My data that is— perhaps everything truly but I’m not talking about existentially-in this moment I’m speaking about my hard drive that I may have to reformat for my new computer.

I’m still working through my thoughts about it, how before I turned in my previous laptop of 8 years, I uploaded everything into my external hard drive. I had been using that hard drive for the same amount of time that I had the previous laptop, and I made sure to upload only the things I wanted to take with me to the future.

It included some of my writings, finished projects, projects in the works, and some other folders for my mailing list. It wasn’t too much only the things that I wanted to take with me.

But what happens when the things that you want to take with you, even those things, you must leave behind?

I suppose I’ll be alright, you know, with letting go. It’ll be annoying starting from scratch but there’s also something about beginning again that makes me really excited!

There’s also a chance that I won’t have to mourn anything at all, that when I plug in my almost decade old external hard drive into a new computer that it’ll work. And at the same time, if it doesn’t I won’t mourn at all but welcome the chance to start this decade off completely new.

I didn’t have any real expectations though because 8 years ago that never would have been a possibility, until it was this past Sunday on August 2nd when I felt the incredible urge to turn in my laptop. This urge was a feeling that was no longer unfamiliar, I believe I’ve become used to it when Jesus is moving me on from a place. To transition from things I thought I would be in for a lifetime. Before I thought this gentle pull of my hand as I hold on to his was just for people and places. Apartments and cities I’ve lived in. Or people that I’ve talked to that I don’t speak with anymore. But no. The transitioning has also been in the items that I’ve grown accustomed to using, that have made up so much of my practice—and really pieces of my identity-for such a long time. Late last year, 2025, I gave away all of my paint supplies—brushes, pallets, additives, swatches, canvases (stretched, un-stretched, boards)—and the like either to friends or strangers who i felt would need it best.

I felt free afterwards.

Then came the books, literature and knowledge that I never thought I’d part with became so easy for me to. I gave away all of the books I’ve acquired during the 5 years I was a Co-Lead at the garden I ran in Garfield (a tremulturous time truly but I learned a lot). I even gave away various coloring books and learning pamphlets I’ve acquired from various master gardeners and sweet old ladies I’ve met who had stunning backyard green spaces.

It was a blessing to have them gone. To have space for more of what’s now.

Back in March of this year (2026 just so I can keep track of the years), the same feeling came around for my vehicle. Toné, my 2009 Toyota Highlander that has been with me maybe during my darkest times. Despite having 2 vehicles before him (yes, I’ve dubbed my previous car a guy), this was the first vehicle that was truly my responsibility. I was the primary driver, and I also wasnt the best steward of the car. I let it be in two accidents with two people that had no business being behind the wheel of my car (my dad and the guy I was sleeping with at the time). I also was in my manual labor phase of my life, so I filled my car to the brim with various oversized paintings, peoples furniture, my furniture (for moving at one point), and tons and tons of wood of the course of the 5 years I was a gardener and carpenter (and for a 6-month stint, a brick mason). The car had been with me to Virginia, West, Pittsburgh, various parts of Ohio, the incredibly tight streets of Philly, Bethlehem, Brooklyn, Jersey; and our longest road trip to Albany for my artist residency. Beyond the emotional ties with that vehicle, the fact that I named the inanimate mechanical object (which I honestly do believe cars respond better once they have a name attached), was the fact that I paid off the vehicle. It was a doozy of 5 years but to have paid it off during a time when I was unemployed, inbetween homes, and in a season of learning to trust in God during the beginning of my walk with Jesus, I thought, meant I would have it the rest of my life.

However, like I would soon come to find out, in March when things were just breaking down more and more, as I had to have it unlocked since the alarm would go off randomly at 2am. And when things I never broke continued to be more expensive to fix i found myself not even wanting to drive. A sign for me since I love being behind the wheel. And so like all things I prayed, I didn’t want a car note (AT ALL) so like the other transitions that came before I asked:

Lord, if it’s your will that I get a new vehicle, then I trust that you know what I like. Direct me to the one you have for me, and let me only look at one and be satisfied, finding favor with the place, and peace in the process. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

The prayer has become standard, and now for the past 5 months I’ve been driving a beautiful 2019 Rav 4 Adventure, with all the fixings that my little girl heart alway dreamed of having in a vehicle (but never actually prayed for). And now I have a joy that I didn’t think I could have again if I gave away something.

It made me realize something in these transitionary moments, that when God transitions me out of something what he has for me is always better than what I left.

Which is why I’ve been curious about what’s next with this laptop.

As a photographer, a design novice, and a person who is learning to dive deeper into literature as a form of practice, my computer tends to be the lifeblood of my work. It’s the place where the vision becomes something real and tangible to others. But it’s also the place that perhaps has become the biggest crutch.

It’s one where, instead of creating from my own experience I instead find myself searching Pinterest for an idea close to what I want to do that someone has already done and then creating from someone else’s place. It’s been a place where I fill up my silent time with so much noise, distractions like emails, grant searching (not writing, I’m too tired for that at the moment), or graduate school or residency searching that I forget about living, breathing, moving, having a hobby, living my own life. Filling my time with things I’ve been curious about so that when I get back to the creating part it will truly be from a place of my own, not borrowed from someone else’s. And so the first 4 days of not having a laptop was simply uncomfrotable. I had all of these dreams of doing nothing in the past that when I was finally presented with rest I didn’t know what exactly to do.

Things I did do:

• Go for runs (4 in fact, a new personal record!)

• Sit in silence more

• Finish a book and start another one

• Wake up earlier

• Cook a meal at home

And I of course did spend some time laying on the floor of my living room staring at the ceiling.

I suppose it did help that when I tried to get a new laptop, spending almost 1900 via a credit card that the laptop didn’t work haha. I thought it was funny, especially since I did hear God tell me to take the full week to just rest. To appreciate the sounds around me that have become so much more richer. To see the blue hues of a cloud covered sky. To smell the richness of the jasmine rice alongside my dinner. To actually truly be present fully and always, not just within my dedicated time on the first Saturday.

In the midst of my discomfort though there has been an extreme joy. Contentment really, that springs out into flowing rivers of hope and peace. A feeling I truly never had the time to experience.

And so yes, I am writing this on my iPad, and have purchased another laptop that will arrive in a week or so, I come back to this practice a new woman. I think I’ll have even better boundaries when it comes to how I move, the pace in which I step, and to where I go.

