to keep the faith and to see the big in little things. She opened my eyes to the wonder of all things great and small. There is nothing I can’t reach or nothing too low to bring up. She taught me in all of her being, that I can believe in anything. That anything I care to invest in can grow to any height I will. That anything really is possible. She showed me that the smallest things can serve as a revelation that there are giants among us.

Every weekday morning, spring summer, winter, or autumn, when I got up early enough, I would see my dad on the far corner of the living room couch reading the by lamplight. That image dug deep into my psyche. So much so that it wasn’t until I became an avid reader and scholar did I learn that he had never completed grade school. Even still, he encouraged me to read. On those hot summer days, he even called home to ask my older sister if I had got my reading in. And yes, most days, ready or not, I had.

I developed an almost obsessive love for the written word. Eventually I’d read everything on the small bookshelves in our home, including those not meant for me like, Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex *But Were Afraid To Ask. I dove into the world of books from the school library, the school classroom book collections, family Friends’ encyclopedias (we couldn’t afford any), Boys and Girls Club library and book club, and eventually the local Public library located in a converted trailer home at the end of the Kmart parking lot. With every book I read, more light came on. My world opened up and blossomed into countless pages of possibilities illuminated by the power of learning. I couldn’t understand how anyone could not love reading. Before my children were born, I read to them. After they were born I read to them. All along the way, I’ve done my damndest to impart to them the joy, power, and liberation gained from the light of the written word.

During the holidays, my oldest son comes home. Home will always be home and there will always be books. Nothing can express what I felt one morning when I rounded the corner and saw him sitting on the far corner of the sofa in the library reading by lamplight. A flood of emotions engulfed me. Yes, I knew that when he would come to visit, he would go through my shelves like a bookstore. I always know that we are going to talk about what we are reading. It’s pretty obvious that we are sharing reading lists and books throughout the year. But there was something about that sight that triggered a thing that made me exhale relief and breath in the spirit of re-memberance. A remembrance that unifies scattered points in ones life and sews up loose ends. A remembrance that goes beyond recall into the realm of conjuring. One that reaches all the way down into your spirit and you can feel your ancestors smile – hear the humming of that Grand Mother by the window of some house beneath lamplight singing a prayer for all her children, born, gone, and yet to come. It’s a full circle spiraling upwards to the dawn. An early dawn, just before the sun comes up and you catch a glimpse of a father on the far end of the sofa reading by lamplight. That guiding light. Keep yours trimmed and burning, whatever it is. Keep your lamp lit. It’ll show somebody the way…

Well mother don’t you stop prayin’
Father keep right on prayin’
Don’t you stop prayin’ for this old world …
Keep your lamps trimmed and burning
Keep your lamps trimmed and burning
Keep your lamps trimmed and burning

Last year around this time, I was in Westchester, Pennsylvania for a funeral. A funeral I’ve not yet fully come to accept. At times it feels like a dream from which I’ve not awakened, nor can until I’m ready. While we were there, I visited interesting places and curiously searched out memorable spaces. I found this independent bookstore called Baldwin Book Barn on the outskirts of the city, tucked into the Chester County hills. My son and I are both passionate lovers of the written page and devotees to vintage, so this was a definite go to.

When we arrived, the bookstore did not disappoint. It appeared as though we’d transferred to an alternate world. The book barn, built in 1822 with Pennsylvania stone, was replete with cozy nooks, stone walls, and floors and floors jammed pack with wooden shelves of all kinds of books. The wood burning stove added the touch that took you back to a place you’d never actually been but wish you had. It was a Christmas postcard come to life. As I went from floor to floor, I’d catch glimpses of my son standing before a book-filled shelf, hunched over a table reading, leafing through pages, or sitting on the floor beneath a tower of books. The look on his face, I’m sure, mirrored mine. One of wonder and a strange mixture of excitement and peace. The type of mixture conjured up in sacred spaces. All of this stood in stark contrast to, but in a strange way, a direct connection to what we were in the city for. The peace that engulfed me surpassed the sadness deep in the well of my interior.

I rounded a corner and a photo of a painting of a little girl spoke directly to my state of mind. She stood off the wall and connected to my spirit. The books stretched out behind her. She before them. My childhood and my present folded into that moment. That sacred moment where everything felt okay. In this instance, the experience elevated the space to one of a divine connection, a synergetic symphony where time condensed. The outside world came into perspective and disappeared at the same. I saw the whole of myself, my love for the mysterious, books, and the lives from which they emanated. My appreciation of being stepped forth into the light pointing at death serving as a reminder to live.

