Recently, I’ve been moving more slowly. I returned to Tennessee after the passing of my uncle—my mother’s brother—someone I was very close to and loved deeply. The trip was filled with memory and emotion, but also with a kind of quiet I didn’t know I needed.
In the stillness of those days, I heard the birds, crickets, and frogs again. Sounds that once filled my evenings growing up, now filled my daughter’s ears as I taught her how to catch lightning bugs at dusk. The Tennessee hills—lush, stacked with trees and winding hollers—felt familiar and grounding. It was like the land itself made space for grief.
Being back reminded me of the calm and peace that shaped my roots. Of green grass soaked with dew. Of vast farmland and a sky so open you could see every star. I remembered myself as a teenager, standing under that same sky, longing to see what else was out there. But this time, I wasn’t looking ahead—I was looking inward.
I let myself step away from creating for a while. I spent time with family, shared stories, cried, and laughed. My creativity went quiet—not gone, just resting. I gave it space, and in that space, I remembered what matters most.
The closeness I felt during this time—the way we gathered around shared memories, the love exchanged in quiet gestures—felt like a living thread from my grandmother’s legacy. She taught us how to show up for each other, how to hold space for sorrow and still find light.
I don’t have a big breakthrough or a new painting to show. What I have is stillness. And what I’m learning is that stillness is a kind of art, too.
If you’re in a season of quiet, I hope you know it’s okay to pause. To let yourself be. Creativity doesn’t always come through action. Sometimes it returns through memory, light, or the flicker of a firefly.
