Tag: inspiration

Hills of Dreams: Becoming What We Needed to See

Sometimes the universe whispers before it speaks.

Not long ago, I had the idea that I wanted to do something for the elementary school I attended as a child. I considered doing a mural or workshop. It was an idea that I mentioned only to my wife and scribbled in my journal. The very next week, no joke, I opened an email from the art teacher at Rolling Hills Elementary School. Her enthusiasm came straight up outta that computer. She had seen my work and wanted me to paint a mural. She had the will and the zeal, but no true idea what it would take or cost to bring it to pass. But I already knew it was destined to be. We trusted the process. Huntsville City Schools and local sponsors answered the call and the project was set in motion. We would call the mural, Hills of Dreams.

With mixed feelings I returned to those linoleum floored cinderblock halls where my own journey began. Rolling Hills Elementary School was where I first discovered the joy of art making as a thing, the exhilaration of diving deep into the creative process, seeing my work on the walls for the very first time. Where I walked with reverence into that precious carpeted library that served as a keyhole to the worlds of my interests. Where I watched a popcorn seed planted in a baby food jar sitting in the window, sprout and reach for the sun. Where at the end of my fourth grade year, the teacher gave me my pick of books on the shelf by her desk. I felt like I bit off a little piece of heaven that day. At that little cozy elementary school tucked into northwest Huntsville, nestled on a hilltop, the foundation who I am as a creative was laid. To create there again, among students and teachers, was more than full circle. It was cosmic alignment.

One day, while I worked on the mural in the cafeteria, a group of students came in to watch a film. Out of curiosity, I glanced back at the screen then noticed a boy with his face toward me. He wasn’t watching the movie at all. His eyes were fixed on me as I painted. I could feel him watching. Deep, steady, unblinking. I turned back to my work, brushed paint onto the wall, and later looked again. He was still watching. Still locked in. Of course it didn’t bother me at all. People always ask whether it distracts me when they watch or talk to me when I am painting murals. The answer is no because I see mural painting as a type of performance art. Interaction with the audience is an integral part of the work.

In that moment, I wondered What was that little fella thinking? Was he seeing himself in me? Was I looking back at me at that age? I thought about how vital it is to live fully in my space, to be visibly present on my wings. Because oh, what it would have meant for me to have seen that when I was his age. To see possibility embodied, to see someone creating, to see myself reflected in real time. That’s what doing what I do is about. It isn’t just putting paint on walls or pen to paper. It’s about planting visions. It’s about representing and recreating for inspiration. It’s about adopting the responsibility to be what I once needed to see.

Every child deserves a light to reach toward. Adults can use it as well. So what do you say we commit or recommit to standing tall in our space, to showing up fully, to inspiring boldly for the ones watching us with wide eyes, waiting for their own wings to sprout. Because Hills of Dreams is not just my slinging paint on a lunchroom wall. It’s an embodiment, an incubator for what belongs to every child or person with a dream bigger than their circumstances. It’s for all of us who dare to go for the dream and to forge trails for others to follow. In fact , as I consider it all, I think I’ve been dreaming too small.

Now

The other day my daughter sent me a photo of a cicada having just emerged from its shell. The shell or husk of this singing creature we call in the south, July Fly, is called the exuviae. I admit that as much as I love nature, that was new news to me. Exuviae seems like such a grand title for something to be left behind. As a boy, I would invest some precious time gathering these exuviae for various lofty purposes. One of them being placing them in strategic places (like on the collars of shirts) to scare the heck out of my sisters and their friends. In the photo, the new olive green, black splatterred cicada is perched a slight distance away from its exuviae. It was still stuck to the side of the porch, looking like a relic from a past self. And there was its former content, the cicada itself; raw, fresh, and very much alive. What struck me most was the timing. It’s pretty early for it to be out. Too early, maybe. The others haven’t arrived yet. The trees aren’t humming with that familiar chorus that signals summers arrival. And yet—this cicada was already here…now.

