Art as Prayer: The Spiritual Dimension of Creation

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on something deeply spiritual about art. Not that art itself is a religion, but it often feels like a bridge—connecting us to the divine presence that flows through all living things.

Vincent van Gogh, perhaps more than any other artist, embodied this idea. He once called his work a “vocation,” a kind of faith. For him, painting wasn’t just craft—it was communion. He saw the divine woven into the fabric of everyday life: the stars, the fields, the people around him. When he painted The Starry Night, it wasn’t just a landscape—it was eternity itself, a vision of his soul continuing beyond death, carried into the heavens.

“I want to touch people with my art. I want them to say: he feels deeply, he feels tenderly.” — Van Gogh

Interestingly, Van Gogh once trained to be a minister but eventually left behind the formal church. Yet his art revealed something profound—that vocation need not always come through official authority. It can be lived out through the work of our hands, through creativity, through the pursuit of truth.

Art, in many ways, is a prayer. Every sculpture, every painting, every piece is a petition—an offering of meaning from the artist to the world. Sometimes its message resonates, sometimes it’s misunderstood. But if you sit quietly with art—not just glance, but really look—something beyond the surface begins to speak. Reflection opens the door to a deeper reality.

When I create, I feel this movement. The process requires me to quiet my mind, to step beyond the old self, and commit to shaping something that feels larger than me. The hours blur together. Time disappears. What remains is not just the technical outcome of my hands, but a work that feels transcendent, as if it always existed, waiting to be revealed.

It reminds me of Jesus’ words in John 4, when he told the Samaritan woman at the well that true worship isn’t confined to a place, but happens “in spirit and in truth.” That same spirit is what I believe we invoke through art: the act of perceiving and creating with honesty, reverence, and openness to the divine.

Art, at its best, is worship. Not worship of the self, or even of the object created—but of the eternal presence that flows through all things. In that way, every true act of creation is also an act of prayer.

Chasing Ghosts: The Struggle and Truth of an Artist’s Life

A little honesty here.

As an artist, I often wrestle with the gap between the effort I pour into a sculpture and the income it brings back. The balance is rarely even. For every hour invested in a piece, there’s the weight of tools, materials, and years of skill behind it—all against a reality where profit margins sometimes point to loss rather than gain.

If you’re not an artist, perhaps it’s easier to picture another trade. Imagine being a carpenter. Your shop has to be massive. Your investment in wood is significant. Your skills take decades to sharpen. And when your work finally reaches a level of perfection, few people can truly afford it. That’s the paradox—mastery often makes the work rarer, but not always more profitable.

Yet I can’t turn away from this path. The detail of the craft pulls me in. Stone carving is an ancient art, one that carries traditions worth preserving. There’s meaning in taking something inert—stone—and giving it a form that might outlast us, transforming it into something that feels immortal.

But the pursuit isn’t easy. Striving for excellence can become a mirror, one that reflects not just our progress but also our insecurities. It’s hard not to feel burdened when the practice demands so much and rewards so little. In times like these, when it feels as if the benchmark for performance keeps climbing higher, it’s tempting to believe that some unseen hand is forcing us to chase endlessly.

This is what I think of as “chasing ghosts.” These ghosts are the illusions of perfection—false visions of what we think we should be, or what others expect us to be. But perfection is an illusion. We are all evolving, becoming truer versions of ourselves, shaped not by flawless outcomes but by persistence, honesty, and individuality.

Sometimes, simply staying true to our craft—whether it’s widely celebrated or quietly overlooked—is more meaningful than any price tag. Art is not only about success in the eyes of others; it’s about grounding ourselves in something real, something lasting.

I hope, in time, we learn to stop chasing these ghosts. To lay them to rest. And to continue forward, more true to ourselves than any imagined version of perfection could ever be.

Tracing the Heavens – An Owl in Stone

The thoughts and feelings that come with the artist’s life are important, but every so often I need to pause and reflect on the process itself—how a sculpture is actually made.

Recently, I’ve been immersed in a new piece that revealed its name to me long before I finished carving it. That’s a rare occurrence, and I take it as a sign that the motivation and meaning were already clear before the final details emerged.

The journey began about two months ago when I stumbled across a piece of stone from one of my two trusted stone dealers. It was an odd block—strangely colored with strong fracture lines running in different directions. For most carvers, that’s a definite “no.” Fractures can spell disaster, unless met with careful intention, planning, and a little luck. But I can’t resist a challenge, and I had already bought a similar stone just weeks earlier.

