A little over seven years ago, I made a radical decision — one I felt guided to by my late uncle — to return to a place I had never been. It was a game changer. A spiritual awakening. A series of abrupt left turns, or so it seemed at the time.

Nearly a year after his passing, I found myself in a tiny second-floor studio apartment perched along the Intracoastal. It had two skylights and one small window over the stairs, framing the treetop of a massive oak. My view was limited. Simple. Just what I needed.

Within that cocoon — suspended somewhere between sky and water — I began sitting cross-legged on the floor, talking to my uncle. Inks and acrylics, whatever wanted to move, would spill and blend as Floyd, Petty, and Skynyrd played in the background. There was no plan. No training. No ambition attached to it. Just conversation. Just listening.

Years later, the process remains.

What emerges from these moments is what you see here.

To call them paintings feels too formal. Too contained.

They are moments. Conversations. Time spent in the clouds with my ancestors.