That moment held a mirror to the creative life. We are, many of us, called to emerge before it’s comfortable. To come forth and close the gap between the present and later. To break open, transform, and show up even when the timing feels off or the world doesn’t seem ready for what we have to offer. Maybe especially then it’s more important. Living a creative life—especially in times like these—can feel like crawling out of a shell when no one else is watching or exposing yourself to the harsh elements of life too soon. You may wonder if you’ve misread the signs. If you’re out here alone. If the world will catch up or just keep turning without noticing… or fully reject the you that you really are.

Here’s the truth the cicada whispered to me: Transformation doesn’t wait for perfect timing or a set date. It happens when it’s ready. Oftentimes even before you feel you are ready. And readiness doesn’t always look like safety or certainty. Sometimes it looks like being the only one brave enough to show up and shine in your truest form. As artists, thinkers, makers, dreamers—we don’t always get the chorus or even a go for it. Sometimes we just get the barely heard whisper to begin.

So today, let this be your sign: It’s okay to emerge. To come out and be who you really are and do what you do. Even if it seems too early. Even if your world seems quiet. Your creative life is not tied to the crowd or the calendar. It’s tied to the truth inside you, pulsing with its own rhythm, knowing when it’s time to break open. You hid long enough within the shell that may have protected you, but it’s no longer who you are now. Step out. Create, write, speak, plan, sing, build, sign up. Become luminous and let your light shine without apology. Leave that exuviae behind. Be here now. The world will not only adjust to you, it needs you – the real you.

The High Cost of Hidden Inventory

Years ago while still a college student, I worked at Toys R Us. Every so often we would have to do inventory. This allowed us to see how much stock we had on hand, how much we had to sell, and what was needed to continue to do business with the public. One particular season, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were all the craze. I remember climbing high in the the rows of TMNTs to find that precise turtle a customer was looking for. Yes, we had a boatload of them. At some point however, we found ourselves short on Donatellos, one of the turtles. Then there were no Donatellos at all. Even still I would climb the turtle wall and pour through the turtles just for customer satisfaction. For weeks we turned away customer after customer looking for Donatello. One particular day, I was in the stockroom making some space and noticed a couple of large boxes turned on their sides. I boosted myself onto the shelf and pulled the boxes forward. Popping them open with my trusty boxcutter, I found gold. Or rather I found what we had been needing- Donatellos. Somehow during inventory, someone had failed to see the boxes. For weeks Toys R Us had been losing money on what we already had because no one recognized we had them.

Recognition, like taking inventory, is a way of taking stock. It has a way of offering us a moment of pause, a rare opportunity to reflect on what we have and the journey we’ve traveled. A couple of weeks ago, I had the privilege of being honored by two organizations at a local ceremony. As the announcer read through my accolades, I found myself momentarily detached, almost as if I were hearing about someone else. For a brief moment, I had to glance at the screen and remind myself that they were speaking about me.

It wasn’t until later that I truly internalized the significance of that moment. How often do we take inventory of our accomplishments, truly measuring the depth of our impact and the level we have attained? It is easy to get caught in the constant momentum of striving for more without ever assessing the full weight of what we have already achieved. Yet, taking inventory of our journey allows us to recalibrate our valuation of both our efforts and our worth in the marketplace.

This realization brought back a powerful statement that a coach shared with me last year. In response to my dismissiveness about my achievements, he said, “Normalizing greatness creates undervalued experiences.” At the time I thought it was deep but still didn’t grasp the power of the words. I refused to take inventory. I was still too focused on the next thing. When innovation and excellence becomes our standard, we sometimes fail to recognize it as such. What was once an extraordinary feat becomes routine, and in that normalization, we diminish the very experiences that once held immense value. Also, we have to consider how our upbringing plays into this thing of humility. Perhaps we grew up in a family or environment where bragging or claiming credit was seen as a negative. To counteract this we go full tilt in the opposite direction. In actuality it may not be humility at all but simply undervaluing ourselves by default.

This is a double-edged sword. On one hand, setting a high bar for ourselves drives continuous growth and improvement. On the other, failing to acknowledge and appreciate our own milestones can lead to an undervaluation of our contributions. If we don’t recognize our own greatness, how can we expect others to?

