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.