“What songs have traveled to you recently?

The other day I woke up in the middle of the night and could not get back to sleep.  After tossing and turning for a while in bed, I knew that the only thing that could help, would be music and song.  So I got out of bed, a ritual that I have known now for many years, and I sat on my couch and got my headphones ready.  I felt in that moment that I needed some old school gospel, words and tunes that had soothed my heart and body aches in years past.  As I listened and as I sang, I began to weep.  I cried and sang for over an hour, releasing much sorrow and sadness.  There has been an overwhelm of sorrow in these past months, moving between personal losses and pain in my own family, to accompanying friends through betrayal, to walking with communities that are facing incredible oppression and challenges today.”

Lately, I’ve been sitting with the idea that our well-being is deeply tied to the well-being of our neighborhoods—not just in theory, but in our bodies, our mental health, our dreams. If my neighbors aren’t okay, then I’m not okay. That simple truth has been shaping how I think about our work at BLK South.

The neighborhood isn’t just a space where we do things—it’s the ground from which we live. It invites us into a deeper kind of solidarity, one that isn’t only project-based but life-based. It calls us not only to ask, What do we want to build here? but How do we want to live here—together?

"We had coffee at Lux this morning with our friend and intern, Justus. He asked Kendall and me how we’ve been feeling, now that our big move is just around the corner.

I was tempted to respond with the usual: ‘Good! Great! We’re excited!’ But the truth is—that’s not really how I’ve been feeling. It’s more like a heavy cloud that I can’t quite explain.

There’s a deep sadness in my body—a weight, a darkness, maybe even a hint of depression. I haven’t been able to shake it, and I’m not entirely sure where it’s coming from.”

I had a dream that Randy Woodley was leading a group of people in the art of pigeon washing. Soap suds and brushes. The most sudsiness lather was needed. Bubbles floated around our heads. The birds were alive and receptive to the cleaning. Quite calm, cooing tender. Alive in our hands. 

A large group of people were participating,  diverse in both ethnicity and age. While I could not identify their faces, it sure seemed like the array of people Dr. Woodley draws to his unique ways of teaching. 

We were eager to learn and participate. 

We are so captivated by the violence we can see—gunfire, protests, burning buildings, police brutality—that we have built entire systems of moral reasoning around it. Our collective consciousness creates narratives to explain what we are witnessing. But I wonder if perhaps the solution to the violence we can see lies not in moralizing it differently, but in addressing the deeper violence we cannot see.

But invisible violence is quieter. It hides in bureaucracy, in budgets, in zoning laws, in school funding disparities, and in militarized policing justified by fear that those harmed by empire will one day fight back. It’s the forced poverty of land, place, and people. It’s the structural design that makes certain neighborhoods food deserts and others Whole Foods havens. It’s how Raleigh, North Carolina justifies a $22 million police budget under the guise of safety while exploiting the poor to meet quotas that disproportionately impact Black and Brown bodies.

These artists remind us that art is not just a reflection but a force, a catalyst for social change and cultural preservation. Like trees planted by rivers of history and struggle, their art draws sustenance from the roots of Black Southern identity. Whether through portraiture, mixed media, or community collaboration, Black Southern artists continue to inspire and lead the way.

Looking back, I realize how deeply rooted art is in understanding the South—not as a monolith, but as a mosaic of voices. Their work teaches us that growth, like a tree's roots, is grounded in perseverance and connection. Just as healthy roots sustain mighty trees, the resilience of Black Southern artists nourishes the spirit of justice and creativity.

“This country has an abnormal obsession with blood, especially the blood spilled of innocent lives who prematurely become pummeled bodies, so we commemorate tragedies but fail to disrupt the bloodletting systems. We also love dead heroes, well some of them, despite often hating them while they are living.

In this season, it will take many of us taking action where we are to ensure that no matter how many times we have to cross the bridge toward justice we will stay in the fight. Our names may not appear in history books, someone else may get all of the credit but building a pathway to liberation, fighting for justice is the real work of saints, sheroes and heroes.”

“‘Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go do that, because what the world needs is more people who have come alive.’

This most famous quote of Howard Thurman is not some inspiring statement that he developed to launch a career as a spiritual guru. Instead, this quote is found in the acknowledgements section of Gil Bailie’s book, Violence Unveiled. Turns out Thurman offered such words in the midst of a conversation where Baile was seeking advice as he contemplated what needed to be done in the world. I’d love to ask Thurman that question today. 

And so I’m asking of my own life, for the umpteenth time: What makes me come alive?”

"Erasure is a paradox. Though it stems from a desire for something not to exist, its very attempt acknowledges that existence. To erase something, you must first recognize its presence. And in doing so, you create a new memory in those who witness the act—the memory of what was and the deliberate effort to make it disappear. The removal of Black Lives Matter Plaza is not just about paint on pavement; it is an act of strategic forgottenness, a state-sanctioned effort to edit out a movement that challenged the violence of the state. But here’s the truth: memory fights back.”

I’ve heard it said before that you can speak

That within you lay the stories untold

The stories of the losers and the lost ones

Only you and God have born witness to the things that would leave people aghast

We have named you many things but I wonder what you would name us

Monsters or humans?

I cannot hear you.

And that grieves me.

Perhaps because there is too much noise

Too much street traffic overriding your thoughts and tales

“How is it that a veve tops what was the St. Joseph AME Church? The building was completed in 1915, and those churchgoing members conceded to placing a veve where the traditional symbol of their faith normally stands. Vodou takes the place of the cross. Given the name of the community—Hayti—it’s clear that those who built their lives here were inspired by Haiti’s fight for liberation. Perhaps they weren’t as uptight when it came to the practice of vodou. Maybe they understood it as a merging of Catholicism and African religion, practiced among those who attended the church. If that is true, it may be a part of Durham’s religious history that no one wants to address.”