Thus, it is crucial to practice intentional reflection. Take moments to acknowledge how far we’ve come, celebrate the impact we’ve made, and recognize the value we bring to the table. Understanding our worth is not about arrogance—it is about alignment. It is about ensuring that our internal perception matches the reality of your contributions.

I invite you to take inventory sometime soon. Don’t hold back. Don’t let them feel foreign. Own them. Let them serve as a testament to the work you’ve put in and the lives you’ve touched. Because when you truly value yourself, the world will follow suit.

If Not…For The Birds

This year, I had the privilege of attending the renowned Festival of Cranes—a celebration of grace, migration, and one of natural world’s many intricate dances. While the elegant sandhill cranes captivated the crowds, my own attention was pulled away by an unexpected guest: a back a forth game of male cardinals darting through the naked wintry limbs, the red plumage striking against the bare landscape. This simple encounter took me on a journey of reflection, one centered on hope, intention, and the messages we receive if we pause to notice.

As a child, whenever we spotted a cardinal, we’d shout, “Redbird, somebody comin’!” It was part superstition, part playful belief that the bright flash of red was a herald of change, a sign that someone—or something—was on its way. Back then, we didn’t think much of it beyond the joy of the moment. But as I stood there watching the cardinal at the Festival of Cranes, I felt the significance of that childhood exclamation in a new way.

Cardinals have long been seen as symbols of hope and renewal. Their brilliant crimson feathers stand out unapologetically, even in the bleakest seasons, reminding us to embrace our individuality and worth. They seem to carry messages from beyond—a gentle nudge to reconnect with faith, spiritual practices, and the peace that comes from being present. In their quiet grace, they offer a sense of life’s continuity, a whisper that even in hardship, beauty endures.

That day, watching the cardinal, I felt these lessons deeply. It wasn’t just a moment to observe but a call to participate—to take the hope the cardinal symbolized and turn it into intention. Hope, when passive, is like a seed left unplanted. To elevate it into intention means to act on it, to let it shape how we move through the world. The cardinal’s red plumage wasn’t just a signal to stop and notice; it was a challenge to lean into that moment of reflection and ask, “What next?”

I carry the memory of the cardinal with me, its image etched into my mind as a vivid reminder to live with intention. The cranes taught me about harmony and connection, travel and poise while the cardinal urged me to take those lessons and weave them into my daily life. Hope, I realized, is not just something to feel—it is something to live…on purpose.

The next time you see a cardinal (or anything that pulls your attention away from the order of the day), pause. Breathe. Let its message remind you of hope, not as a passive lottery style wish but as an invitation to act, to engage. Take that hope, plant it, and nurture it into something that can grow and sustain you—and perhaps others. After all, “somebody” is always coming. Maybe it’s you.

Embracing The Journey

Last week, a snowstorm blanketed the East Coast, transforming familiar landscapes into frosty white humps. At the same time, we bore witness to newsreels of wild fires raging in California. The entire picture is a stark reminder of our divided literal and metaphorical climates. It’s hard not to see the symbolism: two extremes, mirroring the polarization of our times.

In the aftermath of the storm, we decided to embrace the weather and hit the great outdoors. We had actually been hoping for snow. When we get it in my neck of the woods, it’s generally in celebration. The air was crisp, and the fresh snow muffled the world around us. This offered a rare stillness around our voices of laughter as we sculpted snow creatures then armed ourselves with snowmunition and went to war. The day was escaping so we called a truce and took off hiking. As the group trudged ahead, I hung back taking in the scene: the path we carved through the snow, my family in motion, and the destination up ahead. It struck me then how much this mirrored life itself. Yes, I do think a lot, even at times like this. So often, we fixate on where we’re going—the summit, the goal, the resolution—that we forget to savor where we are in the moment. Each step becomes a task rather than a part of the experience. And yet, those steps are where the magic happens. The crunch of snow underfoot, the shimmer of sunlight breaking through snow-heavy branches, and the sound of my youngest daughter’s voice asking how much longer—these moments are the journey.

