What We Cannot Hold

There are days when life spills into us.

And we cannot quite recover.

We take in more than we can hold.

And when it’s just a bit too much,

we overflow.

Things begin to unravel—

and maybe, gently,

they were never meant to hold together in the first place.

The world spins fast.

We live in a dream state—

a carousel of wanting.

A digital landscape that rewards our longing,

but rarely our stillness.

It keeps us reaching,

always just out of touch with enough.

And beneath it all,

the quiet fear of being alone.

Of stopping long enough

to feel what’s really there.

The tenderness. The ache.

The softness underneath it all.

But maybe there’s still a place we can return to.

Not to escape,

but to remember.

To root back into something real.

Something ancient and steady.

As much as my art is made of paint,

the blood that moves through me as an artist

is connection—

to this life, this earth,

to something more poetic than words.

To the stillness that has always known who we are.

In my mind, I often go back to the desert.

To my body becoming stone.

To the wind carving its name

into million-year-old rock.

Time speaking without language.