I’m building up my tension between what is now and what is not yet. Even as other things are on the way I’m learning to be better with what is exactly in front of me.

A cool morning breeze. A cloudy day, partly, with the sun playing a game of hide-and-seek on the concrete where blades of grass freshly cut sprinkle the ground like confetti. It’s cooler today, the petals of new blooms falling fresh to the floor, the insects chirping if you can listen past the cars.

And the silence of the body, my body, preparing itself for another season, fall, just as if you were to look closely enough, the trees are beginning to do the same. Not all at once, of course, but enough to show that we’re in a season of change despite what the calendar may say. And as I wear outside my fall house clothes on this mid-July day—gray sweats, a fitted blue shirt, no bra, of course—I notice how this breeze makes me feel so warm. emotionally. I find myself nostalgic for moments that I haven’t experienced yet.

Horseback riding.

Apple picking and pie baking.

Hosting a Christmas party in my apartment to decorate cookies and hang ornaments on the Christmas tree my mother gave me. Cowboy boots and oversized flannels. Hot dirty chais and a re-reading of a previous book. Short skirts and long-sleeved shirts. And moving my plants from the sunroom back inside, filling the house again.

nostalgia [n] pleasant remembrances:

fond memories* homesickness, longing, pining, reminiscence, remorse, sentimentality, wistfulness, yearning

To me, though, I experience the feeling as a never-ending Tuesday. An inner light never going out, eternally twilight.

Each day brings new opportunities for old encounters. Each day, I also am comign to terms with, is one wher I don’t have tod o everything at once. I’ve said it before, maybe only to myself, but these 24 hours, 16 really, are ones where life is lived compounded continuously. Who I was yesterday set the stage for today. Who I am today is the building of the foundation of who I’ll be tomorrow. There is no going back, only moving forward. Even though I occasionally like to peek back from time to time.

I called off work today after waking up and realizing I just couldn’t do it; silence is my portion today until it isn’t. Watching the mourning doves and robins perch on my windows is my portion until they fly away. Watering the plants and reading and considering how (and why) I photograph and write is my portion today, until it’s time for me to consider something else.

Earlier, after a small neighborhood walk, I thought about the collective you in regard to place. How place is a person, is many people, and many versions. How a simple street corner, hydrangea, or muddy sidewalk is only made valuable by the person who holds it in their minds as a place of singificance becasue it has connection to somethign or someone that is.

Value, then, is not necessarily connected to the momentary but rather to an individual’s placement on the matter. I considered earlier—and maybe am still, perhaps will, on and off today—about how I have, overtime, changed the depths in which I place value on certain people and places based on my prxominiity to it/them, as they are to me/eachother. To someone who I speak with everyday, that person may slowly move up an unspokken hierachy, leading to singicnatly more consideration, love and value. This does mean that before, or others with whom I am not in close proximity are no longer worth consideration, love, or value, but it does mean that when it comes to invitation and preference, they are not considered first, if even at all.

And that’s okay.

I have, for the most part, tried my best to be objective when it comes to the labeling and status of a relationship. It’s important for me to categorize it because it determines how much energy will be put forth. It also allows me to come to terms with where I stand.

I write this over the span of two days because I needed a break to sit with the emotions revolving around the intricacies of my relationships—friends or lack thereof, family or lack thereof, workmates or lack thereof, or what seems to be that I find more depth in the 5-minute interaction with a stranger than someone I’ve known for a longer term, as if we can’t break the surface.

Maybe strangers offer me an immediate depth because we both know we may not ever see each other again. Perhaps we do things with greater urgency, depth, and perhaps even care when there’s a shared realization and understanding that we don’t have much time.

On the eve today of what my body wants to presume will be difficult based on previous experiences, I am actively choosing to see the good. To hold the tension. To tke the time to smell the hydrangeas,. And to only live in what my portion today is.

I can never tell what I’m writing about, since the writing is just ramblings of the mind. One day though, I hope to figure it out.

The art of finishing, and finishing well.

To be more specific to the point of finishing, I must realize why I’m beginning in the first place and examine all the areas where I found myself doing, perhaps, too many things at once.

From ages 5 until about 19, grade school years, the educational landscape was where I thrived. Not only was it an eight-hour escape from my family life, but this escape also offered consistency, clarity, and care. Three C’s that I need in order to do proper work and to do it well. These three C’s: consistency, clarity, and care, showed up in things like syllabuses, a semester schedule, and teachers who didn’t mind working on projects and giving me things to think about deeply when my dad forgot to pick me up from school. The teachers in these spaces offered me something that felt right, a value to the things that I did. This value placement was reinforced back at home, where I wasn’t allowed to express the full breadth of my emotions. Too many times, any failure relating to navigating life as a human being, a child, honestly, was seen as deplorable. Not a lot of opportunities in the area of consistency, clarity, and care when it came to reactions to questions or simply being around. But I knew, back then, my parents and even siblings reactions would hold those three c’s if I continued the work, if I finished and finished well, and if I was better than those around me who were doing it.

From 20-28, I found myself in a similar cycle, but worse off than before. This value placement on work led me to stay with a sexually abusive man for just shy of a decade. And around others who couldn’t quite see what the problem was, especially if and because I was still able to perform.

Work, finishing, and accomplishing during that time was less of a joy and more of an escape. Mirroring my youth, my young adult life found me pouring my heart into doing because that’s the only time I felt free to be. The work, whatever the work was—drawing, painting, curating, assisting, consulting, mentoring, or playing unpaid Uber driver—it only ever said “thank you” for having taken on the task of doing it to begin with.
To be fair, during that time both pride and a lack of a secure identity made it easier to do what I did. The pride, because for a while there wasn’t anyone who stepped up to do certain tasks, so I got it into my head that I was better and therefore more qualified. That got old kinda quick, but after 3 years doing it, no one made any allowances for me to leave because “who else would we find to do it?” A lack of identity, because with my value so closely tied to the things that I could accomplish, who would I actually be without it?

At the latter end of my 28th year, I found myself shedding off identities, characteristics, and mental attitudes that had defined so much of my life. I got rid of so much stuff that I felt like an empty shell of a woman. While I left behind the bad traits of connecting my identity to my worth, I also discarded some of the good traits. Like my work ethic, vision, and ability to move forward, pivot, and work to the end, even though I’m still at the beginning. This art of continuing is what I threw away, so nervous was I that I would go back to that person who attached her soul value to her work that I slowly stopped doing work at all.

