Tag: faith

This Strange Sight

A few weeks ago, during a particularly cold snap in the weather, I was headed up the steps to my studio as usual. Nearing the top, I notice a strange site. Tucked into the narrow space where the wall meets the concrete was a single dandelion head in full bloom. It looked like a tiny drop of a summer had been deposited by my doorway right here in the biting chill of an early winter morning. It was out of season but right on time. Of course, I marvel at things like this. Things that defy the status quo and provide proof that life goes beyond the laws of our limiting expectations and logic.

I stood there for a minute or so studying it the way I study anything that sparks my curiosity. This small resilient blossom had endured weather that left a layer of ice on everything. By any practical measure, it should not have survived or even bloomed. Yet there it was, bright and unapologetic in full color. I’m going to take a little creative license and call it my burning bush. Just as Moses said in the story, “Let me turn aside to see this strange sight, why the bush is not burned” Why because it was out of the ordinary. It defied logic. Well, so did my fully alive dandelion in the dead chill of winter. And no, I’m not about to deliver to you ten stone tablets of commands. Nor did I hear a voice in stereo calling my name. But I did take the time to pause and pay attention. This was a lesson on resilience and inner power beyond circumstances. And this is what I’m sharing with you on this journey.

 “What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” + Ralph Waldo Emerson

Resilience doesn’t always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes it shows up quietly in the cracks we almost overlook. It lives in the parts of us that push toward the light even when logic and accumulated beliefs try to take us in a different direction. We get to the light through the darkness. That little burst of yellow engulfed in the bitter cold, reminded me that we’re built with a wonderful inner architecture; a divine blueprint bent toward life and creativity. We all, every single one of us, have a beautifully brilliant resilience that doesn’t depend on circumstance to shine. We have been gifted the capacity to withstand more than we imagine…and come out as gold. Trusting the process gives us the resolve to believe that challenges are for us rather than against us.

And then when we need it most, something arrives. The reminders I call them. The burning bushes. The dandelions in the dead of winter. The unexpected phone call or that lucid dream. Please don’t ignore them. They are the little signs with the big meanings. We can also call it grace, intuition, or a nudge from the unseen to remind us of what’s already inside us. Not merely to break the laws of nature, but to show us that we, too, are part of something larger, something capable of lifting us up to where we belong. May we slow it down here and there to listen, to see the dandelions blossoming in the winters of our lives. To bear witness to the burning bushes. And in doing so, may we come to recognize the language that speaks to us and directs us in our our mission on this planet.

Holy Ground

This past weekend, after a family event in Montgomery, we headed west on I80. Our destination was Holy Ground Battlefield in Lowndes County, Alabama.I’m completing Catherine Coleman Flowers’ book of the same name Holy Ground. She signed the book a few months back when we shared the same space in a small church where she was speaking. The jar of red clay on the cover feels much like many I’ve gathered before… so familiar. Red clay has always stirred a soul touching blend of joy, reverence, and a recognition I can’t quite name. Anyone who knows about me knows where red clay lives in my practice. It’s the ancient voice I paint with and believe me when I say that I carry that responsibility with a reverence that’s hard to articulate.

The decision to visit Holy Ground Battlefield had already been made even before we went to Montgomery. I wanted to feel the pulse of that sacred earth space for myself and to gather red clay and water from the Alabama River for a series of art pieces that have been tapping at my mindspace. Pieces that feel less like ideas and more like instructions I’ve been waiting to receive. The moment my feet touched that soil, actually as we drove into the area, there was a strong familiarity, and yet something a bit uncomfortable. It felt as though I’d been there before. There is a pulse beneath Holy Ground. Not metaphorical or imagined but an actual thrum in the earth that moves up through your soles of your feet if you’re still and quiet enough. I felt and listening. We prayed. I high fived a tree. I caressed the soil and let that red clay pour through my fingers. Then I gathered what I needed with gratitude because red clay isn’t something you just take. It’s something you’re allowed to work with. It is rich with the blood of our ancestors, and I never forget that.

