The Art of Not Quitting

 

The Art of Not Quitting

At 71, I started closing the book on my career in professional education, a calling that shaped me, stretched me, and gave me purpose for decades. Most people would have called that “retirement.” I never liked that word. It sounded too much like stopping, and stopping has never fit into my plans.

So instead of slowing down, I shifted gears.

I finished a PhD program when many assumed I’d be riding off into the sunset. I underwent open‑heart surgery and came out of it with a deeper appreciation for time, how precious it is, how intentionally it should be used. And at 73, I picked up a paintbrush with no expectations other than joy and relaxation. What started as a personal exploration turned into something much bigger: commissions, invitations, and conversations with people who see something in my work that resonates with them.

This September, at 75, I’ll be sharing my artwork at an event in Thibodaux, Louisiana, the secondary land of my roots, in another unexpected turn in a journey that keeps surprising me. My paintings are now available internationally, something I never imagined when I dipped that first brush into paint.

If there’s a moral to my story, it’s simple: don’t quit. Life doesn’t always require a full stop; sometimes it just needs you to shift into another lane. Fulfillment isn’t tied to age, titles, or comfort. It’s tied to curiosity, courage, and the willingness to begin again, over and over if necessary.

And btw, someone else's opinion of you and your work is none of your business.

I’m living proof that reinventing yourself isn’t reserved for the young. It’s reserved for the willing.

My Dogs Are Smarter Than Me

 

My Dogs Are Smarter Than Me

My dogs are smarter than me.

I’ve stopped fighting that truth.

They sit there with those patient faces,

pretending to listen,

tilting their heads like tiny professors

waiting for me to finish the wrong answer.

I swear they roll their eyes.

Not even subtle about it.

A slow blink…

a sideways glance…

that little huff through the nose

that says,

“Bless his heart, he’s trying.”

They talk about me, too.

I hear them.

Not the words,

just the tone.

That low conversational rumble

when they think I’m out of earshot,

like they’re discussing

my questionable life choices

and the fact that I still don’t understand

What “woof” means in context.

They tell on each other

with the enthusiasm of toddlers.

One trots up, proud and righteous,

to report a crime:

a stolen sock,

a chewed corner,

a conspiracy in progress.

The other follows behind

with the face of someone

wrongly accused

but absolutely guilty.

And when they’re really up to something,

they close my studio door.

Not push it.

Not nudge it.

They close it.

Firmly.

With purpose.

Because whatever they’re plotting

is none of my business

until they decide it is.

My dogs are smarter than me.

I’ve accepted it.

Honestly, it’s a relief.

Someone in this house

should know what they’re doing.

wcd

Soon, I’ll Walk Back In

 

Soon I'll Walk Back In

Soon enough, I’ll drive that stretch of familiar highway,

back toward the town where my name

used to mean something different.

I can already feel the weirdness of

being invited back not to preach or teach,

not to shepherd,

but to create, to show, to stand there

as the person I've become

after I stepped away.

I keep imagining the faces.

Some will stare, trying to reconcile

the man who once stood behind a pulpit or podium,

with the one who now stands behind a canvas,

or a script,

or whatever shape my work takes that day.

They’ll search for the old outlines,

the familiar vocal cadence,

the version of me they tucked away

into their memory years ago.

I wonder how it will feel

to walk older now into a place where I used to speak

with a different kind of authority,

one I no longer carry,

one I no longer want or need.

This time, I’m not arriving with answers,

or scripture, or texts,

or the weight of expectation.

I’m arriving with color, paint

with story,

with the strange freedom

that comes from rebuilding yourself

outside the frameworks time gave you.

There’s a quiet thrill in it,

but also a quiet ache.

Not regret, just the awareness

that I’m returning as someone

they didn’t see me becoming.

Someone I had to leave to find.

Maybe they’ll understand.

Maybe they won’t.

But I’ll be there anyway

not to prove anything,

not to correct the past,

Just to show what grew

after I stepped out of the role

that once defined me.

Soon, I’ll walk back in,

and the future version of me

will meet the old one

in the only place

that ever held both.

And it will be okay.