Around the same time, I came across a hollowed knot of cherry wood in a specialty wood shop. For $35, it seemed destined to become the base of one of my signature owls. The block sat waiting in my studio until, one day, I came across a photograph of an owl in an unusual pose—elegant, youthful, stretched upward. It reminded me of my daughter, and I knew instantly: this was the form I needed to carve.

To work out the posture, I sculpted a small plasticine model over 3.5 hours. From there, I scanned it using a lidar app on my phone and imported the model into a 3D program. Having a digital version I could rotate freely gave me a reliable reference alongside my sketches and collage of owl images.

Equipped with a new facemask, a 7” Makita grinder, fresh hand tools, and a custom carving table, I set to work in the studio. The first stage was intense—the grinder raising so much dust I could hardly see until it settled, even with my dust collection system running. Step by step, I shifted to finer burrs and cutters, slowly shaping the fragile stone into something true to the vision.

At this stage, I’m confident in the form, though there’s still a great deal of work ahead. What began as a discarded stone and a forgotten block of wood is taking shape as Tracing the Heavens—a sculpture whose name arrived before the carving was even halfway done.

I’ll share more as the owl emerges from the stone.

Details Matter: From Studio Setup to Digital Presence

The tug-of-war on a day off is real. Part of me knows I need to get downstairs to carve, but the other part just wants to sit outside, sip coffee, and enjoy the breeze. The details matter, though—and I’ve learned the hard way. The last time I ignored the “small stuff,” I missed a tick no bigger than a poppy seed on my foot.

Yesterday’s energy went into prepping my studio: setting up a new carving table, arranging cords and lights, and streamlining everything for safety and efficiency. I like things neat, with each tool exactly where it needs to be. Now the space is ready for the work ahead.

In the spirit of “details,” I’ve also updated my portfolio with a few pieces that hadn’t been shared before—outside of the occasional blog mention. In today’s world, we live in two spaces: the physical galleries where art can be experienced in person, and the digital spaces where it must also live to be found. I don’t have the time or resources to run a shop of my own, so my sculptures find homes in galleries. But managing an online presence has become its own kind of craft, and it takes just as much dedication.

So take a look through my updated portfolio when you can, and explore the new works I’ve added. My efforts in both stone and digital spaces feel more meaningful when they’re seen. And if you’re curious, you can always find more through my YouTube process videos, my Instagram feed, or even on Facebook and Threads. Every detail adds up—and hopefully, each step reveals more of the story behind the work.

Sweater Weather, New Beginnings, and the Upper Canada Native Art Gallery

This morning I’m sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee, taking in what feels like the best time of year. Sweater weather—cool air that clears out the heaviness of summer and makes you pause for a breath of gratitude. It’s a reminder that the simplest moments can hold so much weight.

Yesterday was a milestone for me. I was accepted into the Upper Canada Native Art Gallery in Niagara-on-the-Lake—a place my wife and I have always loved for its preserved history and calm spirit. To have my work resting there feels deeply right. The gallery owner, someone with great experience curating sculpture, offered me kind words that helped lift the doubts that so often come with being an artist. As I’ve come to learn, where art finds its home is just as important as the piece itself. My hope is that my work offers the same rest and repose to others that it has given me in creating it.

But even in this moment of gratitude, I feel the pull back to the studio. The next piece is already waiting for me in the stone—a soapstone owl on a cherry wood base. The form is there, hidden inside, and my role is to carve gently so as not to disturb it too soon. With new tools and a fresh workspace ready, I’m eager to begin. Every new work feels like a conversation with the stone, and I’m looking forward to seeing where this one leads.

‘REQUIEM’ - Metamorphosis, Mortality, and the Bear Within

There was a word that stuck out when selecting the name of my recent bear. I have to admit (and this fact goes with many of y sculptures), I often find moments of love and distaste. This is obviously a useful quality to have reason to allow some constructive criticism happen (since there isn’t a panel of apes who jury my work over my shoulder). But I digress; the point is the subject matter is one I’ve done many times before but I like to try a pose that is unique to the shape of the stone, but also unique to what I have done before. At this moment, I am satisfied.

You won’t hear a critique often from an artist, but coming from my perspective, it is probably valuable, from another person looking outside, to one’s internal disposition. As in, this reflects our souls need to improve. This experience I can share and perhaps you’ll find some solace in it.

There are certain angles I love this sculpture, but there are certain angles I do not. I think part of that is inevitable due to the nature of bears hidden nature. But also this sculpture in particular. I’ve read from commentators that they like the bears head to be ‘point up’. Yet I do no see this in nature often. They will sniff the air, but only look up if they suspect something. But they are stealth animals for the most part. They weight hundreds of pounds yet can creep through the densest of forests without being heard before even being seen and they are just as good as being unseen as they are unheard. I know. But this all lends itself to being ‘hidden’.