A couple days after the presidential inauguration of Donald Trump, Kate and I took to the air, a planned excursion months in the making, but one that seemed a bit like flying away. On our flight to Argentina I was thinking about what has become (and what has always been) of my home country.

In flight I found myself scouring the words and pages of Barry Lopez in search of something to illuminate a path on which I might continue to write and work for the greater good. In one of his essays titled, “Love in a Time of Terror” I expected to encounter a vision to guide me (and perhaps the title was enough). I did and I didn’t find what I was looking for.

Lopez quips that “evidence of the failure to love is everywhere around us.” This is the pulse to my rage, a rage aimed mostly at the Trump regime and his cronies. A movement famous for a failure to love. But my frustration is not only fueled by the failure to love present within the MAGA movement, it is that it is glaringly obvious that a Trump presidency is devoid of love,  assuring he’s placed in the pantheon of Bullies.

It’s winter, yet this island never stops growing.

Cobblestone homes, roads, and fences stand firm, softened by moss that thrives wherever water and earth meet.

Colors emerge in unexpected places—on tree trunks and bare branches, laid bare by the gentle wind and rain.

The air is crisp, fresh, carrying the scent of the sea. Hills roll in endless shades of green, dotted with clusters of family trees.

Birds fill the sky—chirping, singing, soaring—finding homes and making friends.

This is a beautiful country. A place where Frederick Douglass first felt he was “not treated as a color, but as a man.”

This is IRELAND.

"Countless other unsung individuals played pivotal and often overlooked roles in advancing civil rights. These undervalued heroes were faith leaders, grassroots organizers, legal advocates, students, and ordinary citizens who risked their lives and livelihoods to transform the world. Their contributions not only shaped history but continue to hold critical lessons for today's ongoing struggles for justice and equity.

The stories of these unsung heroes remind us that meaningful social change is rarely achieved by a few charismatic leaders alone. It is the collective effort of everyday people who challenge injustice and demand accountability from those in power. In today’s world, where racial disparities persist and new forms of discrimination emerge, the courage and strategies of these heroes remain deeply relevant."

“Dr. Perry’s book caused me to reflect in the reverse: What does it mean to be Black? Many say every Black American has to think about this question, but I hadn’t examined it critically enough—at least not in the ways that Dr. Perry presented it to me through her book. Her work is scattered with American and international stories, some of which offer powerful reflections on how a color became a culture and what being that color has meant to us historically and today. Dr. Perry presents these ideas in a poetic way, as is her style. She entrances you with her words, leading you to curiosity and pondering their meaning. She does this in the most creative and imaginative way by telling the story of being Black through the color blue. The book allows you to see how blue is entangled with the history of being Black, from the indigo plantations to artistic choices. While reading, I couldn’t help but think about how much my wife loves the color blue and how she had us paint our living room walls a dark ocean blue. The interior of her parents’ house is the same blue.”

“Heroes and saints aren’t just figures from the past; they walk among us today, embodying God’s love and justice in tangible ways. They interpret Scripture not just with words but with their actions, showing us what it means to follow Jesus in our everyday lives. As we honor the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., I’m reminded of how his life was a living sermon—a demonstration of love, justice, and courage. Through his marches, letters, and unwavering stand against injustice, Dr. King showed us what it means to live out the Gospel.

I’ve also found inspiration in Archbishop Oscar Romero, who preached hope and justice in the face of violence and oppression in Central America. Like Dr. King, he stood with the poor and spoke out against injustice, even at great personal risk. Heroes like…”

“The idea of heroism has taken on new meaning in today’s world. It’s no longer just about grand adventures or epic victories but the quiet, persistent acts of love, care, and presence that define true courage. From first responders risking their lives in wildfires to everyday people mentoring youth or listening deeply to a friend in need, heroism is being redefined in ways that are more human, grounded, and accessible.

As we reflect on the theme of heroes and saints, we are reminded that movements of change are rarely the work of a single individual. Instead, they are carried forward by communities of people answering the call in their own unique ways. Whether it’s through small, simple acts or collective efforts for justice, the true heroism of our time lies in the courage to respond to the needs around us with compassion and imagination."

"Silence is not simply the absence of noise but a sacred space where transformation begins. In this space, we are invited to listen—not just to the voices around us, but to the voice within that calls us to a life of meaning and purpose. Howard Thurman’s wisdom reminds us that slowing down and attuning to our inner voice is not just an act of reflection but a step toward becoming fully alive. This practice of stillness invites us to shed false narratives, expectations, and fears, allowing us to reconnect with our truest selves. As we step into the New Year, Thurman challenges us to…”

“I feel at peace yet overwhelmed, as if the soil has cried out and finally taken a breath from calling my name—because I answered. My ears are still ringing. That compass-guided heart, once racing, now attempts to steady itself as I take in all they wanted me to see, feel, hear, and know. ‘From dust you came, and to dust you shall return.’ The Durham dust is in the soil, the Durham soil is also standing, speaking before me—a mutual rhythm of formation: they shape the city; the city shapes them. They are sacred, clay-like vessels, animated by a bleeding love for history, humanity…collective memory.”

"The journey makes you a pilgrim because the Camino is not only a track to be walked but a parable and a reality all at once. It transforms you, working within and outside of you, not just during the time it takes to walk each stage but throughout your entire life—if you allow it. Walking this holy way alongside eleven centuries of pilgrims, I’ve learned that pilgrimage is more than movement; it’s a practice of trust, endurance, and finding grace in every step."