Honoring the Vision: A Reflection on Creation and Legacy

When Disneyland opened its gates for the very first time, a poignant moment unfolded. An interviewer expressed regret to Walt Disney's brother, saying, "I'm really sorry that Walt wasn't here to see this." His brother’s reply was as profound as it was simple: "He did see it; that’s why you’re seeing it today."

This story captures the essence of holding onto a vision—a vision that transcends time and circumstance, even when the originator isn’t physically present. Yet, holding onto such a vision can be one of life’s greatest challenges. Sometimes the idea evolves so far from its original form that we lose sight of what it once was. Other times, we find ourselves trapped in the act of trying too hard, pushing beyond the point of clarity. The most difficult competition is not with others, but with ourselves—with the person we were yesterday, the person we imagined we’d be, or the person we’re striving to become.

In moments of doubt, I remind myself of the deep roots that ground me. I was born on the Canadian Shield, a landscape shaped by glaciers and time. The etched lines of its ancient rock hold stories that have become part of my memory. For most of my life, I didn’t realize the profound influence this rugged terrain had on me. Beneath the dark, rich soil lies a masterpiece of natural sculpture—a testament to the Earth’s resilience and artistry.

This realization has shaped my work. I’ve found solace and purpose in paying homage to the land, in transforming its hardened forms into creations that remind us why life is worth living. Whether through stone, bronze, or other materials, my art seeks to honor the timeless connection between humanity and the Earth. The land’s stories are older than we can comprehend, and its wisdom is something we must carry forward.

As the Indigenous peoples of this land remind us, "Only the rocks stay." This profound truth resonates deeply with me. The rocks, ever-present and enduring, remind us of the permanence of nature amid the impermanence of our lives. Through my work, I hope to capture a fraction of that permanence and share it with others.

We must hold onto our visions, however elusive they may seem. They are the bridges between the past, present, and future. And in the act of creating, we find not only a connection to the world around us but also to the self we were always meant to be.

The Art of Rushing Slowly

There’s a song by Moby I keep returning to when I carve or run. It’s called Rushing. At first, the title feels like a contradiction—it implies speed, urgency, even chaos. But the music itself is anything but rushed. It’s deliberate, rhythmic, and methodical, with layers of harmonic balance and melodic arpeggios that press and push, yet maintain an unshakable sense of calm.

This contradiction mirrors life’s natural progression, especially when we feel the pressure to do more, faster. Someone shouts, “Hurry up!” but you’re already at your limit. Forced into overdrive, you find yourself working at 110%. Yet somewhere in that chaos, you realize you have to recalibrate—find balance. You discover that moving faster, ironically, requires slowing your mind.

This realization hits me most often when I’m carving or running at a pace far beyond what I thought possible. In both, I burn off excess energy, clear my mind, and—if I’m listening closely—find clarity amidst the effort. The lesson here isn’t to rush blindly but to recognize the value of deliberate, thoughtful progress.

When I carve, I’m often pressed for time. Deadlines loom, and it’s tempting to cut corners to finish a piece. But here’s the secret I’ve learned: the best work comes when you leave space for the process. If something in the stone demands your attention—an unexpected fissure, a subtle contour—slow down. Think. Research. Experiment. Then move forward with purpose.

Skipping this step is the quickest way to sabotage your work. You’ll fall into the trap of repetition, doing what machines (and now AI) can do far better: repeat, repeat, and repeat, often making the same mistakes. The difference between you and a machine is your capacity for insight. Only you can identify those mistakes, reflect on them, and improve.

If you’re fortunate to have a teacher, they’ll point out these flaws and help you refine your craft. But even without one, there’s an inner teacher—your discipline, your instinct, your creative voice. If you’re willing to listen, it will guide you. Offer yourself up to its constructive criticism, and you’ll evolve.

Here’s the takeaway: Don’t cheat yourself out of the evolution unfolding within you. Let it happen. Be patient with the process. Then, as you master it, find ways to do it faster, more efficiently. You won’t lose time in the long run. You’ll gain it—and come out better on the other side.

Like Moby’s Rushing, life’s best progress isn’t about frantic speed. It’s about the rhythm, the balance, and the space we leave to grow. Let that space teach you.

Controlled Chaos: Finding Meaning in the Dark

Last night, something extraordinary happened at work. For context, I work at an enormous power plant—a place that hums with energy in every sense of the word. But in an instant, it all stopped. The plant went completely dark.