The qualities of the bear are just as mysterious as I’ve always felt. In many Native American traditions, the bear is seen as a carrier of ancient wisdom, a guide, and even an elder kinsman who has taken the form of a bear. Through dreams and visions, they are said to reveal which plants heal, and which paths to follow.

This might sound far-fetched, but I recently went through an experience that confronted me with mortality, and it has transformed the way I see myself and my life. I’ve realized how often I’ve taken my days for granted—living as a provider, a “respectable commoner,” carrying weight on a thin frame until I became something I no longer recognized.

Years ago, I saw this clearly in a photograph with my cousin, someone very much like me. Yet in that photo, I appeared already transformed into the “respectable version” of myself. Looking back now, I see how true it is: we all shapeshift in our own ways.

Now, after this brush with mortality, I feel another transformation unfolding. Some sides of me I do not recognize—and I am making conscious steps to move away from them. We are all in metamorphosis, whether we realize it or not.

I sculpted a piece some time ago called Metamorphose—a polar bear, gazing upward, almost in prayer. To me, it symbolized that genesis of transformation: sitting crushed, yet lifting our spirit high to look to the Creator for help. The slow shift from mind to movement, where grace begins to act on our behalf. It’s no coincidence that this piece found a new home.

Now, I find myself holding Requiem, a sculpture that has accompanied me through the darkest chapter of my life. Its name means “rest” or “repose.” And it became just that for me: a space of deep reflection, a cathedral of silence, where the shifting light of each day reminded me that rest is not idleness, but a sacred part of transformation.

We are transforming, all of us. May you find your own requiem—a place of repose, where light shimmers through ordinary moments like stained glass, illuminating the hidden spirit within you.

Let There Be Light: A Small Change That Transforms Everything

I had a realization recently that’s changed my approach to both my craft and my life. It came down to one small tweak: more light.

Like any artist, I invest in tools carefully. Each purchase must justify itself in the long run. Two months ago, I decided to add a second LED strip light to my studio—a modest 800 lumens of flexible, battery-powered brightness. I already had one and found it useful, but adding a second transformed everything. With two angles of light, I could see details in my carving that I’d missed before. What was once hidden in shadow became clear.

It struck me: how often do we work in environments with too little light, not just physically but spiritually? No wonder we miss the details.

We’ve all heard the phrase “swept under the rug.” The truth is, much stays hidden in darkness. In our homes, the brightest sunlight of morning or evening reveals dust, clutter, and imperfections we’d rather ignore. Likewise, in our lives, we often dim the light intentionally—closing blinds, staring into screens, avoiding what needs our attention.

But it’s only when the light shines that we can see clearly. Only when we let it in do we realize what needs cleaning, what needs tending, what needs healing. The same is true in our hearts and minds.

All it took was a simple LED light to remind me of this. And it brought me back to an old, timeless verse:

“And God said, ‘Let there be light!’ … and there was light.”

It’s in that light—whether in art, work, or life—that creation begins to appear.

Keeping the Moment Holy: Mindfulness in Stone Carving and Life

“There’s a rhythm and rush these days, where the lights don’t move and the colours don’t fade.” — José González, Stay Alive

We often find ourselves moving task to task in a blur, rushing through life without pausing to breathe. For me, stone carving is where the rush stops. It’s a mindful practice, a way to return to presence. To carve well, I must set aside the moment—make it “holy.”

In scripture, the Sabbath was meant as a day of rest, set apart from work. It was a practice of abstaining from productivity, a way of fasting from the rush of doing. Ascetic monks extended this rhythm into daily life through abstinence and devotion. In the modern West, we’ve reshaped this idea into what we now call mindfulness—bringing ourselves back into the present moment.

But what if we went a step further? What if every act was set aside as “holy”?

We lose presence in daily life when we lose gratitude. The little things—our morning coffee, sunlight on the window, an old song on the drive home—become invisible. Stone carving has taught me this lesson repeatedly. Some days the work feels like strain and frustration, but when I remember to treat the act itself as sacred, the process shifts. Each mark of the chisel becomes a prayer, a moment of presence, a reminder that the craft cannot be rushed.

Without this, life quickly slips into what González describes as a “world gone shallow and a world gone mean.” The antidote is simple: notice, give thanks, and let each moment last.

We are here only a short while. Let us honor the small rhythms of life as gifts from the Creator—moments set apart, holy, eternal.

The Hidden Spell of Art

Art, at its best, feels like an enchantment—a spell cast by the artist, quietly sent into the world, waiting for the right person to receive it. There are always unsaid words hidden in the work, fragments of mystery that only a few may ever fully understand. And that’s part of the beauty: obscurity leaves room for curiosity, allowing viewers to discover their own meaning in what is unseen.