In this moment in time when our political world feels jagged, abrasive, and yes, bloody, the earth beneath us still moans with an ancient steadiness. She keeps mothering us, quiet-like and patient, no matter how much noise we make on her surface. Every so often she’ll nudge us with a storm or natural attention getter. Standing on that hallowed land reminded me of something essential: beneath all of our noise, the earth still hums. She hums like a mother who has seen a thousand storms and knows this one will pass. She hums because life runs deeper and higher than whatever headline we’re distracted by. She hums because she remembers who we are, even when we forget. Red clay, for me, is part of that remembering. It holds the trace of every foot that has ever pressed into it, barefoot or booted, every struggle, every prayer, every moment of resistance and rebirth. I dance with its resiliency and it constantly speaks to me. Painting with it is painting with history, with blood, with echo, with the marrow of the land itself. It’s not just a pigment, its presence.

And as I walked back to the car with that red clay and river water tucked inside, I am renewed in a baptismal kind of way.What I do with this red clay isn’t just painting; it’s invocation. It’s listening to what the land remembers and allowing that memory to move through my hands. It’s transforming earth back into story. The pigment becomes portal. It’s granting me access to a lineage older than any of us, and honoring the unseen forces that rise when the material world is treated with respect. This work is my way of staying in conversation with the ancestors and the landscape that shaped them. It’s also my way of reaching down through time to those who will come after. It’s my form of alchemy, turning raw soil into embodiment and testimony. It’s animism in the truest sense, recognizing that the blood, sweat, and tear-rich clay is alive, aware, carrying intention of its own. I don’t force it; I flow with it. The art pieces that come from Holy Ground will carry much more than color. They’ll carry pulse and presence. They’ll carry the truth that the earth is not just beneath us, but with us. I am honored to be its translator.

I left Holy Ground, but I can still feel that pulse ringing in me. It will make its way into the work, into the surface and textures and forms that are waiting. Perhaps that’s the quiet gift red clay keeps offering: the reminder that we are always standing on more than ground. We are standing on the accumulated spirit of those who came before and the unwavering patience of the earth that carries us all. In remembrance of this and standing up to our full height measured in humanity, not inches, every step we take can be holy ground.

This Is It

As I am writing this I hear the echo of DMX’s gravely bass growling, “Lord gimme a sign.” In the same song he says. “No weapon formed against me shall prosper/And every tongue that rises against me in judgment, thou shall condemn.” This is a truth I hold to be self evident and I invite you to do the same. At some point in our journey we’ve found our weight unusually heavy. Our path gets overshadowed and the way blurs in front of us. In those times we’ve asked for some word, some clue, some sign to let us know what to do or where to go from here.

Allow me to share a short fable about a great oak tree that grew strong on the edge of a cliff. Its roots gripped the rocky ledge. The tree was battered day after day by windstorms, rain, and scorching sun. Every other tree in the softer soil of the valley grew faster, looked fuller, and seemed more secure. But when the storms came, those trees were the first to feel the brunt of the winds and rain. They fell. The oak held firm. Why? Because it had been tested. Every storm, every gust of wind, or shudder of the earth had made it dig deeper, reach further, and grow stronger. It didn’t just survive the storm—it was shaped by it. That oak is us.

Right now we’re living in a time where many feel they can’t go on like this. True the weight of uncertainty can feel real. But please be reminded that deep down inside is a place within us that is always certain. The winds of change are howling and it’s easy to wonder if we’ll make it through, if we’ll get by. But there’s a part of us that knows we will. I want to remind you of this as well: trouble don’t last always. And more than that, it doesn’t get the final word. In fact, it’s often in the pressure—the pushing, the waiting, the stretching, the longing —that the best in us rises. We discover grit and grind; we didn’t know we had. We learn to dig deeper, think sharper, love harder, and spread hope wider. We were made for this.

