I was recently painting a mural at an elementary school when the most inspiring thing happened. Not that inspiration isn’t flowing freely in an elementary school anyway. It was one of the last few days of the school year and energy was over the top. And boy do I remember those days. Plus it was a delayed day because of a previous night storm. A small group of teachers gathered in the Lunchroom for movie time for the children. Kindergarten through third grade piled in and planted themselves on the round stools at the tables, their attention supposedly glued to the big screen. Every so often, I’d pause from the strokes of my brush amid giggles and squeals, and glance back at the group and the show they were watching. Each time, I noticed one particular little fella—not watching the movie like the others—but watching me with intensity. Quiet. Still. Eyes locked in on my process.
He didn’t seem restless or antsy but focused. It wasn’t like he was distracted from the movie. I don’t think he had even started watching it. He was drawn—not to noise or the movie screen, but to the motion of my brush, the forming of images, The colors spreading on the wall, the unfolding progress of creation. To me, it was doing the thing I do. But to him it appeared to me magnetic. I couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his little head. Maybe he was in awe, mesmerized by this art thing. Maybe he saw himself. Maybe he recognized something familiar in the rhythm of the interplay of mind, spirit, passion, and whatever else makes us do what we do when we do it well. Maybe he thought I looked funny. But more than anything, what I realized is this: that used to be me, often silent but fiercely observant. Sometimes, the quietest gaze holds the loudest affirmation.
As a boy, I was captivated by the act of making, how things came to be. The why, who, when, where of the what. It drew me like a plant pulled toward the sunlight. I didn’t always have the language for it, but I knew I knew. There was something calling, beckoning. And now, all these years later, I find myself on the other side of that moment, being watched by a child whose heart might be whispering the same call. It reminded me that the work we do—especially the work born from intention, from purpose, from struggle and joy—echoes from the depths of life to the surface. It creates ripples. It becomes a mirror, a map, or a magnet for someone else.
That’s why it is imperative that we keep showing up. Not just for ourselves, but for the ones quietly watching, absorbing, being shaped by the vision of what’s possible. We are giving permission to the next artist. The next teacher. The next leader. The next dreamer. The next builder of worlds. What matters most doesn’t just leave a mark on walls, paper, stage, or film, —it leaves a reflection for and in those to come.
Photo by Michelle McClintock
Notes of A Native Son 