family – Notes of A Native Son

It Is What It Is

There’s something about standing in the cool shadow of death that reminds us to live. Not just to exist. Not just to breathe. But to live.

Recently, my aunt passed on. I stood beside her as we talked possibly more than we had ever talked before. At least one on one like that. Other times we had always been surrounded by other family members as we exchanged a few words here and there. In that still room, a holy hush wrapped itself around us. I looked down at her—and I saw her. Not as I had always seen her—but as she truly was. Her full lips. Her smooth, unlined skin. Her deep, brown eyes, wide listening. It felt like I was seeing her for the first time. I saw her almost perfect hands were manicured with no polish, barely warm as they wrapped around mine. I heard my Dad’s words come out of my mouth, “I want to pray with you.” When I finished, she continued in a whisper barely audible. Then she smiled.

She was not an old woman. Not by our measure. But here she was resting in that portal, that liminal space between breath and spirit, between what was and what will be. She spoke in whispers, each word labored, each syllable soaked in meaning. Then came the moment that now echoes in my soul. She took a deep breath—one of her last for the week—and as it left her lungs, it came forth with
“It is what it is.” At first, I thought it was just a form of resignation. It felt like so much more though. It was revelation. For me, one who values spiritual connection and ancestral knowing, that phrase carries weight. It isn’t about giving up. It’s about giving in—to divine order, to ancestral timing, to the eternal rhythm of life, death, and rebirth. “It is what it is” is not a shrug. It’s a knowing. It’s a surrender that comes with dignity. It’s the utterance of one who has come face to face with the edge of this world and has decided to speak peace to it.

In our communities, we often mask our pain with strength, with a fake stoicism. But there’s something radical about embracing what is. It is an act of spiritual resistance. A return to the old ways of being in relationship with the mystery. To look death in the eye, and still bless the moment with your breath! That is power. That is ancestral poise.

To her two sons—my cousins, no longer the little boys I remember running around—I want to say this: Your mother loved you with an undying love. She saw you. She knew you were and as you are. It’s is in your hands now to take that to the next level and be the best seeds she ever planted. make good on her investment. She carried you, not just in her womb but in her spirit. She watched over you with quiet strength — and she could let loose with some fire to get you in gear. We know she didn’t play. None of us are angelic all the time. Some of her final words to my ears, “It is what it is,” were not meant to harden or dismiss—but to hold us. She was teaching her final lesson. That life cannot always be understood, but it must always be honored. That even in the transition, there is truth and knowing that goes forever forward. That we don’t have to make sense of everything to be at peace with it. Let those words become your shield. Let them remind you that what goes away has not vanished, only changed form. That smile, that laugh of hers is still with us. Your mother is an ancestor now, an ascendant. She is not silent. She is speaking still, through memory, through love, through you.

To those who have loved and feel the loss—You are not alone. Our people have been burying loved ones for generations, and still we rise. Still we sing. Still we embrace and smile at each other at funerals, calling joy out of sorrow. The dull ache of grief may never leave you. But neither will the love. Love never dies. Stand up straight in the cool shadow of death—and allow it to remind you to live. To laugh. To cry. To say “it is what it is,” not with defeat in your heart, but with reverence on your lips. Those words to me, in that moment from my aunt, were a benediction. A battle cry. A blessing.

A Timely Investment

As an artist, my life revolves around the creation of beauty and meaning. I pour a part of me into each stroke of my brushes, mark of my pen or pencil, and every conceptual decision. Art is timeless. But ironically, the pursuit of creation can sometimes make me lose sight of something even more precious than creativity: the value of time itself.

Time, unlike money, is a finite resource. No matter how much money we earn or what we achieve, we cannot stretch the hours in a day or rewind the clock to recapture moments we’ve missed. As a family man this reality hits close to home. Especially when my daughter walks across the room and I see that she’s a foot taller than she was two days prior. Sometimes she will ask whether I have to go to work that day. Of course my answer is always yes. But will I really remember that I missed that day off work just to hang out with her? While I strive to honor deadlines and push boundaries in my practice, I’ve had to confront the moments when my family and friends—the people who ground me most—felt sidelined by my work.

The truth is, you can always create more wealth in terms of dollars. A new commission, an additional workshop, or even a clever pivot to monetize your creative skills can generate the flow. But no amount of money can bring back any of my children’s first laugh or bike ride, an easy like Sunday morning with loved ones, or the quiet joy of simply being present for the people who matter most.