When the going gets tough, we don’t just endure—we evolve. We double down. We link arms with those who are on journey with us. We get creative. We hustle. We pray. We build. We were never meant to fold—we forge. This opposition is not the end. It’s the sharpening stone. It’s what is going to make us shine all the more bright. Hold on. This moment is not the breaking point—it’s the turning point. We will win—not because it’s easy, but because it’s in us to do. We have a power that cannot fail. Hold on. Hang in. Push forward. This storm isn’t here to take us under. It’s here to reveal us. If you’ve been waiting for a word or a sign. This is it…

…Where The Light Ends

When I was a boy, my cousin—who also happened to be my best friend—moved into the neighborhood just behind ours. It was like a dream come true. It wasn’t right behind us like the next yard. We weren’t connected by roads, but by a stretch of woods, a washed-out creek, and a decaying bridge with only the hulking metal beams left. There were no streetlights. No sidewalks. Just, trees, grass, earth, and shadows. Between our houses was a journey, not a route. And that journey taught me more than I realized at the time.

One fall evening —one of those days where the trees are close to bare and the air feels thin, not quite cool but southern chilly—we were hanging with some of the guys in my friend’s neighborhood near their house. We were pulling dried stalks from their dad’s garden area and hurling them at each other like spears. We were laughing children at war with boredom and boundaries. The sun had since began its slow descent, and after a while I felt that familiar tug: You need to go now….soon. It’s going to get really dark. And soon enough, it did.

As artists and creatives, we know that moment well—the sinking light, the encroaching unknown. The moment where playtime ends or procrastinations needs to, and the solitary path begins. I had asked earlier when the sun was high, would they walk me home through the woods if I stayed longer. They said they would if I stayed. I took assurance in their words, plus I wanted to stay anyway. But time kept slipping by, and it finally became clear when the excuses started, that none of those guys were taking that trip with me. I looked in the direction of home. The space between the trees was a gaping dark hole, daring me to enter. Finally, in a moment of clarity, decision, and being fed up, I grabbed a handful of rocks—my version of protection —and headed on out, stepping into the woods all by myself.

Years later, I see that boy in so many of us. The ones with vision. The ones with stories lodged beneath their skin and colors in their souls. The ones who stand at the edge of the metaphorical woods, waiting for someone to walk them through the dark patch. Waiting for the invitation, the validation, the right mood, the funding, the perfect collaborators, the clean studio, the ideal conditions. But the truth is, the work begins where the light ends. The art, the creativity, the work, waits in the dark.

The truth is, we’ve all stood in that backyard at some point in our lives, playing around— then wanting, waiting for someone to walk us through the hard parts. Waiting for the timing to feel just. Waiting for the fear to shrink or for company to show up. Sometimes people mean well. Sometimes they don’t come though. Sometimes they can’t. And sometimes, the path you’re supposed to take is meant to be walked alone. You don’t need a full spotlight or a crowd of supporters. Sometimes all you’ve got is all you’ve got. Summon the courage to start. Sometimes you walk with shaking knees and pockets full of rocks. But you go anyway.

There are times in this creative life—heck, in any life—when you’ll need to go through the dark time alone (but are we really alone?). Not because no one loves you or believes in you. But because it’s your walk to take. Your vision to carry. Your bridge to cross. This is for the ones who are waiting. Waiting for someone to walk with you. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the perfect conditions. Waiting for a word from the Lord. Strongly consider moving past the wait because many people have gotten stuck right there and spent the rest of their lives telling stories of how they coulda shoulda woulda…That’s not you.

Grab your rocks. Use what you have . The path may be shadowed, but your gift was never meant to wait for perfect light or time. It was meant to create it. Go ahead and take that next step, even if it first leads you into the shadows and a season of silence. And when you do—tired, uncertain, carrying only what’s in your hands and heart—you will emerge not necessarily into applause, but into truth. Into the space you were always headed for.

For Such A Time As This

The other day, I pulled up to a family member’s house. Across the yard, a young man bent his neck, eyes locking on me in recognition, then called my name. It was a former student—an award winning visual artist. He walked over, eager to share life talk like we had back in the day. I noticed a black guitar case strapped to his back and asked about it. The floodgates opened. He swung the case around, drew out a basic looking electric guitar, and for the next 20 minutes or so, plucked out some mean chest thumpin’ neo-blues riffs. It was a sight—his lanky six-foot-plus frame bent almost double, draped in bright patchwork clothes, pants sagging, unleashing sounds I could feel in my soul. Sounds that were older than both of us put together and multiplied. He didn’t even know he was playing the blues, but he had it. His eyes kept darting up for approval. I nodded, bobbing to the ping and thump of the instrument, inspired. “Play that thing, boy, play!” I was late to my destination, but right on time for the reminder: whatever you have to offer through your craft is as vital for these times as the beat in our chests.

