Visual Journey 62

Rooted In the Hidden Work

There has been a great growing and blooming here—after buckets of rain and seemingly endless, moody skies, the blue returned. And with it: heat, light, and sudden color. The blooms came all at once, as if they’d been holding their breath. That wild, slow-to-come unfurling inspired my paintings this week—paintings rooted in the pulse beneath the surface, the quiet labor of becoming.

At the same time, I was listening to a reflection by

Morgan Harper Nichols

, who spoke of the 17-year cicada: a creature whose transformation happens almost entirely underground, unseen. When it finally rises, its flight is not graceful—but it is entirely its own.

That image stuck with me. Like the cicada, much of what transforms us is quiet, hidden, not immediately visible to the outside world. We molt, we emerge, and even if our flight is clumsy, it is honest.

In my own life—and in the slow, intuitive process of painting—I’ve come to understand the kind of growth that happens beneath the surface. The kind no one applauds or even notices. The kind that reshapes you quietly, over time. Healing, change, and becoming rarely look dramatic on the outside. But eventually, something shifts. The season turns. And somehow, you find yourself ready to emerge. To show up. To speak, or create, or begin again—even if you’re still unsure, even if your wings feel unsteady.

These paintings aren’t just about flowers. They’re about emergence. About the courage it takes to step forward after a long, unseen journey. About honoring the awkward, beautiful, costly work of becoming more fully yourself.

Like the cicada, even if the world doesn’t quite understand what you’ve been through—or what you’ve become—you still rise. And that rising matters.

You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.

Maya Angelou

So, this is for anyone who’s been underground for a while—growing, healing, waiting, becoming. Even if the world doesn’t yet recognize the shape you’ve taken, even if your movement feels unsteady, your rising is real.

Let it be enough to bloom at your own pace.

To take up space in your own way.

To gather what’s been scattered, and begin again.

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Read and listen to Morgan’s full reflection called The Cost of Transformation (And Daring to Sing, Anyway)

The Cost of Transformation (And Daring To Sing, Anyway)

Love, Gratitude and Light,