As a child I was a member of a denomination sponsored youth group called the Pathfinders. Now I could scour the great outdoors and all that other exciting stuff that Pathfinders did. When I got in, I was all in. I was a rough and tumble Pathfinder incarnate.

But did I really know what it meant from an organizational point of view or was I focused on what it meant to me. The point of pathfinders for the organization, I’ve since discovered, was to introduce youth to Jesus Christ; to build mind, body, and spirit in order to be able to carry out the work of the church and bring others to the feet of Jesus. I’m sure that particular cause was noble and just, but it wasn’t mine. I wanted the adventure, the adrenaline rush of the challenge of rolling in the deep with the natural world and] making my way. My heroes in the Pathfinder mindset were men like Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, Grizzly Adams, Matthew Henson, Jacques Cousteau, Marlin Perkins, and any scout in a western movie. When I wasn’t outdoors, you could often find me face deep in any book by Jack London, Jim Kjelgaard, or Edgar Rice Burrows. I was all about fully living in the face of the challenge of the natural world. There was no manufactured path for these men, only the raw space in which they blazed trails against the odds. That was the place in the church where I knew I could fit. That’s why I joined the Pathfinders.

Fast forward, I am still a pathfinder in my sense of the word. The organization made a profound impact on me. The structure, the challenges of learning skills beyond my neighborhood streets, and of course the campouts and outdoor life shaped the part of me my spirit was seeking to hone. It showed me that there is always a path present, even before one sees it in the physical world. Your path is mapped in your spirit first, then your mind lays it out. Your body follows. It’s like that in any endeavor in which you set your intent to do. Especially when that doing is unclear in terms of a set path. For example, when I received my Master’s degree in education, I knew I had only to pass the praxis to get certified, apply for a position, get the job and begin work as an educator. The path was pretty cut and dry. I’m not at all implying that teaching is a simple undertaking, but the steps to get there are laid out systematically.

To be an artist, one that lives and eats by what comes from their hearts and hands, is another story. It’s the trailblazing banshee of a scout type mentality that eats by the edge of the blade, the blast of muzzle fire, and the sheer will of making ones way. I am often asked how to get there. My only honest response is there is no set path. It’s different for every person who sets out to do their curiosity’s bidding. You just have to set out and go. Make your art, do your thing, set and know your intent, and put it to the world in a faith and action beyond hoping. It becomes systematic in the discovery and formulation of what works by being honest with yourself. Realize and claim your story, unapologetically. That points you purposefully along your way. It’s a matter of heart over hardware. That truth of who you are, what you uniquely have to offer, and how, is what will connect you to your audience. When you can make and commit to that decision you will find your path.

This past weekend, I pulled up at the school to attend my daughter’s Christmas play. The parking lot was so packed I ended up parking way back in a field behind the school. On the way in, I discussed the packed house with another parent. Then a startling thought hit me. What if it was already a packed house with no seats left? I kept walking and ran into a former student. We chatted up a canned version of this is my life and departed with twin smiles. The line wasn’t too long but it was slow. I was finally there right as the time hit 7pm, showtime.

“One adult ticket” I said, handing over my card.

She entered the info and requested my zip. It didn’t go though. “That’s strange”, I said. “I just used that card.” I knew my card was good. I gave her a different zip and asked her to reenter the information. I was ready to go in. This was taking far too long. Momentarily, she shook her head again and proceeded to hand me back my card. I am not understanding what is going on here. Somewhere beside me I saw a $10 bill being handed to the cashier next to her. She passed it over to my cashier and said.

“He just paid your way.” I must have looked stunned or something because she repeated, “That guy just paid for you.” Immediately, I looked in the direction of where the guy would or should have been. There was no guy. They continued to marvel at the act, following up with wishes of Merry Christmas. I expressed my gratitude replete with repeated wows, and went in.

I enjoyed the show but much of my headspace was given to that act of random kindness and a myriad of implications. My logical mind questioned why he’d paid. My spirit lifted because he had paid. It reminded me that nothing will stand in the way of intent. I asked for one adult ticket and got it, despite my card not being accepted. For the record, the next morning, I used that card with no issues. There are so many ways to unpack this that we could do a War and Peace sized text, with room for part 3. I’ll focus on one corner of a key element for clarity.