In that 28th year, I took up something that had never characterized me before: fear. And that could not do.

Ending my. 28th year with me developing a closer relationship with Jesus, exercising more consistently, and cooking delicious meals for myself in my new beautiful apartment, I found that my 29th year was about healing and getting back into the thick of it. The fun of it all. The work.

I spent the majority of the year tieing up loose ends of the hopes of my 20s. Going on my first out-of-state residency. Going to a hockey game with some of the best seats. Getting a newer vehicle, paying down debts, and establishing healthier boundaries when it came to access to myself and the access that I have with others. I can’t forget the amount of time I spent lying on the grass and visiting various nature trails an hour’s drive from me, just to clear my head and see the stars.

In the final months of my 20s and having entered into my 30th year, I came to understand that I’m not the same person I was anymore, and that’s a great thing. Because of that, I have the opportunity to get to know the person that I am now. For one, I realized my capacity has changed dramatically. I don’t have the energy to do 5-10 heavy workloads all at once, and perhaps I never was equipped to do that. It didn’t feel natural when I was doing it, and these days I want to follow the path of peace, even if that does mean discomfort.

I’m looking forward to life in a way that I never really could grasp in the past, that the things I’ve dreamed about are possible for me with courage and consistency. My future is in need of the person that I am today.

Some things I’m going to be continuing include:

• writing and publishing consistently (especially here on Substack)

• photographing a project or a piece that I’m inspired by at least once a month

• going to one social event a month

• applying for residencies and learning opportunities

• making space for play and wonder

• playing Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom (a phenomenal game so far!)

• going for runs again (when the fog clears up)

• learning more about the art that I’m passionate about (photography and curation)

I also want to just continue being good at continuing.

To the younger me who always finished what she started, I want to now be a woman who continues the things she intends on finishing. Regardless of what the end actually looks like.

The time came for me to make a decision, albeit a simple one for today’s journey: drive to the Northside and walk downtown, or, pay for parking in my standard go-to-parking lot. I chose the latter because this Saturday was one where I did not wish to be burdened with walking the 30 minute distance to get to my destination. I had done all that throughout the week, walking to and fro across the Andy Warhol or Rachel Carson bridges to downtown and back, that with sore feet and a tired disposition I considered that this Saturday would be one where I deserved a break. I’ll be walking all day anyway since I planned to be at the festival, besides, I rarely, if ever, make my way downtown on a weekend, so this would be a special treat. This garage is one that I feel the safest at parking my car these days, its directly next to the Heinz History Center. A nameless garage where the price of parking is usually printed in Times New Roman font on 8.5x11” copier paper. It’s $10 dollars (usually) a day, and seems to be one of the only places where I can still use cash without getting looked at strangely–or being walked away from before I’m ready to pay, which happens more than you would think.

Twenty dollars later however, because I came in the rise of Saturday afternoon traffic, an unexpected upcharge on what is normally a pretty cheap downtown parking stay. But I already paid the cost. After parking, I sought to take the things for my day that would make my adventuring as light as possible. I had what I had, and what I didn’t have, having forgotten it either at home, or just leaving it there, would have to either wait, or remain in the vehicle because there are no in and out privileges in this garage.

That Saturday was a day filled with no plans nor expectations other than laying on the grass, listening to live bands, and enjoying the sun. I found myself surrounded by personalities, situations, and experiences. Like the elderly woman I talked to near the fountain who was feeling faint from the heat but was glad her husband had an opportunity to walk around the festival, a sweet couple. Or, the man who insisted on standing too close to me, sharing that he doesn’t see or take care of his son, (its the mother of his child’s fault for moving away of course), and that I can’t possibly be from New York, I’m assuming it’s because I don’t talk like there’s a wad of chewing gum in my mouth. I do hope he wants to be reconciled to his son one day. In every single moment I kept thinking about how it would be nice to drive my car home and park it right in the same spot, just to clear my head and then remembering that where I’m parked would require me to pay full price again.

What is it about paying a higher amount in regards to a luxury service that makes me appreciate it more? That allows me, when the cost is high enough, to be even more sensitive to the rules and restrictions set forth, especially when it means I’ll be putting my accrued monetary wealth towards it? My life is worth more than a $10, (occasionally $20 on a high traffic weekend or event day), parking garage. So why have I been so comfortable in the past with allowing in and out privileges in my own life?

Prior to changing my phone number while I was in Albany back in September 2025, I took careful stock of who had access to me that I wanted to, who just had access, and who shouldn’t have access. I went through all my 300 contacts and connections, from phone numbers, to addresses, to emails and everything in between and got it down to 15 people. Fifteen people that I trusted with whatever the next leg of the journey would look like. Once I changed my phone number, I gave myself some parameters so that I don’t get caught up in the endless cycle of collecting the phone numbers of people that I should reach out to when they crossed my mind, and also to limit the connections individuals would have for me. The boundaries I kept for myself going forward was and is something for me to remember and live by:

1. Messages older than a month are automatically deleted

2. If I give someone my number for a future connection and for some reason the other individual keeps canceling meetings with me in person, the number is automatically deleted.

3. If I haven’t talked to a person in over a month, I’ll send a text message to, hopefully, meet up and hangout.

4. If I have a number on my phone and we haven’t talked in over a month, it’s flagged for deletion, or deleted.

5. All contacts who I haven’t been in connection with (either in person or on the phone) for three months are automatically deleted.

6. Should that deleted number message me back, their number isn’t saved unless we go for 3 months of continuous contact and build up the relationship. Otherwise, all messages will be deleted once a month until that thread no longer remains.

It never used to be this way, me holding boundaries for something as simple as a phone number, but it became necessary when I realized there were too many people coming and going, in and out of my life, and I welcomed it. I’d start back conversations as if they never left, as if no time had passed at all. But time did pass, days, months, sometimes years, and then they would come back. It got tiresome after a while, starting and stopping in this way.

Of course, the rules above I made exceptions for only two people, until I realized this past Saturday that it was unnecessary for me to have done so.

The first was a person who I considered a friend for years, but when I expressed my discomfort in how she treated me and wanting to set up healthier boundaries in our communication going forward, she seemingly dropped off the face of the planet. It had been almost 9 months since I spoke to her or saw her. I ran into her at the coffee shop the other day, i wondered if her messaging me after all this time after that encounter would lead to anything. It didn’t.

