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A breath lingers between them, unseen yet shaping the space they share. The wind carries whispers of things unspoken, lessons too deep for words. The child leans in, listening not with ears but with the quiet understanding that exists between those who walk the same path. The elder does not instruct, does not command—instead, they offer a presence, a gesture, a pause long enough for something to take root. The river does not tell the land how to shape itself. It moves, it weaves, it leaves impressions of knowing. Stones smooth over time, not from force, but from the persistence of touch. And so it is with learning—not a lecture, not a lesson, but a current, ever-flowing between those who are willing to receive and those who are open enough to give. In the reflection of the water, faces blend and blur. Which one teaches? Which one learns? Does it matter? The river moves onward, carrying with it the echoes of both. 
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My father’s words never came easy. They broke apart as they left his mouth, tumbling, halting-- as if the weight of them was too much to carry. Reading, too, was a kind of war. Letters blurred, rearranged, refused to settle into sense. Sentences stretched too long, meaning slipping through cracks before it could take hold. His words fell out like rolling stones, fighting for form, for meaning, for a place to land. Some tumbled smooth, worn down by years of trying. Some jagged, catching on the air, getting stuck before they could roll free. I learned words in the space between. Between broken sounds and silence. Between what was spoken and what was left unsaid. Between a father who strained against language and a child pulled from classrooms, taught to make words behave. But what if meaning isn’t just in the saying? What if it lives in the quiet nod, in the way he showed me how to fix what’s broken, in the way he kept us safe without needing to explain? Maybe I was never meant to master language. Maybe I was meant to bend it, to break it apart and put it back together, to find truth in its missing pieces. Because words never made my father whole. And yet-- without knowing how, without knowing why, they made me.  You were planted with love, a seed nestled deep in the soil of our hearts, and before the sun ever kissed your skin, before the wind ever whispered your name, I knew—you were special. Curled inside the womb, stubborn and sure, the doctors said, "If the child doesn’t turn, we’ll have to take them out." But even then, you knew your own way. You would not be flipped. You would not be forced. You were already rooted, already growing in the direction only you could see. And so you arrived-- the first of your kind, a force of nature, a will as strong as the earth beneath our feet. The day they placed you in my arms, I felt it. Your fire, your fight, the embers in your soul. A spark that would never dim, a warmth that would never wane. We were new then, hands fumbling through the unknown, learning to tend to you as best we could. But you—oh, child of mine-- you did not wait for the world to teach you how to walk. You carved your own path, steady and sure, feet bare against the earth, fingers in the soil, eyes set on a horizon most cannot see. The fire inside you never wavered. The embers in your soul burned steady, guiding you like the North Star, pulling you toward a life most only dream of-- a life of your own making. You have built more than a life-- you have built a way of being. You have raised creatures, tended the land, read stories the world has forgotten, and written your own in the footprints you leave behind. You have learned to take only what is needed, to honor the cycles of life, to live with intention, and to exist without apology. You have taught me more than I ever taught you. You have shown me that we do not have to chase more, we do not have to shrink to fit, we do not have to lose ourselves to belong. We simply are. And that is enough. And today, as we venture forth to a Common Ground, a place built on the same values that pulse through your veins, we are not just trading seeds-- we are planting a future. A future where knowledge is passed, where hands meet soil, where life sustains life, where roots grow deep. Oh, child of mine-- when I see you, when I see the fire in your eyes, the quiet strength in your hands, the love you have for this world, I know-- the world will be just fine. Not because it has always been, but because one day, they will turn and see you shine.  I see you sitting there—yes, you, behind the screen. My vision, once sharp, now falters—or was I merely told it would? No, it’s not my eyes failing me, but the weight of perception, whittling away at the edges of my thoughts. Blinded not by darkness, but by the absence of knowing, by the things never taught, only assumed. And so, I sit in the quiet of my own ignorance, watching the world that claims to see me first.  Today I made a modest pilgrimage to the back of our house, to the artist studio that had slumbered in quiet neglect since early November. As winter’s chill set in and the relentless arithmetic of hardship demanded my attention at home, I hesitated at the threshold—a moment suspended like a line in an Eliot verse. With a deliberate crack, I broke the long-sealed door, and sunlight began to peek in, its golden fingers gently parting the stale air of forgotten creativity. In that delicate instant, hope, desire, and the remnants of dormant dreams stirred softly, as if ready to be roused by the tender promise of a new, uncharted dawn.  I have walked through months of shadowed doubt,