And then there are the tracks we leave behind. Looking at the trail behind them, I thought about the impression we make for others who watch us, who come after us. Our choices, our actions, and even our mistakes make paths that guide, hinder, or inspire those who follow. The clarity of a single set of tracks through fresh snow can be reassuring, a beacon for others to navigate unknown terrain. This perspective feels especially relevant in our current world, where extremes—both in weather and in society—seem to dominate. Fires and storms, division and connection. In such times, our steps and our awareness of them matter more than ever. The way we walk—with care, intention, and respect—can influence not only our journey but the paths and way we forge for others.

So as we move forward, let’s challenge ourselves to make the most of where we are. Make the most of today. Pause to admire the view, acknowledge the effort it takes to keep moving, and be mindful of the impact we leave in our wake. Whether we’re navigating snow or fire, literal or figurative, we really do have the power to shape the journey—for ourselves and for those who follow. With due diligence the destination will come soon enough. But it’s the trail we carve and the tracks we leave that tell the real story. The map will be here long after we’ve gone where we went.

Generating Light

Some time ago, I traveled to see a Thornton Dial art exhibit. Although Thornton Dial has transitioned, his work lives on as a beacon of his presence here on the planet. As a fellow Alabama artist, I am inspired by his journey. Included on the panel discussion was Lonnie Holley, another southern artist I deeply admire. It’s very important for me and my practice to seek out those whose work/life have shaped my creative journey and pushed my vision forward. As I stepped up in line and began to speak with Lonnie, I noticed another young man waiting eagerly. Lonnie continued on and conversed with me longer than any of the others before. Having been in the position of one who has stood in the space of waiting and of greeting, I wanted to be respectful of both positions.

Not wanting to take up much more than my share of his time, I decided to step back and give the waiting young man his turn. He stepped up directly to me still smiling. With an animated look of controlled excitement on his face he said, reaching out his hand, “I was waiting to to meet you.” I was a bit surprised to say the least. It felt like time paused for a moment. I had come to seek wisdom and inspiration from someone I looked up to, only to be reminded that I too, am a light for someone else.

The moment revealed to me an ever present truth: we are all torches in someone’s darkness, a lamp in another’s searching, or simple a light along their pathway. While we are busy seeking illumination to guide our own path, we are generating light that illuminates the paths of others. It’s humbling to think about the ripple effect of our actions. Every brushstroke, every step forward or back, every story we tell holds the potential to inspire someone we may never meet. Whether you’re an artist, a teacher, a parent, or simply a person striving to grow, your journey is leaving trails of light for others to follow.

I believe this is what creativity and ultimately humanity are about—connection. We are a collective constellation, each star adding brilliance to the night sky. The world doesn’t just need one blazing sun; it needs the combined glow of every light bearer sharing their radiance. Keep shining, I say. Keep creating. Keep living authentically or at least pushing toward it. You never know who might be waiting to meet you, or who might already be watching and drawing strength from your light. We are all part of this dynamic, magnanimous, cosmic exchange of inspiration. When we create and share, we generate light—not just for ourselves, but for a world so in need of it.

Remember Who You Are

“It has that thing – the imagination, and the feeling of happy excitement – I knew when I was a kid.” Walt Disney

Aside from love, imagination may be the most powerful force in the universe. As powerful as it is, it’s abundant and unfettered in the most vulnerable beings on the planet- children.

As an art educator, I used to admonish educators and students to remember who you were before you were told what to be. We are filled to the brim with imagination as children. As we grow up, however, that imagination dwindles until we become cookie cutter beings plugged into the machine on the level of existing to fill a space like another brick in the wall (shoutout to Pink Floyd).

For as long as I can remember, imagination has been my favorite word. As “artist ” became my profession of choice, I took comfort in claiming the word imagination, feeling I was an authority on the subject. All the way up until I realized that I too had gotten caught up in the turning of the wheel, working hard to make a living while refusing to fully dance with the joy and mysteries of life fed by the power of imagination. It was out of a misguided sense of responsibility, resisting the frolic of the mind reaching into the light of life and tasing all the good parts. I had drifted into the void and lost touch with the quintessential child inside.