The second was a person that I went all the way to Philadelphia for in the hopes to spend some time with him. He had canceled the month prior, and I over extended myself to make space for something that he didn’t even bother making space for. I held some expectations, things I made plain about consistency in a friendship. Even when those boundaries weren’t respected or listened to, I held space for him to return. It had been almost 5 months and not a thought in my direction. Until there was a message back from him as if we were always on good grounds and I opened myself up to conversation. The same pattern emerged almost immediately, a significant amount of attention in a span of two days to a week, and then radio silence for weeks on end. It didn’t feel right for me to continue on in this pattern. So I stopped.

I’m worth more than an in and out run. A convenient conversation, a passing remembrance, and unlimited access. I’ve started to gather that my life should be treated just as the parking lot next to the Heinz History Center, that there should be no in and out privileges.

And if you want to leave, you’ll need to pay full price if you want to return.

Between 2019 and 2025, I was a gardener. For 5 of those years, however, I considered myself less a gardener and more of a steward of dirt, grime, dust, and carpet that someone decided a decade ago to put down in an effort to stop knotweed.

_{A foolish idea and implementation, but also neither here nor there.}

During three of those years, I spent it aggressively tearing into the ground: ripping out knotweed at its root, mowing continuously, cutting down invasive trees, removing cement blocks and dirty diapers, until it was clean and clear enough to begin planting something new.

Once these unwanted elements were removed, I planted.

But before anything was removed, planted, built, removed, planted, pruned, and planted again, there was a plan in place for what I wanted the space to be like. This would be a place for sitting and play. There would be pollinators and annual flowers, herbs, and food growing in such large quantities that there would be more than enough for everyone.

I’ve been meditating recently about the Pruning of God, a season of my life that I’ve finally recognized that I’m in right now. What came to mind is the movement, force, attention, and intention that the body takes on when pruning and destroying. They are different.

When my mind was set on destroying weeds and clearing out space, I was not careful with them. I dug down, deep, often using some of the sharpest gardening tools I could find to get at the root of the matter. The tools tended to be larger, focusing on shovels, barrels, and finding every way to get rid of as much barren, diseased, and harmful land as possible. And because I did not want these weeds back on the property, I made sure to throw them away, sometimes even burning them, taking them to a dump far away, then walking the grounds to make sure that they could not come back. And if it did come back, it would come back weaker, but hopefully not at all.

With each weed and unwanted material removed, space was then allowed for beautiful things to be placed in its stead. Flowerbeds with seating, natural grass, pollinator flowers, room for what was meant to be there to grow, and walking paths to make it safe.

When the ground had new breathable soil, alkalized and ready to bring forth new produce, plants were planted. Marigolds, strawberries, various lettuces, sunflowers, thyme, tomatoes, kale, sage, and many others that were meant to bring forth life and beauty. These plants were new to the soil, and so I found myself paying careful attention to them more than I ever did with the weeds. The spring when they were planted was the hottest, so I watered every morning, checked for various bugs and dangers, made sure that the deer protection measures survived the night, and I constantly checked the soil (at least weekly), ensuring that the environment was still habitable for the plant.

Then they grew, more and more, as they were cared for; growing bigger, brighter, and stronger, more beautiful than what was there in the past.

Something that I learned while doing greenspace work is the importance of pruning for growth. For pruning these plants, something that I always kept in mind was:

Noticing the state of the plant to begin the pruning process.

Usually this would happen when I notice the plant was starting to overgrow its container; the stems were leaning, needing to be reinforced, or a load lightened to reinforce strength. Or I noticed that it was producing good fruit (or buds), but needed to be pruned so that it could produce more in the space that was cut.

The timing of the prune.

When I’ve pruned my plants, I’ve only ever pruned in the early mornings or late-night hours. It would only happen when the plant was in a state of rest, that way, it wouldn’t overwhelm it.

There was prep work handled in the planning of this as well. I always made sure that the plant was fully prepared for the pruning: properly watered, bugs, weeds, and other unwanted items were removed, the soil around it was prepared, and protective measures were reestablished.

It was always just enough.

No more than 1/3 of the plant was ever pruned at a time. I always knew when it was enough. See, there’s a danger when you prune too much; you risk overwhelming the plant and causing its premature death. Instead, what was cut was very intentional. Is there a portion of the plant that’s not receiving enough sunlight? The above spots were pruned. Is there an area that’s beginning to choke another plant (unintentionally)? Cut and reset. Where are the places that are producing fruit that would benefit from a trim? Pruned.

Never too much. Each cut was made with small garden scissors that were built for precision cuts.

And so when I consider God and His pruning of me, I see my life more and more as a garden. My life, beautifully planned.
The weeds and junk that were consuming so much of my life have been thrown away. The soil has been made new again, cultivated. Beautiful things have been planted, natural grasses cultivated, and the things that had been choked out due to debris have finally been given the space to breathe. And now the pruning of the beautiful things that have now had the chance to grow.
This pruning is specific, careful, and gentle. The pruning always begins after the environment has been established for its growth. The pruning always happens at the perfect time. And He will always prune the perfect amount.

I consider now, remembering where I used to be, that even though it may be painful, God is very intentional and careful in his handling of me. Nothing else will be pruned until new growth has been cultivated, and the cycle continues on again.

Developed as a way to play with how I photograph and how I see, I wanted a method to test the video settings on my camera in order to document these still and quiet moments. I’m excited to see what this evolves into, as I find more ways to look at things as I realize that the longer you look at something, the more it becomes beautiful.

I knew that something had changed when last night, while at a rooftop BBQ, I was telling someone about the things I’ve been doing for fun and was immediately turned off when this person suggested I turn something I am doing for fun— to simply learn the craft—into some capitalistic venture, some financial pursuit to fill my own pockets. I changed the subject, and then ultimately, left to talk to someone else.

There was a time in the recent past when I would have considered her suggestion as valuable. It’s not wrong to think that there’s a space for financial gain in something that I like to do. In fact, for 10 years of developing my craft, the foundation has been 2 things: make beautiful art and make some money out of it.

I’ve turned things I needed to hold onto for myself into displays for the public.

Private moments of learning were made for the masses to consume.

Even mistakes that should have been best left to a notebook, private thoughts only prayed to God, were made to be fully transparent. It was an attempt to be fully seen, fully known by people that I wanted to be fully seen and fully known by. If I’m being honest, though, when I look back, there were a lot of sacred moments I should have held onto closer, and individuals who weren’t meant to be part of that process.

