Tag: poetry

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.

The Magical and The Mundane

Driving out in the backcountry of Madison County, Alabama, near where I live, never disappoints. Just ahead and to my left across a field on a straight country road, the clouds had parted. Sun slivers filtered down through them like a scene from a science fiction movie. For a moment, I imagined being lifted up, joining a congregation of aliens who would send me back with all my superpowers revealed—everything suddenly feeling possible. Another thought that crossed my mind was the age-old reminder: behind every dark cloud, there’s a silver lining. It’s a comforting, almost cliché notion, but one that always gives me hope.

Yet, as I pondered these whimsical ideas, I couldn’t help but hear the voice of an old friend in my head, the one who would often point out, with a smacking of their lips, “They’re just clouds.” And maybe that’s true—maybe that’s all they are. But sometimes, I believe it’s about what we choose to see. Those clouds could be just that, or they could be the start of a story that feels as big and strange as the universe itself. It’s all in how you look at it. In the end, it’s not about whether those clouds are just clouds or something more. It’s about how we choose to see them or peel ourselves from the harsh reality of an overstuffed existence. Life is full of just ordinary moments, the mundane that we all pass by without a second thought. But within those moments, if we allow ourselves, there’s room for wonder, magic, and connection. Some cultures refer to these events as omens, others as divine whispers. It’s like the space between the clouds and the sunlight—there’s something in that gap, a glimpse of possibility, if we’re open to it.

So, maybe we’re all given little opportunities to “see” beyond the scene. Sometimes it’s a patch of light breaking through, other times, it’s simply choosing to imagine what’s not immediately visible. The mundane, when seen with the right eyes, can become something far more extraordinary. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real magic.

Standing In The Night

The other night as I made my sojourn home after what seemed like hours in traffic, I saw this lone oak tree out in the field. I’ve seen this tree standing there at that turn through every season year after year. It’s been the focus many photos . This particular night, however, it seemed to possess a different power. I felt like it was speaking directly to me about the Power of standing. Not just standing when you have all your ducks in a row or you think you’re at your best but standing just as tall under the cloak of darkness. Life often brings moments that feel like long nights—when the darkness seems overwhelming, and the weight of our struggles eclipses the light of our creative spirit. For those of us with unconventional careers—artists, writers, innovators—these nights can feel particularly heavy. Especially since we’re already navigating uncharted waters, relying on our passion, plans, and fortitude to stay afloat.

Recently, I was reminded of this when a dear friend, someone I consider a sister, faced the unimaginable loss of both her parents within a short time. These were people who not only shaped her life but also touched mine. They were pillars, guiding lights whose love and wisdom made the world feel more steady. In their absence, she could have crumbled under the weight of grief. But instead, I saw her stand—tall, unwavering, and deeply rooted in her truth. Her smile became the sunshine, the glow in dark times.

Watching her navigate this profound loss, I was struck by her resilience. She reminded me that standing in the night is not about denying the darkness. It’s about acknowledging it while refusing to let it extinguish your light. As creatives, we often find ourselves in similar moments. The rejection, the self-doubt, the financial uncertainty—they can all conspire to pull us into the shadows and choke out the power of our craft.

But here’s the lesson: the night is not the end. It’s a canvas. In those moments of darkness, you have a choice. You can retreat, or you can create. You can let the night silence you, or you can let it inspire you to speak louder. My friend chose to stand in her power, honoring her parents’ legacy by continuing to live fully, to love deeply, and to create meaning from her pain. For those of us pursuing paths that require risk, courage and creativity, we must do the same. We have to stand in the night. We have to create in spite of it—or perhaps because of it. Our art, our work, our very lives are testimonies to the fact that the night cannot last forever. Moreover, You’re never really alone, no matter how solitary you feel. You are rooted in the dreams and hopes of the ancestors, planted in this earth.

Remember that stars shine brightest in the darkest skies. So, when life feels heavy, remember this: your power and connection doesn’t vanish with the setting sun. It becomes a beacon, guiding you and others through the night. Stand tall. Stand firm. Stand in the night. And know that your light, no matter how dim it may feel, has the power to guide you home while illuminating the path for someone else. Keep creating. Keep believing. Keep standing.

Voyage To Now

As a child, I invested healthy chunks of afternoons and evenings lying with my back snuggled into the grass in my parents backyard staring up into the sky. Sometimes I would wonder what was out there. Mostly, I’d find shapes in the clouds, watch them float and transform, or when there were none, feel the wash of the calming blues stretching into forever. I couldn’t explain it then but that intense purposeful sky gazing was a lesson in mindfulness, being fully present in the moment. The intense gaze into the heavens took up all the space of yesterday and tomorrow, transporting me fully into those present moments. In the nowness of it all, I felt that no matter what, everything was alright right then and there.

As of late, I have come to the knowledge of a word called skychology.  Skychology is is a new area of wellbeing research, defined as the study of the relationship between looking at the sky and wellbeing . It’s been proven that the act of looking up at the sky can provide a sense of perspective and calm, making one’s problems and worries feel small in comparison. Furthermore, the big blue yonder brings about an increase in mindfulness, stimulates creativity, and providing mental health benefits at no cost but a glance upward.

Who knew? Apparently, I did, my friends did, and you probably did too. We didn’t have a name for it back then, but in our spirit we knew the sky had something to offer beyond planes and an occasional spaceship . We knew how it made us feel and where it took us. As children we accept what we accept without overthinking and smothering the moment with analysis. For me the sky was the embodiment of the word possibility. The 20th century artist, Pablo Picasso frequently called out being like a child as a characteristic of a great artist. One of his famous quotes reads…

“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.”

Let us look to the sky and allow it to transport us into the now. Through the eyes of our inner child, we can behold the world anew. Simply allow yourself to be aware of something that’s always there. Night and day, through all seasons, good days and challenging times do not take away the sky’s healing powers. I’m sure you’ve heard that the best things in life are free. The effects of sky gazing, no doubt, one of them. Plug in when you can, there’s no charge.

Consider the idea of the sky as a canvas. The art reflects the artist. As the luminary Wintley Phipps once said. “God created this world from the timber of his creative imagining.” What if we saw the sky is a divine canvas, ever present, stretched overhead, free to all to reap it’s benefits. A space that is sometimes blank and sometimes predesigned to to put our lives in perspective. Back then, I didn’t know I wanted to be an artist when I grew up but the artist in me already knew. It was offering to me, the artist to be, a front row seat to the most expansive canvas of all time and the most precious moment, now.