Not all art is well received, of course. Taste varies endlessly. Some creations are like a bowl of KD—comforting, mass-produced, and easy to digest. But every so often, someone realizes that it doesn’t quite sit with them. They dig deeper. They seek what stirs their soul, what resonates with their unique palette of taste. And when they find it, they know.

As artists, we feel the tension between creating what the masses expect and staying true to what moves us. Repetition and imitation may be safe, but they risk stripping away meaning. A copy of a copy becomes background noise—unquestioned, unexamined. By contrast, something new, honest, and raw always sparks attention, even in the untrained eye.

This is the true challenge and calling of the artist: to resist being lost in the crowd, to tune ourselves to the one note that vibrates in our hearts. Our message will be received—not always today, not always by many, but always by those who are ready for it.

So if you are an artist reading this, take heart. Your work matters. Your voice is heard, whether now or tomorrow. Trust the mystery you weave into your art, because time has a way of revealing it to those who need it most.

Marketing is a Pain in the Arts (and the Arse) for Artists

Let’s be honest—modern life revolves around sitting on our arses.

We wake up, sit on the toilet, sit down for coffee, sit at a desk job, sit in cars, sit in chairs on vacation, and finish it all off by collapsing on the couch. While we’re sitting, we’re bombarded with marketing telling us what to buy, who to follow, and what’s worth our attention.

Here’s the kicker: I hate marketing. Not because it doesn’t work, but because as an artist, it steals the hours I’d rather spend carving stone. Instead, I’m stuck on my backside again, typing captions and tweaking hashtags. That’s the real pain in the arse.

The truth is, marketing isn’t just about selling—it’s about visibility. And visibility costs. I recently read about a popular artist who spends eight hours a day marketing and maybe squeezes in two hours of actual art. That’s not the balance I want for my life or my work.

So, what happens? You—the audience—end up paying for marketing more than you pay for the art itself. The most visible art isn’t always the best. It’s simply the art with the biggest advertising budget.

But real art—the kind that moves you—is often tucked away in places that don’t scream for attention. It hides in corners, in small studios, in communities where people create because they must, not because they’re playing the algorithm game.

Years ago, I got into geocaching. Sure, the map showed recommended locations, but the real magic came when I wandered off course, exploring unseen paths and stumbling onto places no one thought to highlight. That’s where the beauty was.

Art works the same way. The best pieces might never trend. They won’t buy their way into your feed. But if you look for them—if you go exploring—you’ll find treasures.

So, go out and find art for yourself. Don’t just follow the masses. Otherwise, you’ll end up shoulder to shoulder with the crowds jostling for a glimpse of the Mona Lisa—an artwork so overhyped it’s hard to even see it anymore.

The real stuff? It’s waiting in the quiet, unseen places. And I promise, it’s worth the hunt.

Borrowed From the Forest: Backyard Lessons in Balance and Belonging

On days like this, life feels simple and good. I’m sitting at the back of the house in the shade, looking out at the yard soaking in the sun. It’s not the manicured grass of suburbia, but a patchwork of ground cover—clover, moss, and other wild plants that keep it lush and green even in the hottest seasons.

Around the edges, country-tough perennials thrive without needing any care, surviving droughts with ease. A willow-like tree stretches its long branches low to shelter the cool, shaded corner where I sometimes carve. In the back corner, a towering spruce provides the squirrels with pinecones and endless climbing ground. Two stubborn vines compete for the sun across the pagoda, while elderberry trees quietly prepare for their fruit.

It’s a small space, but a complete little ecosystem. A balance. A haven. Animals know it too—they return year after year, trusting me enough to linger instead of scattering at the first sign of movement. I’ve invested plenty into food to keep them coming, partly for my daughter’s joy, but also because their presence makes this place feel alive.

Why keep it this way? Because this backyard isn’t truly ours—it’s borrowed from the forest. We’ve carved our homes and yards out of wild ground, but the truth is, we belong to it as much as it belongs to us.

Spending time among animals has always reminded me of this. Their character qualities resonate with us—we borrow their sounds, their quirks, even their wisdom. Many animistic traditions see animals as messengers of deeper mysteries, truths still invisible to the Western mind. They honor the creatures in a way we often forget to.

Our modern way is different—we cultivate, harvest, and consume. And yet, even in small choices, we can reconnect. I recently tasted grass-fed milk again, and the difference from conventional milk was striking. My family has roots in cattle farming, so I know the richness of well-fostered animals. It was a reminder that care and respect change everything.