Emergency lights flickered on near the doorways, casting long shadows through the cavernous spaces, but most of the plant was swallowed in absolute pitch black. The sudden loss of our most abundant resource—energy—left us all disarmed. People stood motionless, holding fragile, expensive parts in their hands, unsure of their next step. Chaos seemed inevitable.

And yet, something remarkable unfolded.

In the absence of light, we found each other. Conversations sparked, voices guided hands, and the raw energy of human connection began to take shape. What could have devolved into panic instead became an hour of collaboration, as if the darkness reminded us of a truth we often overlook: our most vital resource isn’t external. It’s the energy we share when we interact, adapt, and create together.

This one hour—the darkest hour—became the most influential of my time there. It revealed that no matter how advanced the systems, no matter how reliant we are on external power, the plant was ultimately built by human hands. If we had to, we could build it again, starting with nothing but each other and the will to move forward.

This is controlled chaos.

Chaos as the Sculptor’s Companion

Controlled chaos is the edge we live on every moment of our lives. It’s where we find meaning, not by avoiding uncertainty, but by stepping into it and shaping it.

For me, stone carving embodies this truth. When I begin a piece, I’m stepping into the unknown. I start with a space—some rocks, some tools—and I navigate a million micro-decisions. Every tap of the chisel is a balance between control and surrender, an act of listening to the stone as much as shaping it. The chaos is ever-present, and yet it’s comforting because it holds possibility.

I often think of animals during this process, especially the ones I carve. They’ve mastered the art of living in chaos, surviving countless “dark nights” with an effortless grace. Their existence reminds us that play and survival aren’t opposites—they’re part of the same dance. They move through life with an unbroken rhythm that’s timeless, aspirational.

As humans, we have much to learn from them.

The Shared Energy of Creation

This is the heart of my work. Whether I’m carving a bear, an owl, or another creature that emerges from the stone, I’m reminded that we’re all navigating our own forms of controlled chaos. The process isn’t just about reaching a polished outcome—it’s about embracing the imperfections along the way, the unexpected connections, and the shared moments of effort that bring meaning to our lives.

Just as we found each other in the dark at the plant, we can find each other in the chaos of life. With nothing but a space, some rocks, and tools in hand, we can create something meaningful. Something that reminds us of our shared humanity, our resilience, and our innate drive to turn even the darkest moments into something beautiful.

Controlled chaos is where we thrive. It’s where we connect. It’s where we create.

Let’s keep finding each other in the dark.

The Art of Framing

One of the greatest lessons 20th-century American art has offered us is the concept of framing. By this, I mean the intentional act of drawing focus to something—a simple shift in context that transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary.

Consider Marcel Duchamp’s infamous Fountain, a urinal placed in a gallery. By isolating it in a blank white room, the artist demanded our attention. Suddenly, this mundane object became “art.” Why? Not because of what it was, but because of where and how it was presented. The context validated it, forcing viewers into a dialogue: Is this art? Does it deserve to be here? You couldn’t ignore it—it was the proverbial elephant in the room, impossible to overlook because it was designed to be noticed.

This “art of framing” is more than just clever trickery. It reflects something deeply human: our need to confront and express what feels too big or too awkward to go unspoken. Framing is what gives shape to our experiences, our thoughts, our stories. It’s the essence of art—calling attention to the overlooked and asking, “What do you see?”

So, let me ask you: what’s the elephant in your life? Maybe it’s not as literal as a toilet in a gallery (unless you’re still hung over and staring at one). But seriously—what’s that big, unavoidable thing you can’t stop thinking about? And how would you frame it?

This, in many ways, is the heart of creative expression: taking life’s chaos and arranging it in a way that makes sense—or at least invites a conversation. Framing is how we tell our stories, how we turn the mundane into the meaningful.

So, what’s your story? And how would you tell it?

Behind the Stone: My Journey into Bronze Casting

For the past couple of months—and if I’m being honest, the past few years—I’ve toyed with the idea of casting some of my work into bronze. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but the signs were there, nudging me forward. A few months ago, everything aligned, and I took the plunge. Now, I’m fully immersed in a process that has both challenged and inspired me.

The first piece to make this leap is Brother. Initially carved from stone, Brother was never intended to take on a life in bronze. However, with the help of a 3D scanner I recently purchased, I was able to replicate and refine the original design, making it suitable for this new medium. The technology allowed me to reimagine the sculpture while staying true to its essence, something I hadn’t anticipated when I first began carving it.