My youngest daughter, still very much connected, continuously reaches into the imaginal abyss, with her seemingly absurd questions and “what if” scenarios. Her relentless roving mind never let up on tap tap tapping on my spirit’s door until I could finally hear what she was waking me up to. Her vivid imagination has become the spark that is rekindling my own imagination and awakening, reassembling my inner artist/child; over the too serious role (hole, box) I find myself slipping into. Her boundless creativity is a north star in my liberation journey. I now intentionally listen to her, deepening my own artistic awakening, remembering who I am. This re-membering is a little deeper than the idea of recall. It is the tedious and life giving act of putting back together the parts of ourselves disassembled by the destructive nature of a survival mentality.

I would be willing to bet there is something calling you. You feel it. You hear it. You even catch glimpses of it. It shows up in the strangest or most common places, like some consistent voice in the wilderness crying out to you. I was watching a movie the other night. There was a note in the film that read, “Remember who you are.” In that moment I knew that I was refusing to acknowledge what I already knew. Even after the movie, I could not shake the words. That night I had a vivid dream that opened up a sense of possibility that I had not felt in a while. A space that was both familiar and brand new at the same time. A space, where limits are pushed off the outer edges of life’s surface. A space that is safe for remembering who I am.

Same Sun

My oldest daughter was born in Crozer-Chester Medical Center in Chester, PA. Those hallowed grounds were once occupied by the Crozer Theological Seminary attended by such notables as J. Pious Barber, Samuel Dewitt Proctor and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. These were giants of men, men of faith I hold in high regard. I often walked these grounds where they walked in honor, remembrance, and reflection.  

We had relocated to Pennsylvania on faith in what I do as an artist to start a new life. We named our daughter Imani, which means faith with Arabic and Swahili origins in East Africa, as a testament to that move. This year Imani returned from Alaska, another faith move – there and back. At the morning of this writing, she is on a beach in Maryland, as I am in one of my favorite places on the planet, Chicago.  We exchanged sunrise images. The one thing constant in them both is the glow of the morning sun. Faith is the knowing that the sun will always rise. No matter how dark the night or tumultuous the storm, that golden orb ascends to the heavens as a metaphoric reminder. A reminder that we can always begin again, and that success came before us on the same planet that we walk. Sometimes even the same ground that we walk over. Remembering and thinking on things like this can help to put things in perspective as we go about the tasks involved in doing what we do.

Think of your most revered luminary. In this case allow it to be someone that you admire in your field of choice. Someone who has made accomplishments in the area of which you aspire to succeed. See them in action in your mind going about their tasks from the mundane to the magnificent. Above them every day is the same sun that shines down on you. The setting of your story has the same lighting as theirs. The warmth, the light, the brilliance — all of it bathed their path just as it bathes yours. The same source of energy that sustained their journey is sustaining you now, fueling your own rise, your own breakthroughs.

It’s easy to look at those who’ve gone before us and imagine that they had some secret, some hidden resource, but the truth is they moved forward in the same rhythm of faith, resilience, and consistency. Like the sun, they showed up, even on cloudy days when success seemed distant. And just like the sun, their brilliance was a reflection of what already existed inside them.

Faith, like the light of the sun, is a force we often take for granted, yet it’s always with us. Just as we trust that the sun will rise each morning, we must trust that our own light, our own success, will also emerge — even when it’s not immediately visible. Even on those days when we whisper in quiet desperation,”What the hell am I doing?”

Imani, faith, is not just the name of my daughter; it’s the principle that guides the journey. It’s in the small actions, the steady discipline, and the unwavering belief that, just like the sun, the time will come to rise higher. No storm, no night, can prevent the dawning of your potential. So as we stand on this shared ground, beneath this shared sun, know that you’re already on the path — step by step, light by light, day by day, moment by moment — to becoming the luminary that will shine for the generations to come.