Notes of A Native Son

I am the greatest, I am the greatest… “I am the greatest. I said that even before I knew I was.” I’m ruminating this morning, on Muhammad Ali’s words the day before his bEARTHday. He said he was the greatest, even before he knew he was. His spirit knew. I’m inclined to ask what does my spirit know. Sometimes I feel so focused, confident, and unstoppable. At other times I feel like a little boy lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces, looking for a glimpse of mama. Then I’ll ask the question, Where do I go from here..?

It definitely helps to have an overarching goal and some kind of plan. Even still, the fog of everyday life can cloud the view, dim the vision between you and the proposed goal. On those days, all we may be able to do is focus on the closest point of contact – move on the piece of road directly in front of us. Lean in and keep moving forward or just allow for being still for a minute to get our bearings. As hard as it may seem, that’s sometimes the easiest thing to do. The only thing we know to do. Trust it and be patient with yourself. It’s not really about speed. Allow me to share a gentle reminder that we get to choose who we say we are, even before we know we are. Each intentional movement, no matter how small, moves us a little closer to that. That which our spirit already knows… We get to call it.

In the waning days of 2023, I found myself in anticipation of the new year. Then the why arose. The question halts for a minute, then spins again. Why do we look forward to the new year as though the adding of a number makes any difference in our living or existence? The same habits, ways, and means that brought us to where we are right now will be right there with us after the countdown. After the ball drops, those of us who were prone to dropping the ball or procrastinating will not be magically transformed into an Eric Thomas driven go-getter. Unless… Unless a decision is made. Not some grand new years resolution that looms overhead like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float being held in place by strings and aloft by air, traveling the same route every year and ending at the same place.

What if you made a decision to do one action different in the dawn of this new year. One small action that may have major impact and affect the rest of your year or possibly your life. It can be as simple as getting up ten minutes earlier, or completing that sketch, or reaching out about that project or show, or organizing your studio/creative space. That one decision could even be the act of making a decision and seeing it through. I know how we creatives can wander in wonder then find ourselves wondering how we got there. Make a decision, write it down on some kind of paper, it doesn’t matter what. Just write it down and place it somewhere you can lay eyes on it every day. Go for it at your speed. That piece of paper represents a ticket to your journey through the new year and beyond. Make it an upgrade to first class. You deserve it. Let’s go…

First Writes is what I call my first words on the page in the morning. It’s the piled up stuff in my brain spilled out. Sometimes it is several lines. Other times it’s several pages. I allow it to flow organically, whether it’s recall from last night’s dream or scenes from my daydreams. I get it down. The words fall fresh from my head unencumbered by deadlines or set goals. Nothing is contrived. There are no attempts at clever combinations of jarring adjectives or spellbinding metaphors. If a spell is cast, it comes from the purest and most unintentional of intentions.

I write like a madman directing a symphony. Often the penmanship is less than admirable. Not that mine ever is. That’s perfectly okay because I’m not writing for instruction or academic precision. There will be no edits or critique. This is truly dreamwork and I can do no wrong on the page. Do it without rhyme or reason, save getting it down. First writing is for me, all mine. It’s my thought to written word dump. This writing can even add clarity to obscure dreams, bringing clarity in its wake in my waking world.

I would encourage anyone one who has aspirations of any sort, or not, to journal. Write down your first thoughts in the morning. It’s a type of meditation – a relief that feels to the mind like a good long pee after you’ve held it for an entire coast to coast plane ride after a couple of crabapple juices. Do the write thing . Do it for you. Anything you do for you is an investment in what you have to offer the world. No pressure. No pressure. Absolutely, no pressure.

Just as a parent can never fully predict the impact their child will make on the world, an artist can never fully know how or if any of the works they produce will affect an audience, intended or not. We do our best with what we have and release. We have no choice but to trust the process. In that make we make room for the work to do it’s work.

Last week I received a call in the late morning hour. It was the mural sponsor. I could hear a weight in his voice, dragging on each sentence. He finally asked if K had called me. I said “no, why?”

“So You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?” I responded, followed by a halt of silence.

“Man, someone attacked the mural. It’s bad, real bad.” He choked on the words, I could hear the torn spirit coming though his voice. He went on to offer his condolences, literally, before informing me that he was filing a police report. It sounded to much like a death announcement. When we eventually hung up, I tried to sit with the reality for a minute. It would not settle. Would not sit. There was no feeling of finality, no dropping of my head, no feeling of loss. Was I numb or just in need of more time to process.

I called my partner and shared the news with her. It hit her much harder than it had me. What’s wrong with me, I questioned. Why am I not feeling this. I could feel the fire in her voice as she rattled off a list of needed responses. File a police report, check the camera’s in the area, call the news. Call the news. “Call the news? I repeated in question in a question.

