Still Making Things

Lately I've been thinking a lot about what it means to keep going.

Living with illness, stress, anxiety, and the responsibilities of family can feel like carrying a backpack full of rocks that nobody else can see. Some days it's manageable. Other days it feels like every step takes more effort than it should.

I've spent most of my adult life taking care of other people. As a single father, I raised 4 children who grew into successful adults. Two college graduates. One son pursuing his dream as a graphic artist. Another adult son who is neurodivergent and faces challenges of his own. Now I'm helping raise my grandson.

Anyone who has spent years caring for others knows that it's often a thankless job. The rewards are real, but they don't always arrive when you're tired, overwhelmed, or wondering how you're going to get through another week of appointments, bills, responsibilities, and life's endless surprises.

At the same time, I'm dealing with my own health issues. Doctor appointments. Recovery. Days when my body simply refuses to cooperate with the plans I've made for it.

This weekend I'm in Bangkok visiting two of my kids, both of whom make me incredibly proud. Watching them build lives of their own is one of the few things that makes all those years of sacrifice feel tangible.

But I'll be honest, Bangkok can drain me. The pace, the traffic, the constant movement, the heat, the noise. Some days it feels like the city is running on a different battery than I am.

Fortunately, the building where they're staying has a rooftop zen garden and a few small patches of grass tucked away between the concrete and glass. They're nothing spectacular, just quiet little corners where you can sit, breathe, and put your bare feet on the ground for a while.

I've found myself spending time up there between visits and conversations. No phone. No agenda. Just trying to reconnect with myself.

Sometimes I'll sit by the window on the 30th floor and watch the city below. The traffic moving like veins through the city. The trains sliding between buildings. The storms rolling in from a distance. Honestly, staring out that window beats binge-watching television any day of the week. There's something calming about observing life instead of trying to escape from it.

As I've gotten older, I've realized that peace doesn't usually arrive in grand moments. More often it shows up in small places. A patch of grass. A quiet rooftop. A sketchbook. A motorbike ride. A half-finished song.

Sometimes those small moments are enough to get you through another day.

Sometimes I feel like I'm expected to be Superman.

The truth is I'm not.

I'm just a man trying to do the best he can.

That's where creativity comes in.

Art, writing, photography, music, field recording, even a simple sketch on paper. These things don't solve my problems, but they give me a place to put them. They help me make sense of the noise.

The motorbike rides help too.

There is something about riding with no destination, just following the road along the coast or through the city, that clears out the mental clutter. Most nights I'm listening to old reggae 45s while I ride. For a little while the worries get quieter. The anxiety loosens its grip. The mind settles down enough to breathe.

It's become one of the few places where I don't feel pulled in ten different directions. No appointments. No responsibilities. No expectations. Just the road, the music, and enough space to hear my own thoughts again.

Lately, though, creativity has been harder to find.

Writers call it writer's block. Producers call it beat block. Whatever name you give it, it feels the same. You sit down ready to create and nothing happens. The ideas don't come. The excitement isn't there. The spark feels buried under everything else you're carrying.

And then the questions start.

Am I too old for this?

Can someone really restart an artistic life after ten years away?

Is it worth trying?

I don't have the answer.

What I do know is that every time I stop creating, something important goes missing. Not because I need an audience. Not because I need success. Because creativity has become part of how I stay connected to myself.

Maybe that's enough reason to continue.

Maybe the goal isn't to become who I was ten years ago.

Maybe the goal is to become who I am now.

A little older. A little slower. A little more scarred. A little wiser.

Still making things.

Still trying.

Still here.