As an artist, my work is rooted in storytelling and legacy—in capturing essential moments that transcend time. But if I neglect the life around me, I’m failing to honor the very inspiration behind my work – my why. Art imitates life, and life is richest when we’re fully present in it. Yes, that may be a challenge to do but it is doable.

I’m still learning and yearning to embrace a feasible balance. That balance may never be evenly distributed. Some days, it may mean saying no to a project that doesn’t align with my core values or stepping away from my studio at a reasonable hour… to stay later another evening. Other days, it’s finding ways to integrate my family into my creative process, allowing my daughter to paint alongside me or sharing my vision with loved ones. These moments remind me why I do what I do in the first place.

For anyone struggling in the balancing of work and family, particularly in creative fields where the demands can be unpredictable, I encourage you to reflect on what truly drives you. Our success is not solely defined by accolades or financial milestones. It’s about the quality of your relationships, the memories you build, and the integrity you bring to your life and work. Really, time is the most valuable currency. Let’s invest it equitable with those who inspire us and for the moments that matter most.

And The GOAT Said To The Kid…Finale

I slept well for about 45minutes or so, got up, grabbed a bite to eat, and headed on out. The walk was only about a mile and some change to the Art Institute Auditorium from where I was living at the time. Right down in the loop, everything was pretty close. As I approached the building I saw the line to get in stretched to the corner. My anxiety kicked in. That was a long line and a lot of humans. What if I couldn’t get in? Would they run out of seats if I was at the end. I shushed the voices in my head and hit the back of the line. I was this close, yet it seemed so far. It was a bit too early for the line to move forward so it just grew, backwards.

Isn’t it crazy sometimes how when we get right up on what we say we want, the reverse gear feels so good in our hands. I’m thinking that may be a fear of success or our own light. Doubt starts creeping in like roots from some foreign species threatening to choke out our garden of dreams. Do something before they get too deep. Jar yourself outta that space however you have to. Action has a bit of magic in it. Looking around, I began to think about being inside the auditorium. Then a little voice in my head prompted me to head toward the door.

“Why…?” I countered. I couldn’t just go strolling past all these other people waiting in this stationary line. That would be rude. My Mama taught me better. Some had been there longer than me. Who was I to go traipsing to the front of the line? It was finally about time to go in. The line was still. If I moved, I couldn’t just reclaim my space again. “Excuse me, I had these big dreams but they didn’t work out. Could you let me cut line back in front of you?” If I left this safe space, it was all the way forward and in or all the way back. I peeled myself from my spot in line and began the walk toward the door. I could feel the yes on me. I didn’t stop ’til I was inside the double doors. The air was cool and inviting with no real smell. The low nap carpet muffled my footsteps. A woman walked over and asked if she could help me. I told her my name, and what the director had said. She turned, went to a table, came back and asked me to follow her. I was expecting to go to the door where people were gathered. Instead she lead me to a side door to our right away from the crowd. She pointed toward the front of the auditorium. “Anywhere down there if fine.”

“Anywhere..?” I repeated with a little disbelief and enthusiasm. “Anywhere.” She affirmed.

I stepped right down to the front row of the auditorium and sat down like I owned it. After taking in my surroundings, I called the friend and told her where I was in the auditorium. She couldn’t believe it. And to boot, the lady standing over me whose purse kept hitting my shoulder, was playwright and director, Cheryl Lynn Bruce – the wife of Kerry James Marshall. I stood up and joined the conversation, introducing myself like I was the speaker. We exchanged cards, had a laugh, and took our seats. I caught a glimpse of the other professor in the back; the one who told me there were no more tickets. My partner in crime soon joined me and we enjoyed the presentation to the fullest. A key message to the crowd, then to me specifically as KJM and I connected as Alabama native sons, was to continue and don’t be deterred.

Afterwards we chatted it up with Kerry James Marshall, Cheryl Lynn Bruce, and John White, son of Charles White. Our conversation lasted out the door into the tepid Chicago night air. The evening had gone even better than expected. Kerry’s words to me hit fertile ground. It was an honor to stand in the presence of an artist who has gained his level of accomplishment, holding true to his practice, and doing it on his message. I consider him the GOAT in that arena. He, in turn was taught and inspired by Charles White, a GOAT before him. It was one of those times when there was no doubt in my mind, what was possible, and where I am going. The kid eventually grows up. Stay the course, each step is a stroke toward your shine.