I don’t pretend to know it all. In fact, the more time I spend among animals and plants, the more I realize how little we truly know. But what I do know is this: we are kin. We borrow from each other’s lives. And if we must borrow, we should also give back.

So I carve, I observe, I give space. And I remain grateful—for this backyard sanctuary, for the animals who return, and for the reminder that all of this is borrowed from the forest.

Here’s to another day in the studio.

Returning to the Studio: Bears, Stone, and Strength in Motion

Today I stepped back into the carving studio for the first time in almost a month. It’s been a difficult stretch—Lyme disease put me in the ICU with a third-degree heart block. That experience forced me to learn rest in a way I never had before. Even now, I know I need to move slowly, listen to my body, and not rush back into life.

The truth is, my body reminded me quickly that I wasn’t invincible. After a short studio session, running on little sleep from nightshift, I ended up wrecked—palpitations, sweats, my heart struggling to keep up. For a moment, I thought I had lost my momentum as an artist.

But stepping back into the studio today, I realized something powerful: the work hadn’t gone anywhere. My tools were waiting. My bear sculpture was waiting. And I was able to pick up right where I left off.

This piece is carved from a soapstone sourced in Labrador, Canada, known for its strong fracture lines that create a striking natural appearance. I can’t wait to see it polished, as it’s a stone I’ve never worked with before.

My carving style is often described as wave-like—fluid lines that run across the body of the form. For me, this isn’t just aesthetic; it’s a way to capture timing and energy. Once an animal’s anatomy is sculpted—the muscles, fur, facial features, the grounding of feet and toes—the real fun begins. I carve intuitive gestures into the form, subtle contours that echo movement and energy. These lines accentuate natural rhythms, exaggerate certain features, and give the sculpture its vitality.

With animals like the black bear, motion itself is a study in grace. Their strides flow effortlessly from step to step, despite their immense weight—anywhere from 250 to 550 pounds in adulthood. I’ve spent countless hours analyzing those small differences in movement, how weight shifts through the muscles and bones, creating the illusion of something almost weightless. That balance is what I try to capture in stone.

To me, it’s not just physical movement but energy itself. Rocks, like living beings, shift, grow, and change over time. Stone has a life force of its own, and many traditions speak to the subtle energy within minerals. Whether you believe that or not, I know carving is my way of translating those energies into form.

This bear is still in progress. There are imbalances in the proportions, partly because I chose a stone that naturally tapers from back to front. But that taper, that weight carried toward the back, feels right—it echoes the stealth and strength of black bears themselves.

I’m grateful to be carving again. To be reminded that even after illness, even after rest, strength returns. Like the stone, like the bear, we move forward. Slowly, but with power.

NORTHERNER ROOTS : Finding Strength and Silence in the North

If I were to describe myself and my work, both are tied deeply to the North. My carving feels like an echo of the granite channels of the Canadian Shield, slowly hollowed out over millennia by ice, wind, and water. The rhythm of that landscape—the ebb and flow of seasons, the migration of visitors, the steady endurance of those who stay—has shaped my outlook and my hands as a sculptor.

Granite teaches us strength. It has endured millennia, while our own lives are fleeting by comparison. Yet even the softest stone can be shaped into something lasting and beautiful. I find peace in that paradox—something so solid, yet so vulnerable to time and touch.

I long for the North often. I grew up there, and I returned for a few years to rejuvenate my soul. The isolation and silence suited me. My perfect afternoon was to lose myself in the wild, go as far as I dared, and find a quiet place to rest. That kind of stillness is meditation. Nature does not need words—it teaches simply by being.

There’s a line in The Secret Life of Walter Mitty: “Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.” That is the North. The fleeting glimpse of a moose in the fog, the hush of a lake at dawn, the sudden flight of an owl—all are moments that slip away as quietly as they arrive. They don’t perform for us; they exist in their own truth. And too often, we rush past, consuming rather than observing, forgetting that we depend on nature more than it depends on us.

Roots, though, run deep. They hold fast when the storms come. My hope is that mine are strong enough to take root again when I return to the North someday. I dream of a time when my work can grow in that soil, less bound by the city’s demands, more in tune with the silence of the wild.

The wild offers encounters that stay with you forever—moments with animals, fleeting as they are, that feel like gifts. Each one carries a small story, shaping the way I see the world and the way I carve. I hope those who see my work can sense some of that presence—an echo of the North, of the land’s silence and strength.

The North teaches us that silence is not emptiness. It is belonging. Its strength is not loud, but enduring. And once you have lived with it, the North never leaves you.

This last picture is a bronze cast bear made from the original stone sculpture called ‘Brother’. For enquires, please ask.