In all the twists of science and biology, I stand on the belief that we were not here by accident. Our gifts and talents were not haphazardly bestowed, or given to be buried in fear, or tucked into the closet of our indecision. This is the time for which we were made. The world groans for light, for beauty, for truth — and our hands carry the spark. Do not shrink. Do not wait. Create boldly. Sing loudly. Build fearlessly. We have been molded and shaped for such a time as this.

There come moments in history when the ground itself trembles with the weight of what must be done. Moments when darkness crowds the horizon, when fear and confusion battle for our attention. Moments when ordinary people are summoned to do extraordinary things. The temptation to shrink back and stay silent grows strong. But it is in these very moments we should heed our calling — a call to those who may not even know yet, to the comfortable, to the idle, and to the ones who can feel the fire shut up in their bones. We were not given our gifts by accident. We were not given our vision, our voices, your hands, nor our hearts merely for quiet seasons. We were given them for such a time as this.

We need your art. We need your song. We need your poem, your painting, your dance, your bread rising warm in the oven. We need the light you carry, even if it flickers small in your chest. Especially then. We stand in need of the idea only you can birth, the story you are writing. Now is not the hour to be consumed by the chaos swirling around you. Now is the hour to reach into the storehouse of your soul and bring up what has been planted there. Your creative gift is not a pastime or hobby; it’s a weapon forged for battle, a balm for the wounded, a beacon for the lost. It is how you will move the needle, shift the atmosphere, heal the broken, and awaken the sleeping.

Your thing is your art and it is not merely something you do; it is something that does. It does the work of breaking chains and restoring sight. It stirs courage where fear has rooted. It plucks the doubt from the garden of hope. It resurrects dreams thought long dead. It sows seeds of change that governments and empires cannot stop. It is not weak. It is not trivial. It is power, entrusted to your keeping. So rise up. Take up your brush, your pen, your voice, your hands, your hammer, spatula, or spade. Do not wait until you feel ready. Do not bow to the lie that you are too small or not good enough. What you have is enough, because what you have was given to you by the Author of time itself. In days of uncertainty, creativity is an act of faith. In days of despair, beauty is an act of defiance. In days of division, the act of making, sharing, and being is a sacred rebellion for liberation’s sake.

History is not forged by those who sit and wait. It’s made by those who dare to bring forth what they have, however imperfect, and place it on the altar of the times they are given. So pick up your pen. Strum your instrument. Shape the clay. Sing the song. Bake the bread. Write the words. Build the bridge. Paint the vision. Move your body. Walk boldly into the now. Create boldly in it. Offer your light into the dark. Offer your voice into the silence. Offer your hands into the work. Offer the world that which only you can give. You are here for such a time as this.

Cosmic Conduit

From childhood, the red clay of Alabama has been more than dusty earth beneath my feet — it’s been companion, witness, keeper, and quiet participant in this life’s southern screenplay. Those deep, iron-rich hues tell tales far older than roads, houses, or city outlines. This clay, saturated by millennia, holds within it the memory of those who walked, worked, sweated, prayed, and bled on it. I recall a professor once telling me, “This Alabama red clay is rich with the blood of your ancestors.” It was then that I began to understand — this soil is not just ruddy dirt; it is charged matter, a living archive.

In the age old folk wisdom of the South, particularly in the African American tradition, earth is not a passive object or substance. Clay and soil have long been used as vessels for intention — for grounding, for protection, for healing, cleansing, and for calling forth what is unseen. The red clay in particular, with its rich iron content, acts almost like a spiritual conductor, transmitting energy between the seen and unseen worlds. It anchors prayers, catches tears, and carries whispers into the earth’s core. But its power extends beyond the personal or mystical — it is cosmic. Science teaches us that the same iron oxide that reddens Alabama clay also exists in places like Morocco, Tehran, Nigeria, Kenya, and yes on the surface of Mars, giving the planet its scarlet glow. There’s something poetic in that: this humble dirt is a terrestrial mirror of a celestial body, connecting us to the wider universe. How we walk should not be common because what we walk upon is not ordinary — it is stardust, drawn down to earth, thickened and spread by time and memory.