So now, going into my 11th year of the practice, I find that I’ve started 3 projects that I’m not ready to make public (if I ever do). They’re hobbies and ways that I can have fun and explore the art that I love.

Sure, if someone wants to give me cash in exchange for a service, I wouldn’t be opposed to it, but that is no longer my concern or focus. As I am amply supplied, instead, I find myself creating for the fun of creating, and going back to the place where it all started.

For the love of creating beautiful spaces. I’m back to a time where I’m remembering the beauty of the moment and documenting spaces, people, even myself (through writing primarily), in a way that’s meaningful. A place where I’m okay if not everyone sees or even experiences what I’m doing because not everything is for everybody, and not everything has to be monetized.

So these days, I get to paint a painting with no intention to sell it.

I can start and continue two writing projects for a limited audience, and one even for myself.

I can submit to shows and apply for grants and get rejected (or accepted) without my entire worth being tied to someone else’s ‘yes’ or ‘no’ about me.

The world is truly falling into despair.

There is war and rumors of war. Famine. Pestilence. I’ve even seen the coldness of heart and crime running rampant! So yes, it will be all God!

Our lives are living testimonies to God’s goodness and his faithfulness. A people filled with living water (John 4:14). In this season, our lives will be lived in such a way that it doesn’t make sense how we can do what we do and be successful at it. In turn, it will be our responsibility to point unbelievers directly to Jesus.

The only One who can save. (Acts 4:12)

This makes so much sense!
And honestly, for me, it feels like such a relief that all I’m responsible for is abiding and resting in God’s prescense! A thing I enjoy and want to do anyway. And He will take care of me like he always has. All I must do is walk in obedience, even if it doesn’t make sense, because His ways are higher than mine! (Isaiah 55-8-9)

I suppose the rhythm that myself and others are being called to now is a rhythm God has always wanted for us from the beginning.

A life fully surrendered.
A life fully at rest.

A Reflection about: Sunday December 21, 2025

Completed: Sunday December 28, 2025

Today was a rare, beautiful day. Despite it being only 34 degrees with a windchill making it colder, my body (and mind) did not register that as the sun showed its light on my skin.

And so I walked.

Parking my car near my favorite bakery post church. Not locking my car door because I was and am more nervous about the blaring alarm going off for 2-minute intervals than I am about getting robbed.

They only want money anyway which I no longer

keep in the car.

Save for a handful of quarters which

(if gone) won’t be missed anyhow.

I stopped in the shop being given the gift of more cookies than I could eat after only wanting madeleines. Sharing those cookies with the baristas on my next stop, and receiving a free dirty chai in return. I walked back to the car, hands and heart even more full after giving only after being given to, and,not wanting to be inside,stashed my goodies in the car this time locking it.

Not being worried this round about the alarm.

I wouldn’t be around to hear it anyway.

And so I walked.

This summer was full of walking around my neighborhood, weaving in and out between mine and through others. I kept track of the varying routes, difficult and easy, and held them in my pocket for when my restless body wanted movement in the cold but when the environment would not have been practical.

I sifted through alleyways, past homes both in new beginnings and in disrepair. I heard the birds, singing their songs as they sifted through fallen leaves in search of the food underneath.

I closed my eyes, I took in the smell of the damp earth from the melted snow fall earlier that week. I felt the breeze on my skin and the sun mixing in as I walked off Trenton, through streets whose names I don’t pay attention to but whose routes I know and knew very well until I neared the intersection that would lead me to where I intended to go.

Only left to cross Braddock, one of the busier parts of that block, before reaching my destination, Frick Park.

While walking up that stretch of land I passed by a Little Free Library. To be honest, there were 3 along the path I took but this one caught my attention because there was a 500-piece puzzle. The puzzle wasn’t what caught my eye but the picture in which it will turn out to be in the end.

The detail, the care, the color grading and palette were all things that caught my eye. It’s an image that I would gladly pay about 25-dollars to see at the Carnegie Museum, here, for free, in disjointed puzzle form.

And yet that was exactly the issue.

It was in puzzle form.

I have always hated puzzles because it was too much like my mind.

I think in puzzles and riddles, sifting through pieces of the things said and unsaid. Deciphering tone, body language, eye contact, and disseminating words down to their truest definition only to reconstruct them back into the sentence that was spoken to me. I’ve come to realize that in the last 2 years, this is the thought pattern I’ve had, well, all my life. It makes sense then that I’m always asking questions, taking notes so that I can repeat them again and again in my mind so that I can have better understanding.

On the walk I passed by a woman that I used to be in community with, she hadn’t seen me in 2 years, for reasons that I know now are good, and she seemed to not be able to move past the fact that I don’t do the things I used to do anymore. She kept repeating the same questions to me, asking me where I was now and why I was no longer in Garfield (that’s another story perhaps for another day). She repeated her questions about my career and wondered why I wasn’t creating art anymore.

I told her: “Well I am. It just looks different now than in the past”. She kept repeating her same question, throwing in “big wig” Pittsburgh artist names and was baffled by my complete disinterest in the topic, and my same answer, “I’m not in that space anymore”.

I thanked her and wished her the best, realizing a few things:

1. Wow I’m really glad I’m out of that space. I’ve outgrown it. I never fit in then and I definitely don’t fit in now.

2. Why did she keep repeating herself when I gave her a clear answer?

3. What are some things that I’ve been repeating simply out of pattern and not because it’s actually helpful.

I kept thinking about the word “repeat” and about the 500-piece puzzle as I crossed Braddock into Frick Park and I said that if the puzzle was still there after this very unstructured walk, that I would take it home with me.

It’s 50/50 with those libraries.

One moment something you love could be there and with a simple look away it can be gone in an instant.

And so I walked.

Throughout the park, my white sneakers drenched in mud from the melted snowfall earlier that week. The damp and decaying leaves preparing to spring forth new life in months to come, but right now, turning themselves over into the shadow of the night as what was once a bright sunny Sunday afternoon shifted quickly to an overcast as the sun began to fall asleep again.

It was nightfall along this bare-wooded trail and all that remained circling in my mind was the word “repeat” and this 500-piece puzzle. I had 2 puzzles at home from old friends given to me this year. One the Christmas of 2024, a simple 140 piece one, and a lego puzzle during my birthday from a friend that moved away in 2025. And yet they sat, one in my closet, and one in the tv stand because I told myself I don’t like puzzles.
But why didn’t I like them? It’s not that they were tough, it just took a level of patience that I was not willing to dedicate to it.