“Call the news?” Immediately the words of Mamie Till Mobley, mother of Emmett Till, came to mind. Not that I’m weighing her son’s life with my artwork but her words fit. She asked for an open casket at the funeral, “Let the people see what they did to my boy.” I instructed the sponsor to call the news. In a few quick minutes I received a call back for an interview. I really didn’t want to do it. Really didn’t even want to see the condition of the art work. The last time I’d seen her she stood tall and proud, almost eerily animated in her turn to gaze at viewers. Now she’s been the victim of an attacked. But was she a victim, though? My mind twirled on the thought. Or was she doing the work, taking the path that had been the plan all along? In the creative realm, the work of the work is usually bigger than we fashion. That question allowed me to be saddened but not sad. Saddened that we have not moved beyond the petty differences that linger, like dirty underwear on a rusted barbed wire fence in those spaces between us. Saddened that a thing of beauty, a gift, would be vandalized in a society thirsty for such offerings.

It hit the news with a thud. I posted on social media and there was a mighty rushing, an outpouring of concern and care. I received a phone calls from as far aways as Dallas, TX. The depth of the conversations sparked in my presence informed me that the work was doing its work. It had tapped into the wellspring of humanity.

When I arrived at the scene, I didn’t look at the piece right away. The news lady asked me stand in front of it, if I didn’t mind. When I walked over, I turned to look at the piece. Her eyes, clear and strong met mine in a way that went beyond an art piece. Her gaze was still piecing, even mores now. They had not taken that away. The key, the symbol of access was still intact. I always say that art is a universal language, soul speak. That work spoke right back into my soul, shook me in that moment, reminding me anew that I am born to do this. The work – the art, is a stop, look, and listen sign pointing toward the greater good. As creatives we are the honored, chosen channels through which the work comes. But we must realize that we become the recipients like Mother Mary before her son, Jesus, of the the message, power, and promise of the work’s work.

A few weeks ago, I completed a mural installation entitled In Deed on a busy corner in a newer development near downtown. I worked outdoors for about a week, prepping the wall by sanding down uneven concrete, and finally the primer before the actual local color went on. As I worked on this very public piece, I became aware of how spaces exist in relative obscurity or worse, utter neglect that turns unsightly and stands as a testament to lack of care, or too busy to dare. It dawned on me anew how we, as creatives spot these spaces, catch a vision, engage, and ultimately command them to speak as we will.

As I worked, I was showered by words of encouragement and gratitude by those passing through. Some even stopped their cars or came by to chat awhile. A photographer came and took a plethora of photos, fully immersing herself in the space. Public art is engagement on multiple levels. I often refer to it as performance art. Just past the middle portion of the project, a little elder lady came over. She lived in the new apartments across the four lane street with the manicured grass median. On her walker she arrived with words of praise and the unsurprising news that she’d been watching the entire process from her unit window. “I just sit and watch.” she said. It’s been magical, just seeing it develop and you so patiently dealing with the people who stop to talk to you.” I informed her that conversations were part of the process on a public art initiative. I really don’t mind. My curiosity had been satiated. I’d wondered if I had an audience in the plethora of windows that were stacked around my performance. I feel like a magician or a conductor on most projects like this, my brush as the baton commanding the colors in concert with the composition within the space.

When the piece was complete, I packed to leave. After taking a few photos on my phone, I did not go back down to the space but rather allowed the feedback of the public to be an extension of my eyes. I received it in retrospect as I was on to the next project, leaving this one to live and do its bidding in the space I’d commanded. My work was done. It was the work’s work to do now. I’d conceived, planned, and executed, in word by my agreement to do the project. Then I birthed it into existence by command, then commanding by work/action. In deed I had brought it to pass. Indeed, I had.

…but never an impossible task. The only true impossibilities are the challenges never taken, the parts of us never claimed or discovered. The word rubicon means, in essence, to make an irrevocable decision, a point of no return. In the space of which I speak, we must make a decision to be in that space of being one with our decision. Claim our whole selves; our good stories and our not so good. They are a part of us and what brought us to where we are. That’s called commitment. The back and forth between committed and not, hiding who we are and losing control, will destroy us both physically and mentally, and bankrupt us spiritually.

“Once you make a decision the universe conspires to make it happen.”

+ Ralph Waldo Emerson

There is a concentration of power generated in making a decision. It brings all the parts of us together and unites our faculties to meet the challenges at hand. It’s hard to get directions when you don’t know where you agree going. It’s hard to be on a clear path when you are divided. Search within. Get to know you and your desires/goals, then set your GPS and go. No matter how rugged the terrain, you are well equipped to make the journey. The map is inside. Whatever it is, it came to you to come through you. Your success is contingent on using all of you, the good, the bad, and the so-called ugly. Claim it all and use it. It is all you! It’s for you not against you. Rise to the challenge and be what only you can be, in order to do what you do, the way only you can do it. I’ll see you when the smoke clears…Trust the process.