This allows me to weave this red clay into my work not as a symbol of something superstitious, but as a tangible metaphor for what binds us all: dust to dust, earth to star, ascendant to descendant. It’s a reminder that our faith traditions, though varied, often share this same foundational truth — that life is cyclical, that spirit moves through matter, and that the earth itself is a key element in the divine story. I have come to see red clay as a sacred material. It quietly affirms what so many faiths already teach — that we are intimately connected to both the earth and the heavens. We are tethered to power. May each step we take upon this hallowed ground remind us of our origin story, our resilience, our rootedness, and our inevitable rising.

Make-Believe: The Invisible Bridge Between Worlds

Last week, while visiting a job site with a business associate, an unexpected moment unfolded—one that has been echoing inside me ever since. We were talking through project details when an unhoused gentleman approached. Nothing unusual in a city where gentrification collides daily with poverty. But what came next unraveled some of the lines we tend to draw between people. Both men’s face lit up—not with friction, but with recognition. Turns out, they grew up just a few houses apart. Same block. Same neighborhood. Same era. I couldn’t help but ask what many might think but not say aloud: “What made the difference?” One man with homes in multiple cities, running quite lucrative ventures across several sates. The other, navigating life on the streets. He didn’t hesitate. “Attitude,” he said. That was a common answer. One that I actually expected. The kind of thing you hear in seminars or printed on coffee mugs. But it didn’t sit well enough with me for a number of reasons so I pressed further. That’s when he said it…

“It’s make-believe.”

“Make-believe.” I repeated the words. He went on, “Make-believe. I make believe I can do something or be something… and then I just start working toward it and make it real. It’s all made up anyway— laws, the dollar values, titles, cities, streets, and names. So I just make believe and do it.” We both chuckled at the way he made is sound so simple. But then… it hit me, feeling like home. Make-believe is the same tool we wield freely as children before the world tells us what is and isn’t possible. The same gift that built spaceships out of cardboard boxes and kingdoms out of yard dirt. Pillows became forts and sticks transformed into swords. Towels became superhero capes billowing in the wind as we charged through the house, out the door and leaped from the front porch in that brief airborne glory of flight. It is in so many ways the same energy I now use as a creative. I imagine what doesn’t exist yet—and then bring it into the world out of a blank canvas, a sheet or paper, or a wall…or whatever else.

It’s not pretending really, it’s a form of creating. It’s so easy to think of imagination or daydreaming as child’s play, but what if it’s actually the cornerstone of everything real? What is money, after all, but a mutually agreed-upon myth of perceived value? A green piece of paper backed by our belief. What is a city but a series of stories and structures laid out in grids and street signs activated by someone’s rules of the game? What is a career, a title, a boundary—except a fictitious outline agreed upon by the masses? Just food for consideration here.

The difference between one person and another, between despair and drive, between stagnation and growth, might just be one’s willingness to believe in the invisible long enough to build it. Make-believe. That’s what creatives do. That’s what visionaries do. That’s what children do. Then we grow up. Perhaps that’s what we’ve lost in the vainglorious grind of adulting: the sacred skill of making believe. But here’s the beautiful twist—I’ve come to understand that the artist and the entrepreneur, the educator and the dreamer, the activist and the builder—all require the same core recipe: imagination infused with intention, carried by action.

We imagine.
We believe.
We begin.
We become.

So next time someone dismisses “make believe” as a childish thing, we can smile and nod… knowing full well that the world we live in—every towering building, every invention, every institution, political or otherwise—once lived only in someone’s imagination. It’s all made up. So, if we don’t like the world we live in, just like someone made us believe in the this one, let’s craft another more equitable one of our choosing. Our inner world would be a great place to start.