I like it simple and straightforward, my mind is already its own maze. I didn’t want to have to look at something else that brought to my attention the fact that I may very well not know how it all fits. I found myself in the past trying to jam pieces into spaces that they were not meant to go, simply because they almost looked like the right piece.

A mishmashing of expectations versus reality.

This makes sense, considering this year (2025) had been a lot of uncovering in that area; why was I so comfortable being in situations– environmentally, socially, financially, relationally– that simply did not fit.

What had I been holding on to that was no longer holding on to me.

Seeing that woman on the walk here had made me realize the moment I let go I was finally able to be free in a new space. Which made me wonder why I had stopped to talk to her to begin with; she said that she would have walked right past me because she didn’t recognize me. And yet I recognized her.

She had looked and remained exactly the same, whereas for me, I had appeared different altogether.

Great.

I found myself intrigued by this 500-piece puzzle, wanting to complete it along with the two that remained at home because it was a chance to do a thing that I was scared to do.

That the reason I did not do it was no longer good enough.

I continued to think about the word repeat.

Repeat.

R E P E A T

(verb):

1. Act of saying over and over again

2. Do (something) again, either once or a number of times

(noun):

An action, event, or other thing that occurs or is done again.

“Repetere” (Latin)

Root: petere–to go toward, to ask for, or to seek something out.

To go toward, to ask for, or to seek something out.

To go toward, to ask for, or to seek something out, again and again.

And again and again.

And again and again, I’d like for that to be the banner of this upcoming year. One in which I go toward.

Where I ask for.

And where I seek something out again and again. No longer allowing a fear of not being the greatest at it or my discomfort for not trying be the reason why I don’t do it. God willing, I’m able to sift through the noise of my mind and do the very things I’ve been prepared and purposed to do even before the start of it.

Beginning with the 500-piece puzzle, that was still there waiting for me on the walk back.

That now sits in my studio, that won’t gather dust but that I plan to complete and prepared to do so.

Because I prepare for the things that I have planned.

Payday occurs twice a month like clockwork and the days in-between present another opportunity to remind myself that I have more than enough, I have what I need, and, being honest, have more than I could have imagined.

I say this as pay day rolls around and I’m faced with the reality of my needs versus my wants as my wants are sometimes the things that I need. Such as, I want to pay my utilities in full; I want to buy vitamins because i’m feeling off; I want to buy some more photo paper for my projects; or it would be nice to have some salmon or maybe short ribs for dinner, and even the occasional thought of splurging on a vanilla latte.

Simple yes.

But as I balance the days in-between checks I am humbled by the sustaining power of God who is more than enough, looking around me and being full of gratitude that I am blessed to have what I prayed for and what I prayed for was more.

Today is payday.

I’ve been working this current job for a year and two months now, making this the longest full-time job I’ve had as an adult that pays me consistently.

I realize that some people feel uncomfortable when the topic of their personal wages come up, however, I do not. I think more people should talk about how much money they’re making at their particular places of business, fields, or just in general.

Don’t make it weird.

For context, every two weeks I’m bringing home $1,392.64 (this is exact I did the math), compare that with my expenses which altogether run me $1,606.00 (this is approximate, I did the math but bumped my utilities slightly because it’s winter currently). Well then you see it, I’m technically always running at a defecit even with breaking my rent payment in half the numbers don’t change. I haven’t even factored in groceries, toilet paper and various toiletries, extra gas for my car, subscriptions to places like Adobe photo suite and InDesign, my gym membership to Planet Fitness, and payments to my singular credit card. Let’s not even consider emergencies.

Yet, I am amply supplied, finding that I always have an abundance of ingredients with the creativity to make delicious food. I can travel in my paid off vehicle and if I need repairs I always have enough to take care of it. Never running out of what I need to have a good life, even occasionally I’m able to get what I want like a baked good or salmon for a more thoughtful dinner.

Recently I’ve started to consider the ways that I spend and manage my money, something I never thought about in my early 20s.

In the past I worked various part-time jobs as a teaching artist, gardener, and arts contractor where I would sometimes make $700 for the entire month and other times making $8,000 in one sitting that I had to stretch out for a year. As I reflect, it’s truly by God’s grace that I had all that I needed even back then with me making financial decisions that I did not have to, wasting money on things that didn’t matter, and finding myself not benign sober–literally and figuratively–when it came to how I spent it. There were times where I had an abundance of money without the character to use it wisely and what a waste that was.

I could get into the politics of inflation, how “back in my day” things weren’t so expensive (when truth is back in my day everything was free because I was a child so I wasn’t paying for anything), or gripe about how I’m not “rich” and would be better off if I had more.

But what is the point of being rich if I don’t have the character to keep it? And that’s what I’ve been praying for and putting in practice these days; having the character to keep it and the character to be a good steward of it–whatever it is–even if that does mean a monetary sacrifice in the moment.

I can’t remember the last time it snowed 20 inches where I lived. I can’t remember because I heard it was 10 years ago and I was a teenager then. In a fever dream I recall falling into snow so deep it reached my chin. But I was 9, we had days off from school and I was shorter then.

I’ve spent almost a decade in blissful ignorance of the way in which snowfall can shut things down, blissful ignorance bought on by the fact that winters have generally been mild. “Climate change” I suppose since that’s what other people have been settling for, and maybe that is true. But for me, it feels like God’s grace because we truly have never been prepared. Maybe we were then, but weren’t now. At least I wasn’t.

So you can imagine my general shock when I woke up on Sunday (January 25, 2026) at 2:00 AM to head to bed after falling asleep on the couch to stare outside the bedroom window and watch how the earth was blanketed with white. Thick already and knowing that it had just started. Throughout the day with curtains opened I sat on my recliner with tea and watched the snow fall, and fall, and fall, as if it was in a rush to get to the ground.

As if it was in a rush to get to me.

Everything for that week had been canceled in advance.
Texts received from unknown numbers asking of my safety.

(I’m fine, but who are you again?)

And delicious meals cooked and prepped as I had been planning because I knew that I would have no want to leave the house, and perhaps no access to do so.

The day came and went and the snow fall stayed.

Monday I spent 6 hours shoveling—thanks to a neighbor for letting me borrow her complex’s shovel as all I had was a broom—I cleared my car and out of kindness I flattened and cleared two and half cars worth of street parking space for myself and my neighbors, assisting two folks stuck at the end of my block, and afterwards laying on my bathroom floor laughing because it’s all going to melt anyway.