The journey into bronze casting has been intense but deeply rewarding. A visit to Artcast, a renowned foundry in Markham, gave me the confidence to proceed. Their expertise and state-of-the-art facilities brought my vision to life. They also guided me in choosing a stunning black high-polish wax patina that beautifully complements the piece. Their dedication to craftsmanship reassured me that my artistic intentions would be fully realized.

What excites me most is that this is just the beginning. Even before Brother is completed in bronze, I’m already preparing to bring a second piece into the process. The momentum is exhilarating, and I can’t wait to share the results with you.

This venture into bronze casting marks a significant evolution in my work. It’s a bold step forward, and I’m setting my expectations high—not just for myself, but for what these pieces will bring to those who encounter them. Stay tuned, because the best is yet to come!

Dream Symbols and the Stone They Shape

A dream wakes you in the night, thick with emotion. Its echoes tug at your thoughts all day, pulling you back toward something deeper—something unresolved. The weight of it lingers, familiar symbols surfacing again and again: the same bird, the same path, the same animal crossing into view.

But what does it mean?

Symbols are the common language of our inner world. Long before we were born, they lived in the collective psyche—guiding us, warning us, calling us inward. A bird hitting a window, a rushing river, a hand reaching through the unknown, a door cracking open, a bear appearing at a fork in the trail. These aren’t just dream fragments. They’re ancient patterns, hardwired into us.

As I carve, I find myself drifting back into these dream places—spaces more vivid than memory, filled with imagery that insists on being expressed. Bears have emerged again and again in my work. Owls, too, for more personal reasons tied to reflection and the mystery of self. These animals—especially those of the boreal wild—carry weight. Not just for me, but for many of us.

So even if they appear often in my work, it’s not repetition—it’s resonance.

Our dreams are trying to speak. Sometimes, they even carve the stone with us.

Keep listening.

The River in You: Listening to the Symbols of Life

The other day, I was on Kijiji, excited to find a reliable trailer for hauling stone and supplies—something that could also double as a camper for family trips. I found the perfect one: enclosed, sturdy, and complete with a fold-out tent. Just as I was waiting for the green light from my wife, it was gone. Sold.

Determined, I tracked down the same model, brand new. The price was $2,500 more, but I was willing to bite the bullet. Then, a week before I planned to commit, it disappeared again. Now I’m waiting to hear if they’ll restock, but it feels like a closed door.

This kind of thing has been happening a lot lately—missed opportunities revolving around my stone carving. It’s frustrating, even maddening, when everything seems to go wrong. A planned execution fails, a perfect piece of stone cracks, or something entirely unrelated throws off the process.

But here’s what I’ve learned from years of carving: these moments aren’t random.

Resistance and the Internal Struggle

When things fall apart, it’s tempting to push through, forcing the pieces back together. But resistance—whether it comes from within or the world around us—is like dragging a boulder tied to your feet. It demands attention. Sometimes the obstacles in front of us are just reflections of the ones within us.

Call it “woo woo” or metaphysics, but I believe these challenges carry meaning. Thoth, the ancient Egyptian figure of wisdom, taught that the universe is mental—a manifestation of thought. And while the universe may feel “mental” in the chaotic sense, there’s truth in this idea. Resistance often mirrors something unaddressed in our lives, something asking for clarity.

I’ve seen this happen firsthand. Once, I made the conscious effort to resolve an issue before the sun went down—a longstanding grievance I’d ignored for too long. That night, two lingering physical injuries healed overnight. Coincidence? Perhaps. But I don’t think so.

Dreams as Guides

Recently, my dreams have echoed this theme: pulling boulders, struggling against invisible weights. The imagery feels frustratingly familiar, but it’s also a clue. Dreams, like life’s obstacles, are symbols of our internal state. They point to what needs addressing.

When I finally stop fighting the current—when I face the resistance instead of running from it—I find that things start to flow. Doors open. Opportunities return.

The River in You

This process of listening, interpreting, and acting isn’t just a lesson for life—it’s the foundation of my art. My latest piece, The River In You, illustrates this point. If you look closely, you’ll see the interplay of artificial shadows and dark water, the tension between what’s seen and unseen.

The river symbolizes the flow of life, but also the blockages we create. It’s a reminder that every external struggle carries an internal message. And when we address the source—when we clear the boulders in our path—the river runs free.

Life, like carving stone, is an act of persistence, patience, and faith. The obstacles we face are part of the process, shaping us as much as we shape them.

Listen to the river in you. It will guide you where you need to go.