I don’t know when it started, but over time he forgot what home looked like. The tall evergreen trees, the warm grainy dirt, and the clear rivers that run east to west, these have been his home for so long. Experience his mother, and pain his father, both teaching the nomad to continue on this journey called artistry. Though not famous, the birds of the air gave a standing ovation, the trees swayed back and forth waving their hands in harmony to the melodies, and the waters crashed on the shore in tune with every beat of his free heart.

“I can’t stay in one place for too long baby them critics are on my tail and I can’t deal with those good for nothings!” He would say, as he hobbled towards his next destination. He never stayed in the same place too long. He feared that critics would soon catch up to him and send him back on his way home, but he could never go back and lose the freedom of being an artist. 

His friend, Polaris, guided him every night to the next destination, and he followed intently on his way to stardom.

“Dam Poly, are we almost there yet? You know my legs don’t move like they use to, but I’d move anywhere for you baby! I’m gonna be a star, and I’ll show everyone back home that there is something better out there than being a good for nothing farmer!”

Poly would just continue smiling as her bright gaze glared on him through the night as they traveled. Nature has always been the nomad’s friend, unlike the people from his distant past. The scars on his back and the permanent hobble in his step reminded him of the pain it took him to become an artist. Yes, nature is his only friend, the only friend he depends on and confides in.

“Have I ever told y’all the story of when I first wanted to be an artist? Well, back when I was a pickney I decided I wanted to sing. Oh I used to sing my lil Ol’ belly at the church every Sunday cuz that’s when we was ‘llowed to sing our hearts out. We had this one song where I would jump in the water and shout how God was gonna trouble the water. The entire church would erupt laughing, but mama would be so embarrassed because she would have to clean my good pants every Sunday after service. Well, one Tuesday as I was washing Mr. Smith’s clothes in the river, and I kept hollering how God was gonna trouble the waters. You should’ve seen me Poly! I was hootin, hollerin, and jigging all over the river. I jigged so much that the clothes washed down the river! WOO, lemme tell you Poly, I got beat so bad my back looks like a permanent birth mark!” The nomad would recall stories like this every night as he would hobble around on his travels.

Nature and the nomad were inseparable. It was a symbiotic relationship where each party felt heard and understood. But in relationships you have your ups and downs. There are times when nature would go into fits and scream and cry her eyes out, making it impossible for the nomad to travel. “What’s going on bubbs? Talk to me I’m here for you!” But she would just ignore him, as she continued to weep through the night. Unable to console his friend he sat under her long arms and weeped with her, remembering the distant memory when he did not have art. 

“Art is mo than just singing your heart out, it’s the freedom you have to express who you really are, don’t worry honey, express yo’self all you want. I’m here for you. You’re free with me.”