confluence
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Yesterday, I felt drawn back into my digital archive—over 14,000 images spanning decades of making and becoming. As I began curating and compositing, I realized many of these works weren’t incomplete; they were simply waiting. Waiting for the right context, the right emotional season, the right impression. Waiting for now. Works in progress often stir
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I’ve been exploring what inner authority feels like now, at seventy-three — learning to let the many parts of me listen to one another instead of striving to lead. It’s the same balance I’m seeking in my art and writing, especially in my poem Tether of Knowing—how do we honor the edges and still find
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Uncharted. Understood. I’m always scouting—sometimes for direction, sometimes just to listen. The aftermath of chaos still hums in the air, carrying fragments of lessons not yet named. I don’t mind the uncertainty anymore; I’ve learned to trust the movement itself. There’s a rhythm in every cross-current thought, a pattern beneath the turbulence. When I pause
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There are moments when the work slows just enough for reflection to surface, where making becomes listening. This Journal marks such a moment. Here, I am exploring the space between intention and discernment—how one propels and the other refines, how both depend on silence to translate thought into form. What begins as impulse may end
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There are no laurels for quiet repayment.No ceremonies for those who wrote checks instead of manifestos.No headlines for those who worked second jobs and turned down dreams. But they are there. The artists who couldn’t paint until the debt was gone.The caregivers who delayed their care.The teachers who stayed in their lane because the loan
Parker&Creative 