The Inner-G.

What type of energy circulates through your life space? What do you expect? What is your intent? The inner G is the inner guide, your inner geometry; how things are shaped, sized, positioned, and angled in your mental realm of possibilities. What are the dimensions of your faith.

How could I miss a man paying for my ticket right next to me and how did he disappear so fast? I had to pull my mind out of analytical mode and just receive. It sounds like one of those mysterious angels among us tales. Maybe they’re no so mysterious, just unnoticed. And yes, they are angels – messengers reminding us that we have a part to play in the cosmic balance. The energy connected that night at the ticket booth and the milk of human kindness flowed. I am so grateful to whomever it was. Even more so, I am grateful that it is. It’s a reminder that compassion is alive and well in the family of man. A reminder that like gives birth to like. A reminder that there is an ARK of comfort in a world flooded with opposition. Acts of Random Kindness. That’s Inner G in action.

This little light of mine
I’m going to let it shine
Oh, this little light of mine
I’m going to let it shine

Let is shine, let is shine, let it shine. Will you? That song might possibly have been the most potent yet underrated charge we were exposed to in church as children. I remember singing the melody each week in some part of the children’s church service. Of course the meaning that was fed to us was from a religious point of view – a shout out to the church doctrinal beliefs. It was a perfect jingle to plug into the rhythmical chords of little minds.

As I grew older, the positioning of the song shifted in my mind. Or should I say, the scope widened. It simply busted out of the walls of the church building and expanded beyond the parochial into the realm of the cosmic. The question for me, what is your light, blossomed into a thousand points of the same. It illuminated the possibilities beyond the comfort of that arena and lit up my universe. What is your light? That’s your question to answer. What brightens your space? What chases away your dark days? What gives wings to your heart? What do you project onto others that that shows them who they are, what they can be, rains a little joy in their world, or stretches a smile across their faces? When found, let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

All around the neighborhood
I’m going to let it shine
All around the neighborhood
I’m going to let it shine
All around the neighborhood

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine…

This past week I went to visit my Mother’s house. When I arrived she wasn’t there. I heard the rustle of leaves and noticed that the vestiges of Autumn’s winter preparation had gathered in drifts on her porch. Her rooftop was also nearly covered in white oak leaves and pine straw. I pulled my truck up next to the lower part of her carport, grabbed a broom, and made my way up.

The feeling was so familiar. As I swept, high above the earth, memories flooded in, washing me with feelings of nostalgia. Being an ultra adventurous skinny little boy with dreams to0 heavy to lift at the time, I would sometimes sit for long spans atop that house. It was never just a rooftop. Above the hustle and bustle of the world below, I would allow my mind to soar as I squinted against the sun. I remember feeling like one of the big cats, sitting there surveying the land about me, unnoticed but with the potential to command attention at any moment I chose. I remember thinking how no one really looks that high up unless prompted. They were too busy with being in the small space around them. Sometimes, when I was bored of the aloneness, I would yell out to a passing friend in low country. They would turn and look, taking a while to spot the little brown boy on the rooftop. The response was always one of surprise and immediate change of course, running over to see how they too, could gain access to this lofty space. I would help them up and we would enjoy our perch. Their bubbling excitement always gave me a sense of accomplishment, a satisfied feeling of well being. The knowing that I had ushered them here to this space where few dared to tread, fed my soul. This space where we left fear on the ground and dreams and the imagination easily took root.

I sat for a minute on the roof with my younger self. The slate colored shingles warm beneath me, balanced out the slight chill of the sunlit autumn day. I squinted my eyes against the afternoon sun and breathed deep. The big cat was still there. My mom had come home and was pulling greens in her garden. The cars passed below, and a few people dotted the sidewalk. I was in that space again, remembering, reminiscing, replaying ideas, thoughts, and experiences from childhood to now. I took inventory of my life in that moment and realized that I had been creating the mirror all along. However big my dreams were and outlandish my imagination soared, created the mirror in which I can now look into. I can honestly say that I am becoming the reflection of that child’s dreams, the mirrored image of those possibilities. Where is your space? Where are the childhood hopes and dreams buried; the ones you had before anyone told you how and who to be by name or shame. Reflecting on those daydreams can be a mirror, an adventure packed burnt edged, fold-riddled parchment paper treasure map to the life you really want to live. Even if you’re not there, it still is. Travel back too that space. Your mind can still take you there. It knows the way. Then take a close and honest look. Is your reflection true to who really are?

