My apologies to my junior and senior high math teachers for mumbling into my desk, “I’ll never use this.” And maybe it’s not exactly what they meant by “show your work,” but I am reminded daily as I make my creations on canvas and sketchbook. I will never be burdened by having to label them as “not generated by AI.” The proof is in each stroke. And beyond that, when I really get it right, when the equation of heart and technique add up, you can feel it.

I see it now, how right they were. That the answer was, is, always in the work. It’s why the bread tastes better when the scent wafts through the house. Why the song travels deeper with an emotional crack of the voice. It’s why the earth rises through your feet when you drink the wine in the vineyard. All honey is sweet, but when you taste the lavender from the bees’ workplace, your junior high self can only smile in agreement. You are inside the shown work.

So I leave the pencil marks painted over in my sketchbook. They helped get me here. I carry still the gravel from each fall on the Van Dyke road of my youth. Each pebble, each misstep lifts me still — takes me further into and beyond — joyfully embedded in the work of the day.