A Splendid Torch: On Purpose, Work, and the Joy of Life

The other day, while sifting through more than 400 old tabs on my phone, I stumbled across a quote from George Bernard Shaw that stopped me in my tracks. It wasn’t just the beauty of the words—it was how directly they spoke to where I am in life right now.

Here’s the passage I found:

“This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.

I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the community, and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. Life is no ‘brief candle’ to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for a moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to the future generations.”

Fuuuuuck, eh? Sometimes you just need to hear this.

Most mornings I wake up to a long list of menial tasks, the kind that scatter my attention and make me feel purposeless. But Shaw’s words remind me that every small thing amounts to something larger. I am a force of nature, even in the little things—serving my family, supporting my community, creating artwork that I hope carries meaning.

Art, to me, is part of that “splendid torch.” It’s not just self-expression—it’s a way of reaching for something important, of trying to leave behind work that resonates. I watch my daughter grow every day, learning lessons and skills she’ll carry forward, and I see that same principle at work: each effort builds a toolbelt for the future.

Shaw gets right to the heart of it: joy comes from recognizing a purpose we believe in. And that purpose evolves. If I were simply hammering nails into rotten boards day after day, I would hope to find a deeper calling. But when my time and energy are spent on something meaningful—something that contributes—it feels like life is expanding instead of shrinking.

We waste so much energy trying to soothe ourselves, but the truth is, contentment often arrives after a task well done, after we’ve poured ourselves into something bigger than our own ailments. Shaw’s reminder cuts through the noise: our mission is not to cling to the candle but to carry the torch.

That’s my hope as an artist—that the work I create will not only matter in the moment but will burn brightly for those who come after me. One day at a time, a mountain rises.

The Silence Between Moments

We are here. Right now. Alive, awake, and living this moment. Yet one day, we will wish we could stay—while today, we seem always to be rushing forward, saying “go.”

There’s a constant pull into the future, a curiosity that drives us to discover what lies ahead. But equally strong is the quiet ache that calls us back, urging us to relive the past. Is our nostalgia simply the sweetness of memory, or is it a veil that softens our pain, covering old wounds with a gentle filter?

At times, life feels like heaven. At others, like hell. Perhaps, in truth, it is neither. What if all of this—the triumphs, the sorrows, the illusions of “good” and “bad”—is simply a construct? A version of reality created by the mind, shaping our perception of existence.

This realization came to me recently: if reality is only an illusion, then the spirit within longs to be free of it. Awakening often comes only through great trials—sometimes even at the brink of death, when we’re forced to let go. Near-death experiences and other profound encounters open a door to a truth beyond this version of the world.

And yet, art holds a special kind of power. It can suspend a single moment, allowing us to revisit it—not as memory distorted by time, but as something preserved, alive in itself.

This is what I found in my most recent piece, one I have been working on slowly over the past two years. It’s a simple scene, yet filled with quiet peace—a kind of stillness our grandparents or great-grandparents would have recognized deeply. Their days were anything but easy, especially those who worked the land without machines, yet there was a profound simplicity in their way of life.

The silence of the piece is tangible. I drew from my own photograph, remembering the stillness of that moment: no vehicles in the distance, only two horses, calm and unmoved by my presence. The mediums—conte, colored graphite, graphite, and grey paper—helped capture that subdued quiet, that weight of silence.

A line from Gordon Lightfoot comes to mind, from his song about the building of the Canadian railway: “And many are the dead men, too silent to be real.” One day, we too will join that silence. Art reminds me of this truth—that peace can be found in memory, that life is fleeting, and that perhaps freedom lies in shedding the illusions we cling to.

For now, as Lightfoot also sang, “Open your heart, let the lifeblood flow, gotta get on our way ‘cause we’re moving too slow.”

May we carry forward with open hearts, remembering the silence, and finding peace in the spaces between moments.

White Raven and Woman: A Symbolic Sculpture in Progress

I think it’s about time for an update! There’s always something on the go in the studio, and today feels like the right day to share what I’ve been tinkering with.

The main project at the top of my list is a fresh idea that’s still very much in progress. I haven’t yet decided when it will be transferred into stone, as there’s a lot of planning and pre-work involved—especially since it includes facial anatomy, which is no small feat. That said, I’m eager to take it on, one step at a time, with some coursework and new tools. It’s always a lot to chew on, but I find that breaking it into small bites makes it manageable.

Every so often, a concept grabs hold of me and I can’t resist diving in. Once my mind agrees with it, the planning begins. Of course, stone has its limitations, but with careful design, I think some of the traditional rules can be bent.