On last evening I arrived home with an armload of belongings. After a long afternoon of meetings, I was more than ready to be home and eat. At the door, I reached into my pocket to discover my house key was not there. Then I remembered that I’d left them inside. I went back to my car to get the spare. I’d used it too. They were also inside the house. My anxiety rose a bit, realizing that I would have to postpone eating the delicious smelling food sitting in the car waiting for me. The idea of sitting in the car in my driveway eating, held little appeal. I called my partner and told her the situation.

‘We’ve got a problem then.” She said way too calmly.

Then I remembered that she’d misplaced her keys about a week ago at her aunt’s house in a whole different city. She was relying on me having mine. My mind ran in a quick circle and came back with the idea that I had a spare at my Mother’s house. I called her and she said there was a key there. Hopeful, I drove all the way to her house to find that it was a key to her door. Could we not have checked this before I came? I felt like screaming the Charlie Brown yell. Auuuuuuuuugghh! I did no such thing. All the while, I was using this misfortunate event to search out gems of enlightenment. I wasn’t totally distressed. I didn’t know how I was going to get in but I did know that I would get in. Each step, however put that a little more at a distance. Mom gave me some homemade soup and hot water cornbread. I was grateful. I wanted keys.

When I got back home, I thoroughly checked both my vehicles to see if a spare was there. Nothing. Then I called the locksmith. They had no one to come out. Called another. The price to come out was outrageous. I told him to come on. I called my Dad to see if I had forgotten that I’d given him a spare. Nope. He then proceeded to help me feel worse about paying the locksmith that amount of money to get in my house. I just wanted to get in. I checked every door and window, hoping that I would have occasion to nevermind the locksmith. At least I know how secure my house is now. I could see in through a window. The warm glow of a lights. The cozy furniture just waiting for me. My cat Kosmo, just staring like he knew I’d messed up. Why couldn’t he just open the doggone door. So close yet so far.

The locksmith arrived and in less than five minutes, I had parted with an unintended chunk of dough, but I was in my house. All of my keys were right where I’d left them. I eventually sat down to eat, not even bothering to reheat my tepid food. It wasn’t until the next morning when my dad called and eventually said.

“Yeah man, we don’t realize how important keys are.”

Then I got it. Key’s are important. So simple, yet so profound. Keys are the key. The means by which we gain access. They open doors to where we want to go, do, have, and be. Our abilities are keys. Our resources are keys. People in our lives are keys. Our mental attitude is a key. Our knowledge is key. Ha, I’d pay for that revelation. I had paid for that revelation. It was a reminder to mind how I tended my keys. Those people, talents, and resources that open doors to our goals are of utmost importance. They grant us access to the life we want to live. Take great care how you handle your keys…or you’ll be standing outside of your possibilities at the mercy of someone else to let you in. And that can come at a great cost.

Years ago, in Colombia, South American the first time, I was on the ride of my life in terms of using my acquired skills, creative and otherwise. It was a whirlwind of celebrity status activity. Back home I used to tell my partner that I felt like a corvette stuck in the slow lane. In South America, I was moving into full throttle. I’d found my lane. On a particular day in conversation with my son in his senior year, he asked if I missed home. I hesitated then answered…

“I miss you guys.”

The conversation proceeded. After I hung up I gave some serious thought to the question and my hesitance when asked whether I missed home. Strangely enough, I felt like I was home. What is home and what does that mean truly? Is home where the heart rests or revs? Perhaps, considering that, home is a duality. On the one hand it is the place where we find solace, comfort, and protection from the outside world with our lockable doors and closable windows. It is the place where we can curl up and sleep, away from the hustle and bustle of the world at large. We live there but…can we truly live there? Before the pandemic, a general handful compared, made their living from home. Most had to go out into the world to have their living made. Home was safe and removed. We can’t just stay there and truly live. Can we…

The other idea of home is nearly the polar opposite. We speak of the eagle being at home on the wing or some adventurer at home on the open seas. That is where they feel truly alive. Where they make their imprint upon this life. Where legacies are churned out and history is written in blood, sweat, and years. That notion of home is where, like what Ray Charles said, We let it do what it do. It’s what pumps the blood running hot in our veins, opens up our nostrils and makes us raise our head to the heavens in the joyful throes of applying our abilities to the world stage. But can we live there…fully? If we remained in that space, adrenaline pumping, eyes glossy with the need for more, we would surely burn out. We would wear ourselves to a frazzled fanatic, crash and burn out like boxers who stay in the ring too long, or rappers who don’t realize it’s time to pass the mike.

