The exhibit Destiny is a Rose was my first exposure to Eileen Harris Norton’s collection, which centers contemporary art, social justice, and the Black experience. Each piece told a powerful story, and placed together in this way was deeply compelling.

This collection reflects a remarkable life of an elementary school teacher, a co-founder of a tech company, and a philanthropist dedicated to the idea that all art has value. These three works in particular resonated with me.

Saar used the soles of shoes to form the wings, tin ceiling tiles to create the suitcase. There is a palpable tension between the transformative possibility of flight and the weight of the memories we carry. This tells the story of the Great Migration, conjuring images of millions of African Americans fleeing from the South for opportunity and safety in the North.

For me, it brought to mind the story of my grandmother on a small boat in the dead of night, leaving the southern shores of China for the island of Hong Kong, at that time a British colony, holding my mother in her arms. How do we decide when to take flight? What do we choose to carry with us? This installation invited me to step inside, wear the wings, and pick up the suitcase – but unlike my ancestors before me, I don’t know where to go or why I would go in the first place.

It was the colors that got me first – the muted lilac background, the warm camel coat, the olive trousers, the light orange flower on his lapel. I learned after the exhibit that Sherald painted the official portrait of First Lady Michelle Obama, which explains why this piece felt so familiar. What made me linger longer on this portrait was its title. When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be (Self-Imagined Atlas).

The title is provocative. It implies that if you let go of who you are, you can become who you might be, that you can draw your own map. Her portraits show individuals standing alone, looking directly at the viewer, in flat gray tones, in beautiful clothes, proclaiming their power. This is precisely how I would want to be portrayed. I’m curious what color my background would be, what I would wear, and what title would sit beside my image and if Sherald would know to give me that same serene, resolute gaze, with a hint of despair.

Eversley’s parabolic lens pulled me in immediately. Seeing myself there, captured within a translucent polyester resin and blending in with both the foreground and the background of the gallery was delightful.

He is fascinated by how parabolas concentrate light, color, and energy to a single focal point. Standing there in front of this parabola I was able to understand how what you see and who you are changes depending on where you stand. It was such a relief.

In that moment, I was fully present and I could finally breathe.

I often look at every experience as a way to understand my own life. It was magical to walk into a gallery this time without that intention and still walk away with a better understanding of where I am and how I might draft a roadmap of where I want to go.

An old window
Is cracked open
Just enough
For the sound
And the light
To come through

On the shore
Ocean waves are rising
Ocean waves are crashing
Deep in the forest
Cicadas are buzzing
Frogs are calling

Hidden in the shadows
Somber shades
Of blue and green
Solitary glimmers
Of gold and black

Each of them
Calling and singing
With hopeful desperation
Grieving in the night

Change is incredibly unsettling.

When I was in elementary school, I remember watching The Birds by Alfred Hitchcock. I was terrified that at any moment flocks of birds would break through the windows of our home and attack us. At night I thought about all the places I could hide. Under the bed, inside the closet – nothing seemed safe enough. For weeks, I was paralyzed with fear.

Though the birds never came and I never had to run for my life, the illusion of a safe and predictable world began to fade. When did the innocence and beauty of childhood begin to crack?

The moment that comes to mind is of my grandmother – at that time still so young and vibrant – standing tall in the middle of our living room, holding the telephone receiver in her hand. It was our doctor, letting her know that my grandfather had passed. Her response has always stayed with me. Surrounded by her children and grandchildren, in a country thousands of miles from where she was born, she did not shed a tear in front of us. She took a deep breath, hung up the phone, and walked away to her room.

I watched her do this my entire life: face crisis and upheaval without fear, with a faith that she never explained the origin of. She was my first teacher. This is how I navigate change – I always push forward.

In fact, for much of my life, I think I chased the thrill and growth that upheaval can bring. Instead of fearing the unknown, I leaned into it. I left home for college as soon as I could. I worked abroad for years soon after that. I’ve seen the beauty of the world. After over a decade of teaching in the classroom, I left it to pursue instructional leadership. And for years now, I have rarely stayed in a school or a position for longer than three years. This constant change and movement has come to define who I am.

It is no surprise, then, that I have hit a wall. I am exhausted.

It requires a different kind of strength to stop moving, to stay still, to become attached to and fall in love with a place or a community. To believe in the safety of building a world. To believe that it is possible to feel like you have finally arrived home.

I am very much at a crossroads.

Life will continue moving and, in this moment, I have to continue moving with it – with the resolve that I’ve inherited. I have a feeling, though, that sometime soon, I will need to pause longer than I’ve ever given myself the chance to do, and truly face the questions and fears that lie just beneath the surface.

What makes us whole? What does it take to be complete?

Making her way gently
down the side of a mountain
the jagged edges of leaves and
the sturdy branches of trees
tugged at her heart.

Was there a before?
This feeling
that there was,
was the truest thing
she had ever felt.

From the edge of a cliff
she leapt forward
plunging into a pool
of light and shadow
to find someone, waiting.

Beside her, a man
weary and lost
lamenting aloud
the fate of two river rocks
separated by a stream.

It was impossible
to console him
sure as she was
of where those rocks
would one day be.

For the first time
she wished
that she could stay
still enough, long enough
for him to know the truth.

Taiko is saving my life. 

I would love it if I could practice two to three times a week, rather than just once. I would love it if I could return to my little apartment in Nariwa, return to Bitchu Taiko, spend some time with my old team. Reminisce. Play. Be lost. 

I miss Japan. I miss the time and the space I had there, in the middle of nowhere, to disappear. To study a new language. To be a foreigner. To pause and consider who I wanted to be.

I would make my way to Taiko practice by driving along the main road in town beside the Takahashi river, at night, in every season. Along icy roads in the winter. With the windows rolled down in the summer. Upon arriving at the middle school auditorium where we practiced, I was met with a loud chorus of hellos. We would unload the drums from the closet. Warm up. Dive in to our song rehearsals. Play for a few hours, until blisters and callouses formed on our hands. It was magical.

I began playing Taiko, as a form of escape. To escape my loneliness, to escape from the responsibilities that awaited me at home, to be fully present rather than fret or worry about my future, my career, my relationships. It grounded me and was profoundly healing.

Makoto Taiko, the group I just joined, is excellent. It has been twenty three years since I’ve played and to my surprise, my body still remembers.

I leave each practice happily exhausted. I love the drills and the physicality of it all. It is wild to feel the entire room echo and crescendo like that in unison. There is nothing else like it.

I’m grateful that for two hours I am fixated only on movement and sound. It is a source of comfort for me during what feels like such a tumultuous time.

I’m learning how to use my core, my breath and the movement of my entire body to strike the drum. I’m learning how to remain fluid. Learning how to keep going even when everything aches.