Taking The Stand

Last week while sitting in my studio working on a red clay piece, the words of an artist mentor came to me. He had talked at length with me on the unique nature of my work and ended with, “nobody has the connection to this material like you do. Nobody is doing this.” The real vote of confidence was when he requested to trade a piece of work. Knowing the price points of his work, that gesture proved that he also recognized the value of mine.

When I looked around me at the array of red clay values, alchemy comes to mind. I’m not just painting g with a substance. This material is imbued with the blood of our ancestors. I am painting with an iron-rich life substance – a conductor in the highest order. That is golden. My mind then turned to an often overlooked detail in the legendary story of David and Goliath. David, the shepherd boy, had honed his skill on the hillsides near his family’s home. He had forged his will out there in solitude where no one else could see. He had built his confidence, his faith muscles in the crucible of time and the elements where he was alone guarding and caretaking for sheep. Before David stepped onto any battlefield, before he took up his sling, before he walkup up on a giant that punked seasoned warriors—he made sure his actual compensation was clear. All the accolades, awards, and pats on the back aside. He was making sure he was getting paid.

Three times, as the story goes, David asked what would be given to the man who defeated Goliath. Not once. Not twice. Three times. This wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t greed. It was an understanding of the value of what he carried: a combination of skill, will, and confidence (faith) that made him uniquely capable of achieving what no one else would or could. David didn’t assume he would be taken care of just because he was doing the right thing or doing a good job. He ensured that what he brought to the table was recognized and would be rewarded accordingly.

Yet, in creative fields—and in life—many of us fail to take this stance. We discount ourselves to get the commission, the job, to be liked, to gain acceptance, or simply because we fear that if we demand our worth, we’ll be passed over. All too often we take far less than we should, shrinking our worth. The reality is this: the world will treat us with the value we place upon ourselves. Oprah Winfrey sealed her bid as the queen of daytime talkshows. Jay -Z is not just a businessman, he is a business, man. K.Dot made it clear for all time, They not like us. David used his sling and not the kings sword, shield, or armor. Use what you have in order to do what you do. Preparation in skill, will, and confidence sets the foundation for success, but declaring your value is what ensures you receive it.

“In business as in life –You don’t get what you deserve, you get what you negotiate.” Chester L. Karrass

Skill is the ability—honed, tested, and proven. Will is the internal drive—the persistence to see things through despite the size of the opposition, the odds. Faith is the confidence that your preparation will meet the opportunity. The sum total of these three should be your value, your worth, not just in theory but in real dollars and sense. Yes, I did mean sense. So, the next time you step to an opportunity, ask yourself: Am I walking in with phenomenal skill, relentless will, and unbreakable faith? And just as important—am I making sure that my value is recognized before I take the first step? David’s victory wasn’t just about courage. It was about knowing his worth. Ours should be too.

A Future Worth Saving

“…We have to matter. If we don’t, there is no future worth saving.” +Ms Marvel

We are all born with something—an energy, a light, a force uniquely ours. But it doesn’t come fully formed. It’s shaped and forged in the fire of life’s torque. Our superpower is not limited to our natural abilities. They are the sum of us, our defeats, our victories, our past, our pain, and our passion. It is rooted in everything that has tried to break us and/or has built us to now. It’s all hammered into a weapon of choice for this life journey.

As an creative, art has been my magic carpet ride, my hammer, my wings. Not easy by any stretch, but the thing that has carried me as I was carrying it. The thing I have fought with, danced with, and ultimately surrendered to. We wrestle daily with who we are and who we think we should be. But true power is in acceptance—the acceptance of all of who we are— the best and the beast. Think about superhero characters like Batman, Daredevil, or The Hulk. Their power isn’t just in their strength, intelligence, or skill. It’s in their wounds. Batman’s greatest weapon isn’t his wealth or gadgets, but the trauma that turned into his mission. Daredevil’s blindness became his most heightened sense. The Hulk? His curse became his power. They didn’t run from their pain; they harnessed it. And that’s the secret: our power isn’t just in what we’re naturally good at—it’s in what we’ve survived, what we’ve wrestled with, and how we choose to wield it.