You’ll see a few reference images in the gallery below. The first is a 3D mock-up draft I generated. It’s rough, and I already know it needs adjustments—I’m not in any rush to carve legs from stainless steel or elk horn again (though I’ve done that before!). The second image is my original inspiration, pulled from Pinterest, and the others are elements I’m considering weaving into a second draft. One correction I’ll need to make is to the raven’s tail feathers—they flip upward, which I’ll refine in the next version. Forgive the imperfections; it’s a work in progress.

Now, onto the symbolism. Ravens are often seen in mythology as tricksters, sometimes even as thieves of the sun. In this piece, the raven carries a berry-like object—a symbol of food, abundance, and survival. In Norse mythology, ravens are also messengers of divine wisdom.

In my design, the raven is offering the berry to a woman who appears fragile, emerging from rippling water beneath. She represents our own human condition—drifting, weary, in need of sustenance and guidance. The raven itself will be white, echoing prophecies I’ve mentioned in past posts about the return of the white raven. To me, this exchange—the raven giving instead of taking—represents a reversal, a moment of hope in the midst of need.

Of course, part of the beauty of art is interpretation. You don’t need to know the legends or the backstory to connect with an image. Stories, parables, and symbols have power because we meet them where we are. We read books and see ourselves in their characters; we encounter art and assign meaning based on our own lives. Without that connection, the story is flat.

This imagery may feel unusual, but I hope it resonates with someone—whether through its symbolism, its form, or simply the feeling it evokes.

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The Red Button: Asking for Help and Finding Strength in Vulnerability

Can we all agree on something? Life in the 21st century—especially here in Canada—can be overwhelming.

Maybe that’s why I’ve spent my career at one of the world’s most awarded automobile plants (Toyota Motor Manufacturing Canada), where constant improvement is a way of life. Every day is about refining the process, making things better, and working hard to be among the best. And outside of work, I try to do the same—whether as a stone carver, a father, or a husband.

But here’s the truth: no matter how hard we strive, life can bring us to a halt.

Earlier this year, I spent nine days in the ICU with a third-degree heart block, likely caused by Lyme disease. I was unprepared for the helplessness. At first, it was disorienting and discouraging, but I slowly learned to settle in, making my hospital bed a temporary home. And I survived those days not through my own strength, but because of the countless people who supported me.

Beside my bed was a red button—a call button for the nurses. I used it sparingly, knowing they were constantly busy, but it was the most important tool I had in that room. It connected me to help when I couldn’t manage on my own.

That red button is a powerful metaphor for life.

We all have one—some way to reach out when we’re struggling—but pressing it can feel humiliating. We want to be the grown-up, the strong one, the helper. We don’t want to admit we’re small or in need. Sometimes we wait until no help is around.

But civilizations weren’t built by people who never needed anything from each other. They were built by hands that worked together.

There’s a page from The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse by Charlie Mackesy that says it perfectly:

“What’s the bravest thing you’ve ever said?” asked the boy.

“Help,” said the horse.

Even the strongest among us sometimes need to admit: “I can’t do this alone.” And just as importantly, we need to remember that we are also the help for someone else.

In a world that’s increasingly mechanized and efficient, producing all the “stuff” we could ever want, we can still end up feeling stuck. What moves us forward isn’t technology—it’s each other.

Setbacks, Curiosity, and the Pursuit of Love

Some days test us harder than others. Setbacks are never easy—and here I am again, feeling like I’ve been pushed a step back.

In the ICU, I had already dealt with the frustration of losing the use of my right arm thanks to an IV placed right in the crook of my elbow. The relief of having it removed didn’t last long—now a medline in my bicep leaks red a day later, tender and restrictive. I can’t even lift my daughter. That loss of simple function puts stress on both my wife and I.

Yet these moments force me to return to what I’ve been writing about lately: the importance of rest, of taking the time to be still. In life, I’ve learned to approach disappointments with a degree of acceptance, but they still sting. It reminds me of an old Chinese idiom: complacency serves the old Gods. I’ve always felt it has a double meaning—old habits demand reformation if we want to make vows to something new. So, what in my life needs to change?

This same question lives in my art. I look at a piece and ask: What needs to shift? How can I make it more meaningful? Is the anatomy in motion correct? How can I bend the rules to deliver a clearer, sharper message? There’s always something I’ve been avoiding, and that avoidance is usually the very thing I need to confront.

Recent reflections—especially from being a father—have convinced me of one truth: curiosity demands we sometimes “mess it up a little” (to borrow Willem Dafoe’s words). My daughter’s unfiltered drive to explore, even at the risk of breaking something, is driven by excitement. In art and life, that same drive often comes from love—a love of discovery, a love of beauty, and the love we hope to give and receive.

