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.

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.

In Search of Okay

This morning, as I lay in bed far past usual, with the sunlight spilling into the room, my mind circled around a familiar yet complicated idea of being okay. What does it really mean to be okay, to be alright? Not in the way we toss it around in passing conversations, but in the quiet, honest places within ourselves. On the path I’ve chosen — this project-based, often unpredictable existence as an artist, I find myself constantly moving between points — this project, that commission, this opportunity, that possibility. And in every moment, I realize I’m often searching for a position where I can quietly say to myself, I’m okay. Not necessarily victorious. Not defeated. Just okay. Okay with where I am, or where I thought I’d be by now. It’s a constant negotiation between expectation and acceptance.

When we meet people, we ask how they’re doing. “I’m okay.” “I’m alright.” Simple words that cover so much. Sometimes they’re true. Sometimes they’re placeholders. And sometimes, they’re shields we use to keep the deeper, heavier parts at bay. Lately, I’ve started to wonder — what do I mean when I say I want to be okay? Is it peace? Is it progress? Is it simply a quiet wrinkle in time where everything doesn’t feel like it’s pressing in? Am I hoping for a point in my life, or my work, where I can be completely alright with what is? And if so… does that place even exist, or are we forever chasing it, catching only glimpses as it moves just out of our reach?

I’m learning that maybe okay isn’t a permanent destination. Maybe it’s a fleeting pause — a breath — a fragile alignment between what’s happening around me and what’s happening within me. It’s the moment I stop measuring, stop chasing, and simply allow myself to be. Today, I’m in search of an okay that may not be a finish line or a reward, but a quiet, honest moment where I can say to myself, I’m alright… as I am, right here, right now. And maybe for today, that’s enough. So if you find yourself searching too, know that sometimes, okay isn’t a place you arrive at — it’s a moment you allow.