Home, then, is not just a place, but an idea of an ideal. A balance between spaces of operation. We need the safe space and the hairpin curves in order to glean the most from what this life has to offer. When I was in South America, and had that conversation with my son, my engine was humming, running with rpms tapping the right side. I was wide open, testing the road. I felt so alive. I was home. However, I know I couldn’t live in that whirlwind of activity. I’d burn out. Back at home in Alabama, I’d felt that corvette in the slow lane feeling too long. I felt there was not enough room to spread my wings. I was turning into gel. The key to fit the ignition of who we are is found in the right combination of the nest and the wing, to find the harmony between our ways of being. To weave them together in a tapestry that we can wear with impunity is where we find our unique rhythm. Instead of being slowed, pushed, prodded, and carried along by the whims of the world, invest some time into tuning this life…your life. It really can take you where you want to be. Let’s go home.

“Are you still doing the art thing?”

That’s the most asked question when I run into someone I haven’t seen in a while. Either they don’t know what to say for conversation or they actually see my art making as a phase, a thing I did. Something I picked up and put down like a decision between a can of dole pineapples in place of the real thing. Or like a magazine I pick up to stare at in the checkout line just to put down when I’m next up. This manner of viewing art and artists is all too common and at times, exasperating. In most cases our expertise, skills ,and laser like use of imagination is reduced to hobby status, or worst yet a relished pastime. Yes, there are those who practice art as a hobby or did it as a pastime, just as there are those who sing in the shower or play around in the kitchen. But then there are those of us who are called. I won’t fully unpack that word since I’m choosing blog over book.

I’ve answered the call that so many of us hear with clarity at a time when our lives are less complicated. Only to lose touch beneath the cacophony of social expectation. I’ve, at times, struggled, to make out the distinct yet faint voice of that thing that bids me to make marks on paper, canvas, or stage. To sculpt the future in the present and personify the past. This calling leads me beside still waters and restores my soul. It’s so much than what I do. It’s who, what, where, why, and how I am. To present an alternate and sometimes cooperative view of living and being in this world is part and parcel to being an artist obedient to the raging calm. That calls for a being that is both fluid and stolid in varying degrees. A person open to designing against the grain or seeing beyond the scene without undue concern about how they are seen. A man or woman who is still a hair’s breadth away from the child within and in constant conversation with the God of their choosing and the devil of their devising.

The word art is much like the word life. It is alive and shifting, ever growing, and morphing into more of itself. Those of us who saddle up and take the ride are prone to the same. Whether it be on cloth, film, page or stage, to deny that calling is to deny who and what we fundamentally are and exist out life as a truth that is not ours. Some may call that a lie. For me it was purgatory. No, I will never tell you that every moment is glorious and sunshine and rainbows, but I can paint them when I choose. Even in the challenging times, I remind myself that I get to do this. Heaven is just on the other end of my brush tip or pencil. And yes, hell is never far behind. That is the conundrum that is the art life. It is what keeps the pendulum swinging, just as the negative and positive firing of neurons keeps us kicking in this space.

Yes, I am still doing the art thing. Just as the engineer is still doing the engineering thing and the doctor doing the doctoring thing. We are just as valid and must see ourselves as such. The art thing feeds the soul. It is something most people don’t give conscious thought to as a profession. Art is the salt and spice of life that is noticed mostly when missing. Never mind the lack of understanding up front. That is a part of our calling, to inform, shed some light, sometimes by exploring the darkness. By doing, we give permission to do. So in being called, I know there is someone, something doing the calling. There is a path for us. It may not be a crystal stair but it’s there. Even when I walk through valleys covered with the shadows of death, I will not give up for anything that comes against me. Will you art with me? …Yes, I am smiling.