When you think about it, this cold weather, getting stuck in the snow, skidding left and right, bundling up in multiple layers, while eating and drinking the hottest food you can to stay cozy, it’s all momentary.

In 2 months it’ll be warm out.

The snow will turn into dirty water flooding the streets.

And this will all be a memory.

But for now, we continue to move snow from one pile to another.

“Bottom feeder”, that phrase that’s commonly associated with someone who is always trying to make money or someone who spends their time trying to take advantage of someone, and whether that be through deceit, harm, or both, only the parties can truly tell. And yet, this term “Bottom Feeder” takes on a new definition, a new terminology, and a new way of being with Ryan at the helm of this quaint bookstore located in Point Breeze. With his intentionality, careful curation of arts and literature, and his continued support of the artist community in Pittsburgh, this bookstore stands in stark contrast to its once negative associations.

Ryan, originally from Richmond, Virginia, found his home here with his long-time girlfriend in 2020, when things were bleak, when there were minimal to no contact with friends and family, with much less the opportunity to discover new connections and new friendships.

When talking about the birth of the store, its name and its contents of “primarily used books, with a selection of new titles, in art, film, theatre, poetry, [and] literature” and selections of postmodernism, Ryan acknowledged that this dream has been in the works for many, many years. Working in a bookstore in his hometown called Chop City Books, he was able to gain skills in appraisal and dive into the arts in a new way. His time spent in New York continued to further cultivate his interest in this world due to its accessibility to culture and the life of adventure.

“When we moved to Pittsburgh, it was a new city, a new thing. I didn't know anyone here, just a small group of people. So, when we moved here, I decided that it was time to start something new. A whole new life”, Ryan said when talking about opening the store in July of 2022. A process of preparation, of finding a storefront, finding books to fill it, and money to sustain it.

His courage and venture into owning a bookstore that primarily focuses its attention on the arts through a papered lens has been a new and welcome addition to the Pittsburgh arts ecosystem that we may not have known we needed.

The walls of this venue, from top to botto,m are covered with books from authors like James Baldwin, Peter Doi, and Nick Waplington, with genres ranging from art history, to science fiction, postmodernism, and simply recreated sketchbooks. This carefully curated arrangement of books ranges in price from $10-$300; anyone who walks through the doors of Bottom Feeder Books has the opportunity to engage with something new and deepen their relationship to something that they have already dedicated their life to.

Bottom Feeder Books is indeed a bookstore that holds space for other types of practices. From poetry readings, book signings, to gallery exhibitions in the back of the store, to film screenings, Ryan works to cultivate spaces where people feel welcome to be a part of. Although sometimes wrestling with the balance of it being a bookstore from an event space, he appreciates the multi-faceted events he’s been able to host,

“I like to provide a space for people in Pittsburgh, for artists and writers [where they] get to all share.” With the preference towards hosting free events, Ryan is no stranger to the amount of work that goes into the craft and is welcome to accommodate admission.

This bookstore nestled into a quiet street of Gettysburg in Point Breeze offers another chance to engage with a new piece of literature, taking on a new meaning of bottom feeder and transforming it into one that is associated with community, upliftment, and havens around gently used, new, and unexplored worlds of literature across artistic mediums. Ryan, as owner, resident of Pittsburgh, and artisan, continues to hold space for those looking to get more involved, cultivate dreams in a new and expressive way, as well as, recommend a good book!

Bottom Feeder Books is located at 415 Gettysburg St, Pittsburgh PA 15206, with hours Wednesdays through Sundays from 12:00PM-6:00PM. Follow them on instagram at www.instagram.com/bottom.feeder.books and check out their website

https://www.bottomfeederbooks.com/ for more information on upcoming events, special book titles and recommendations.

All images photographed by Vania Evangeliique.

Change is an inevitable part of life.

It starts small, as a whisper deep down in your soul as you look around the place you once called safe, called home, and begin to realize:

“I have outgrown this place”.

But it’s never immediate.

It is never all at once, even though ,at times it may feel like it.

Change is movement.

Movement is art.

And, over the last two weeks I got the graceful and often messy opportunity to engage in the art form of moving, yet again, from one neighborhood to another. I find that I am no stranger to moving. As a kid, I often transitioned (at my parents’ beckoning) from New York, to Harrrisburg, to New York, to Bethlehem, and from Bethlehem to Freemansburg (a borough one street over). In that time, I often found myself transitioning from school to school, friend group to friend group, and began taking solace in moments and places that I hoped would remain.

Like the public parks, or my favorite bagel shop.

This act of moving for me promoted more appreciation of the present. Allowing me the opportunity to strengthen what remained, even if all that remained were memories, familiar faces, or the acknowledgement of the changing of the seasons, and of sunrises and sunsets.

In college years (and earlier ending highschool), coming to Pittsburgh for the first time in 2014, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, the sweet whisper was planted in the depths of my soul once again, both as a hint and a reminder to me that,

“I have outgrown this place”.

Now, whether by environment, circumstance, career, or all of it together remains to be seen and yet to be uncovered.
One of my greatest moves was marked by my transition from Pittsburgh to be back home in 2019.
Long before we knew of any global pandemics.
Long before the financial realities became more apparent.
This move back was one urged by my soul’s longing to regain control of a life once lost. To understand my place more in the cosmos.

Serving as the first exhale after the dizziness of holding my breath in an ocean I dived into without properly knowing how to swim.
I made a promise back then that if I ever came back, I would come back better than how I left. Making a new standard of success for myself that revolved around healthier boundaries, better coping skills, and a more adventurous spirit.

This new pace set in what feels like so long ago, was only the mere reflection to the reality of my move these last few weeks in 2024. Although not marked by so drastic a move that’s akin to a cross-state or country adventure. Inwardly, it marks the movement and shifts towards something better.

Something whole.

Moving as an artist in and of itself takes a toll as art supplies are packed away. Favorite outfits boxed up. And the whole of my life was categorized in Sharpie with tags labeled “bedroom”, supplies”, “kitchen”, “blankets”, “fragile”.

Fragile.

As fragile as my emotions were digging through old files of memories, and the constant decision of what to keep and what to let go of.

(a tension I find myself wrestling with more and more these days).