Yes, I know the title sounds a bit out there on the tip but I really couldn’t think of anything else that would describe where I’m going. It’s the best I have for what I’m about to give.

There is a dialogue in the 2012 Marvel film, The Avengers when the team is in the heat of battle and things are growing exponentially hotter. Bruce Banner begins walking in his human form towards a giant alien creature trailing in the sky toward them, hot on the heals of Iron Man. Captain American calls out to him. “Doctor Banner, now might be a good time for you to get angry.” Banner turns and responds in eerie calm, “That’s my secret, Captain, I’m always angry.” With that he turns back around and simultaneously transforms into the Hulk, humongous green forearm smashing full into the oncoming enemy.

That line and scene always intrigued me. “I’m always angry.” This was a revelation that Bruce Banner had evolved to a state of not being at war with the Hulk. He had ceased trying to tame the beast and had indelibly claimed the beast. Taking him into himself as a part of himself indistinguishable from any of life’s challenges, within or without. The Hulk had something he could use, something he needed. His value was acknowledged as necessary and given a space where he could serve. The Hulk (the proverbial shadow) no longer had to sneak in through an emotional tear in the veil and outrageously control the mental space until he exhausted himself. Bruce Banner and the Hulk were synchronized, a synergetic being on purpose. In this state he did not lose control, he took control. Gone was the instability of Hulk’s temper tantrum endangering all. Where they had been one flesh and separate minds, now they were of one flesh and mind united by spirit of purpose, path, and passion. A divided soul is an unstable being, a shifty character, no matter how well intentioned.

As of late, my schedule has been hectic to say the least. I was shifting gears fast and furiously racing back and forth from project to the idea of peace in a whirlwind of mounting destructive habits. Little sleep, spotty eating, and any another other byproduct of just short of chaotic, was taking its toll. I was raggedly transforming from the beast to the mild mannered scientist tossed back and forth by the reality of deadlines and obligations. It’s a good place to be in, where my art and expertise are in demand. However, my response to meet the demands, I realize, are NOT sustainable. Perhaps, this is part of what James Baldwin refers to as the price of the ticket -what we are willing to give up or sacrifice for what we want to have, be, and do. The most common and unwise sacrificial lamb on that altar is ourselves. Subsequently, our families, loved ones, career, and all else within the sphere of our influence, pay a price far above market value. The list is long…(To be continued..)

Since it’s dawn, 2023 has been a year of funerals. Not that I haven’t had some wonderful times already, but the funerals services that dot the landscape are constant reminders that this particular vessel has an expiration date. On last evening, as I am visiting relatives in a nearby city, I was watching the news with them. I never watch the news at home. Reel after reel, there were reports on tragedy after tragedy, stacked up to a hope crushing plethora of what is wrong with our world.

My mind traveled back to last weekend as I walked barefoot in the grass around the 40 acre estate to clear my head and ground myself. I picked and sniffed tiny wild hyacinth blooms, enjoying the cool grass beneath my feet springing anew from the earth in patternless patches of green. Life again rising up from the drying effects of winters clutch. I looked down and saw the fanned out wings of a small bird. Neatly positioned in the center of the symmetrical design was its skull, perfectly whitened and cleaned like some tiny movie prop. I knelt down on both knees and retrieved the skull with a small stick. The tiny brown beak protruded from the whitened form of the skull. Even in this state, there was a beauty and mystery present. Some time ago this creature had been airborne, flying high in the sky from place to place, experiencing life. Now the remains, the vessel lay in the budding grass, spirit departed, shell left to return to the earth from whence it came. This is the cycle, I was reminded. The cycle of life.

A few steps over, a ladybug emerged with the most intense colors, I ve ever seen. It crested a blade of grass and crossed over to my outstretched hand and rested there. I observed in that moment the simple miraculous stages. The dead stick, the hyacinth reaching upward, the moving ladybug, and the skull of the bird. I took out my phone and suspended the moment in time. The lady bug was shy and opted out of the photo. My mind shifted gears and the prompting to count it all joy came over me. I thought of the Yowa, also known as Kongolese cosmogram – the wheel of life that encompasses the physical and spiritual worlds. The two hemispheres are equally divided with as much on one side as the other. In the center we find the crossroads. At times we all catch glimpses of the space called the crossroads.

I took a deep breath of gratitude and made a conscious decision to enjoy the parts of life that I will while I can. Realizing that each aspect of our experience is part of the cycle and not all will bring smiles. Tears are also ingredients in the recipe. Nevertheless it our recipe to mix and experience as we choose, to see what we see, and live as we will…as the world turns.