I hope this finds you well. The last few days have been especially hard for me. Yesterday, in an unnecessary fit of rage, someone deliberately damaged one of my paintings. That act was meant to wound, and I won’t pretend I feel forgiving right now. It is particularly unsettling because I know we’re so close to a threshold that will change many perspectives.

People are often surprised at how intentionally isolated I have been. In 2013 I stepped away from the world I was born into and declared what I call the “Revelation Revolution.” I don’t watch television, I don’t shop at Walmart, I haven’t sold my labor for wages in twelve years. Much of that was possible because of the space my partner Michael and I built together—traveling the coasts, creating art, and following what I call the shimmer. That shimmer was a vision of community and creative sovereignty that I carried long before I could name it.

Over the years I asked strangers, “Do you recognize me?” and many would look me in the eye and nod. They recognized something I only began to remember. As my memory surfaced, my work felt less like new discovery and more like the unveiling of what had always been. But recognition often brought hostility—mental, emotional, and physical. I do not claim to be greater than anyone else. I only know I have done the work. That work has produced real-world effects: it has disturbed entrenched systems, shifted patterns, and stirred dormant things within us. That disruption has come at a cost—ridicule, loss, and often painful isolation.

Across the generations, systems have taken from women and families: children lost to policies that too often don’t return them; addiction used to feed prisons; fentanyl’s devastation reaching near-universal impact. I have known loss, and I have known close calls. Still, I have also seen the shimmer: connections formed, seeds planted, memory reawakened.

Our common thread as humans is creative expression. That is our birthright and our purpose. It is how we reconnect, reclaim, and rebuild. I’ve poured decades into this work—into drawings, rituals, breathwork, and community-building—not for personal gain but to hold a possibility: that one person’s devotion can generate ripples that awaken many. The truth I hold is this: we were not meant to go alone. The work is messy and sometimes brutal, but it is also necessary. If you are reading this, I invite you to remember what you already carry: the capacity to create, the right to reclaim, and the power to gather.