A year before my Aunt Janice passed, she wrote on a chalkboard: “I would be silent if I would be loved.” I believe, when she left, she felt all the love that had been hidden over a lifetime. Art, in all its forms, can reveal that love—shining through the noise of our busy lives. So if you read anything today, let it be this: you are loved.

In the end, setbacks are illusions—signposts rather than barriers. A fallen tree across the path doesn’t end the journey; it just asks us to walk around it, perhaps greet it with a smile. All things are temporary and fleeting, but they deserve our respect and gratitude. We may not know why an obstacle appeared, but we keep moving forward for the same reason we started: to find and give love.

Healing Hands: ICU Recovery, 3D Sculpting, and the Art of Creative Resilience

When you have hands, you might as well use them—especially when you’re stuck in the ICU.

During my recovery, once I was allowed to move around a bit more, I found myself with hours to fill. My brother gifted me watercolor pens, so I started with a quick sketch of the view out my window. But my real creative lifeline was my trusty tablet. With it, I could chip away (virtually, at least) at projects I’d been meaning to finish for ages.

One of those projects was a 3D scan of a sculpture I’m particularly attached to—an owl that, someday, will be cast in bronze. I spent hours smoothing every curve and contour, step by step, until it was as flawless as a baby’s cheek. Right now, the casting will have to wait until I recover the income I lost from weeks away from work, but when it happens, I have no doubt it’ll be worth it. As someone on Instagram put it, “It’s gonna be dope.”

In between owl polishing sessions, I dove into a longstanding creative itch: freeform abstract sculptures. The first piece that spoke to me was all about feminine, divine movement—rising like a flower or flame, almost phoenix-like. I spent extensive time refining its flow and proportions. The rest were experiments, pure and freeing, the kind of designs that might someday emerge in stone or be directly cast in bronze. Some shapes simply belong in metal with a patina that stone could never match.

Strangely enough, these hours in the hospital became a pocket of unexpected creative joy. Sure, I had Netflix, Disney+, and Amazon Prime at my fingertips, but I’m glad my hands went to work instead. Aside from a couple of films and too many YouTube deep-dives into near-death experiences, most of my time went into making something.

And in the end, that felt like the best medicine.

What do you think? Leave me a comment below—I’d love to hear your thoughts.

From ICU to Inspiration: Reflections on Life, Art, and Stone Carving

It’s Monday morning. My little girl is at daycare, and for the first time in a while, I’m alone with my thoughts. The house is quiet. My pace is slow — and perhaps that’s exactly how it should be after narrowly escaping death.

Just a short while ago, I spent ten days in the ICU with a third-degree heart blockage caused by Lyme disease. I left the hospital with nothing but an IV in my arm and the bravery to pump antibiotics into my veins for two more weeks. It sounds frightening, and in many ways it was, but since that episode I’ve learned some things that have settled deep within me. The reason behind the experience, however, still feels like a mystery — one I may or may not solve in this lifetime.

Now, it’s as if I’ve been dropped back into my life with the pause button pressed. I can’t return to work yet, which feels like both a limitation and a gift — time to tackle the long-neglected corners of my home and life:

• Building a shed to make more room in the backyard.

• Clearing the basement.

• Organizing my studio.

The recurring theme is space.

I’ve read that the greatest deterrent to spiritual stagnation is being too busy. Jesus said it’s nearly impossible for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. And King Solomon — said to be the richest man in history — observed that idle hands lead to poverty. It seems the chase for wealth often leaves us stuck in the dirt. In truth, love is the only currency we truly share, and connecting with our spiritual selves is the first step to understanding God.

Art has a way of pulling these questions to the surface. Facing the thin edge between life and death has made me think often about life after death. I’ve wrestled with feelings of failure for not achieving more with my artistic goals — yet perhaps it’s better that we don’t fully understand how our “idle hands” might create more meaningful work on spiritual planes. A carving may seem small in the grand scheme of things, but it can hold deep meaning for someone — a reminder of who they are and why they matter.

Stone carving, by its very nature, is slow and deliberate. In a world that moves faster every day — propelled now by AI in ways more powerful than even the invention of the personal computer or the internet — it’s worth asking: What is the value of all this progress without consciousness and spirituality?

This morning, coffee in hand, I realized that happiness might be as simple as being content with what’s already in front of you. I won’t carve today — I still need to rest — but even the thought of taking a chisel and hammer to the 600-pound block of limestone in my backyard brings me comfort.

If you’re reading this, let it be a reminder: you are not made of stone. One day, the consciousness you know as “you” will be lifted out. And when that happens, you will bring nothing but the love you gave — and take only the love you were given.

That’s what I hope my work, and this blog, carry for you.