I think back to a moment of revelation years ago, standing atop an old building in a small municipality in Antioquia, Colombia, South America, preparing to do a mural with my team of local children. These children had a fraction of what they have in the United States in terms of material possessions, yet standing there, with the connection we had, looking out over the area, we felt invincible, wealthy in spirit and verve—on top of the world. I was right where I was supposed to be and the world was my palette. There was no lack, only creation. No limits, only possibility. That’s the essence of power: not what you have, but what you create from what you have. It is of utmost importance that we spread our wings. We have to matter. If we don’t, there’s no future worth saving. Our existence, our struggle, our triumphs—they matter. We matter. We don’t fight just to fight. We fight because what we do, what we create, and how we live shapes the world present and future. If you’re reading this and thinking this is about someone else and not you. Please be reminded that it is you that make up the us. It is the we that will ultimately win. Every time we rise from pain or paralysis, bite our lip and keep on keeping on we lay claim to a little more of our power. We command our space and carve out a chunk for those who come after us.

We can spend an entire lifetime running from ourselves, trying to be what the world deems acceptable, or we can own our superpower—our full, unfiltered truth—unapologetically. Our stories are not just the parts that shine or look good in snapshots of social media. It is also the shadows, the scars, the doubts, and the falls. The key is in bringing it all together, forging it into something undeniable, unfolding our tomorrows of choice. So, I take this loving liberty to challenge you: Own your superpower. Wield it unapologetically. Stand in it fully. Because once you do, nothing—not circumstance, not rejection, not fear, not even that ragged voice that’s plagued you all of your days—can keep you from rising. Allow no thing on this side of glory to break the rhythm of your stride…let’s go dammit..!

This Too…

The other day, while walking in the woods of some property in the country, we came upon the crusted remains of an old Oldsmobile. It was the bare essence of a former glory—its frame twisted by time, its once-glossy paint now a muted patchwork of rust and decay. Time arched over it, nature had begun reclaiming it, vines weaving through the skeletal remains, composting leaves and branches settling into the crevices where an engine once roared. I know there had to be some wildlife housed somewhere beneath its hulking frame. At one point, this car had been a concept, a design, a plan, then brand new, rolling off a showroom floor with a pristine shine, full of promise. Possibly the esteemed object of someone’s dream. How many families had been transported back and forth, voices drifting from the windows as it sailed across the open terrain, ‘the new ruling power of the road.’ Then it was all over. Now, it sat still, wedged into the earth, forgotten. My first question was how it got there. Then something a lot more relevant: this too will pass.

Everything that seems real, solid, permanent, so pressing, so essential in the moment—it all fades in time. The things we chase, the worries that keep us up at night, the victories that swell our chests, the defeats that weigh us down—all of it moves forward, slipping into darkness, dissolving into the vast current of time. Nothing stays forever, not even the most polished, powerful satisfying machine you ever owned. And yet, here we are, so often caught up in the illusion of permanence. We find ourselves suffering in the shadow of what might happen. We shiver in frigidity or fear of a world we can’t control. We hesitate, waiting for the ‘perfect time.’ We dwell in regret, replaying the past like we can rewrite it. We chase, we cling, we grasp, as if we can hold the world still in our hands. But life doesn’t work that way. It is all fully alive and animated, moving on whether we’re present for it or not.

Perhaps the lesson in that old car wasn’t just about decay or impermanence. Maybe that crusty Oldsmobile was simply a reminder to truly live while we can. Death reminds us to live. To be present in our actions, in our relationships, in our own skin. To take in the crisp air on a morning walk, to laugh without restraint, to speak truth, to chase passions, to take the chance or risk, to show up for the people who matter. To live on purpose.

It’s a sobering thought to realize that one day, we too will be remnants—memories in the hearts of those we touched, footprints fading into the path we walked. I say we get up, get out and go live. We know where we will end up. No sense in tiptoeing toward it in quiet desperation. Make each footprint count as spring springs forth in this season of rebirth. And when those other days come, may it be said and known that we didn’t just exist in this thing. We lived it.