The care and gratitude given to me from friends and of strangers in the balancing act of placing what could withstand pressure and what could not in my favorite U-haul tetris game. And the sweetness found in the intimacy of those around me that have come alongside into this new setting that I myself am still getting accustomed to.

In the last two weeks, I sat wrestling between no longer and not yet. Sleeping in the new and spending my waking hours in the past, throwing things away. Deep cleaning. Patching away holes made from hung artwork. Playing the continued game of tetris now this time in my car. And, saying my goodbyes to neighbors who never said hello. I found myself, as each room became emptier and emptier and my car becoming fuller and fuller, feeling full of gratitude and nervousness for this new space. For a brief moment, finding myself wanting to take everything back. To stay because what was next felt too great and the past that I had overgrown felt safe.

(The devil I knew).

But being in this new space, with its joys and wins, with its newness and originality. It is a place straight out of a dream.

It’s only been a week, yet I find myself coming back to a person whom I love. Stopping into stores to window shop, or check into the local laundromat to see if they’d be able to hold my blankets. Testing out new restaurants and community cuisine. Spending time with old friends who I had no idea lived around the corner from me.

Taking walks in the cool of the evening. Stopping to say hi to the strangers along a path to nowhere and now here, in this future, this home, with creeks, sounds, and light I must learn to grow accustomed to, suits me; a home I never anticipated feeling tailor-made to the point where I find myself undeserving of this kindness and of this peace. As I still am working out inner kinks here, I am in a place where I can grow into.

Be myself.

Find a new version of myself in.

This new place, in this week alone has birthed new ideas, a new confidence, a new and more exciting way of being that I can only imagine what will be birthed out of this space.

Who knew that the way to get me to move forward was to move.
Who knew that the way to change was just in a change in scenery.

Am I still (with)in Pittsburgh?

Yes and no.

What I do know is that I’m home.

The creation of it, the seeking of it, and the experience of it, in all of its sensations, is one of those facets that make life more beautiful. Art changes shape and form; it’s as grand as a tsunami and as quiet and powerful as the undercurrent beneath it. Art has a way of transforming a space, highlighting culture, and is a vehicle for telling stories.

For the last twenty-five (25) years, there has been one form in which art has taken, and that’s through Unblurred First Fridays. This event is one of the staple programs born out of the Penn Avenue Arts Initiative,1 which seeks to transform the once underutilized and vacant apartments and storefronts that swept the street from Mathilda to Negley in 1997, into ones that are affordable for artists and drive businesses.

First Friday was “born from a grass roots, community driven effort that’s turned into the largest and longest running monthly arts festival in the city”2 At the first of every month, rain or shine, winter or summer, this project, the child of Bloomfield-Garfield Corporation and the Friendship Community Group, continues to transform the streets from 5:00 PM-10:00 PM featuring vendors, performances, and a space where the galleries and local shops that line the streets, open the doors to new works of art and (if we’re so lucky), artists within our communities.

On Friday, July 5, I decided to embark on the monthly First Friday excursion, having lived in Pittsburgh now for 7 years, and having the pleasure of experiencing First Fridays on Penn Avenue for nine, I arrived to the space with new and stronger feelings about my home and the role in which art has taken in its charge. Art has a way of transforming a space, highlighting culture, and is a vehicle for telling stories. In that mindset, some wonderings arise in my mind regarding art that I must continue to seek out. If art is indeed a vehicle for telling stories, then which stories are we deciding to tell?
Who is doing the telling?
And who is showing up?
These questions swirl in my mind as I walk through a Penn Avenue First Friday that is quieter than previous ones I have experienced. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe because it was the day after the Fourth of July. Or maybe it was because the once bustling energy of mixed cultures, social classes, and the opportunity for events had significantly dwindled compared to the past.

There remained glimpses of past Unblurred events.

Along the streets, this First Friday, vendors took to the sidewalks in front of the businesses that hosted food from local, dessert, soul, and Mexican pop-ups, to political and environmental campaign reform from N. Pacific to N. Mathilda. Engagement in different forms also took to the streets and the galleries with the sound of folk tap dancing, to housing forever art on your bodies inside Mixtape by local tattoo artists. Galleries like Bunker Projects and Silver Eye Center for Photography continued in their current exhibitions. Bunker Projects featured dual exhibitions from Paul Peng titled “My Subject” and residency artist Cole Modell in his exhibition (F)utility3 which sat in stark contradiction to each each other in subject matter and approach; Silver Eye Center for Photography for Fellowship 24, who’s work supports the new voices in contemporary photography through their “annual international juried photography competition”4 that has been around for over twenty years.

The sound of jazz and the smell of beer permeated the corner of Penn and Winebiddle with its intersection of Two Frays Brewery and a home that features a live band at every moment. Irma Freeman Center featured provocative art by Jaime Bird and William A Karaffa that immerse you in realism in their exhibition titled Uncovering the Human Perception with it’s deep and moody tones that encapsulated the gallery stood in heavy contrast to Pullproof’s5 exhibition titled Danny Devine The Magic Moment, where you were transported into the artist’s own studio space and encouraged to look onto various screenprints and an arrayed use of color and patterns.

Even though this First Friday was quieter than the rest, the streets continued to bustle with groups of friends, couples, and opportunities for chance encounters. Curiously in my wanderings, I paid special attention to the faces that made up our audiences on the first Friday.

Few familiar.

Many alien.

In the way that most were new to the space, either by visitation or more permanence. I continued to think about how art can transform a space, a culture, a people. Thinking back to my own beginnings several years ago as a new artist in this neighborhood. How, I too must have been considered to some “alien” in my arrival, art making, and overall presence.

In the ways that art moves and transforms culture, and in the way that our American culture breeds disdain for unfamiliar or change, while simultaneously chasing after the new. It is, (I believe), important as cultivators, makers, and devourers of art (in all of our passive ways and intentional ones) that we remain mindful of the past and anchored in the present. That we take the time to sit with the beautiful efforts that make up various artistic practices and acknowledge the courage it takes to put them on display.
And that, we ourselves are courageous in our own wanderings, in our communities, asking the more difficult questions of which stories are we deciding to tell? Who is doing the telling? And who is showing up, when it comes to art.

Having an open mind to search for answers as the tides of our environment continue to change, day after day.
First Friday, even despite many changes throughout the neighborhood, is doing exactly the job in which it set out to do, and that is to transform the once underutilized and vacant apartments and storefronts and be anchored in the community, even as what the community looks like evolves and changes.