where certainty fell like leaves in frost-- drifting, brittle, beyond my grasp. I reached, I clutched, I tried to hold, but time is wind, and I was told to let it go. To loosen fingers, unclench the mind, to yield to tides I could not turn. A lesson learned in soft surrender-- how fragile it is, how fierce it burns, to ask for help, to take what’s given not as burden, but as grace. And grace it was, in many hands, a kindness carried, heart to heart. Hope like embers, dim then bright, love like roots beneath the night-- unseen, yet strong, unshaken still. And so I plant a softer world, not thorned with fear, nor hate entwined, but something gentler, something whole, a garden first within my soul. And if our paths should one day cross, I will greet you as I would the dawn-- not stranger, not other, not name nor foe, but kin, a traveler, a light unknown. For love is not a single flame, but a fire we keep, and pass along. O Captain! My Captain! Our ship has braved the tide, Through shifting winds and restless waves, you’ve steered with steady guide. The charts are drawn, the mast stands firm, the course is clear and true, A beacon bright through endless seas, where seekers pass on through. But O heart! heart! heart! The deck is worn and vast, And still you stand, with watchful eye, While time is rushing past. O Captain! My Captain! The blueprint holds the course, Each pillar laid with careful hand, each word a guiding force. The past still hums in whispered lines, yet forward calls the day, As minds embark and voices rise, you point the destined way. Exult, O waves! Ring out, O stars! Let knowledge fill the air! For though the tides may shift and turn, your mark remains laid bare. Not in fleeting dust or stone, but deep in what will be, A boundless sea, a lasting light-- a ship upon infinity.  I hear America rising--
not in the clash of voices, not in the echo of division, but in the quiet moment between. The world has drawn its lines in fire, etched names into stone, turned neighbors to strangers, brothers to foes. Yet even in war’s relentless march, a glance lingers, a hand falters, a moment holds. Not as enemy, not as ally, but as something older than the fight. The cold wind howls with hunger, the weight of winter settles deep, but beneath the frost, the roots still hold, beneath the storm, the lantern still glows. For have we not stood in ruin and built again? Have we not lifted light from the hollow of night? Have we not found warmth in each other’s hands? The war rages, the world divides, but love is a quiet defiance, hope is a whisper that refuses to fade, and somewhere beyond the noise, America still sings. The seed never sees the flower,
yet still, it breaks the earth, presses through the weight of stone, believing in a sun it has never touched. The wind carries no flag, no border, no name-- only whispers of what could be, soft as rain on weary hands, loud as roots beneath the frost. We do not walk the same roads, nor speak in the same tongue, but we labor in the same fields, turning soil for those who will come after. Some build walls, but others plant gardens, some hear the noise of division, but others listen for the song. And if we listen—truly listen-- we will hear it rising, not in anger, not in fear, but in hands that reach instead of close, in voices that soften instead of harden, in hearts that mend instead of break. We may not see the harvest, but let us plant as if we will. Let us give what we may never receive, build what we may never touch, love beyond what we may ever know. For long after we are gone, when winter has melted into spring, when the garden has grown beyond our sight, it is not our names that will remain-- but the echo we leave behind. |
About AuthorJoey Embers is a visual artist and storyteller exploring the intersection of memory, place, and the unseen. Through painting and poetry, he captures fleeting moments—echoes of time, silence, and hidden narratives. With a background bridging fine art and technology, Joey moves between structure and intuition, shaping works that invite viewers beyond the literal. The Painted Word is an extension of this journey—where language becomes art, and words take shape like brushstrokes on canvas. His work has been exhibited in galleries and juried shows, evolving alongside his story. To Joey, art—whether visual or written—is not just what we create, but what we leave behind. ArchivesCategories |
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