On Becoming: Art, Spirit, and the Shape of a Changing World

Pen and ink contemporary fine art by Doug Ashby.

Often, I feel as though I am standing on the edge.

That edge might be the brink of sanity amid the hustle and bustle of work and family life. I’ve written before about my deep desire to leave my career as an art educator and fully devote myself to a life in art. In many ways, I feel called—repeatedly—from that peripheral edge to take the leap. Just beyond, I sense a richer life, one where personal flourishing brings greater joy and balance to my family. From this edge, stronger roots are forming, forging a new path that, with care, will grow tall and true.

But the edge is more than just a turning point—it’s a spiritual threshold I never expected to encounter. One that challenges us and nourishes our collective soul, if we allow ourselves to open to its possibilities. In this way, both the edge and the artwork that accompanies this essay symbolize a process of becoming. What I am becoming remains uncertain—but the journey has already begun.

In the artwork, just outside the edge lies a futuristic structure—its design a subtle yet dissonant contrast to the organic world around it. Though congruent in form, it lacks harmony with its environment. It appears to offer a safe haven from the chaos of the world, a refuge from uncertainty. Yet within that safety, something vital is missing.

That structure symbolizes the illusion of protection—what shields us from risk, from striving, from fully becoming. It is the trap of modernity: comfort that comes at the cost of meaning. I’ve spent years gazing out from behind that window, longing for something deeper, something I was too afraid to pursue.

I know I’m not alone in this. Many of us—privileged by the spoils of the contemporary world—feel a hunger for something more sacred, more alive, and more spiritually fulfilling. Something beyond the material.

If what we seek lies beyond materialism, where do we find it?

For years, my art has served as a form of environmental witness—a way to spotlight the damage we’ve inflicted on the Earth. The solitary tree in my work stands at the edge: a witness, a protester, a mourner. The moons overhead represent the chaos and imbalance wrought by human activity. But over time, this perspective began to feel incomplete.

Nature, while sacred and worthy of protection, offers more than material sustenance. It invites awe, humility, connection. And so, a reframe is needed. As I step into this next chapter, I want to become a learner again. To let the world, in all its complexity, teach me. And for that transformation to flow into my art.

Reframing my work means seeing that solitary tree not just as a protest, but as a symbol of growth—spiritual, creative, and personal. It reflects a state of becoming that is still nascent and vulnerable. It reminds us that in order to grow, we must move toward the unfamiliar, root ourselves deeply, and reach outward.

Perhaps the tree is a symbol of faith—not in a religious sense, but as a commitment to move from the known to the unknown, without a clear path or promise of success. The contrast between its fragile form and the harsh landscape mirrors the inner strength it takes to step into the unknown. And for me, that step is through art.

I believe—fiercely—that art is healing. It is essential to being human. And that belief is my jumping-off point.

Accepting this journey means accepting that there are mysteries we cannot solve through logic alone. Perhaps that has been the hidden message in my work all along: that the world is not what it seems, and larger forces are always at play.

A few years ago, two major life events shattered my comfortable paradigm. One of those events was the death of my father.

In the final weeks of his life, I witnessed his desire for love and connection emerge—feelings I believe he had repressed out of fear. He had been a lifelong atheist and materialist, and raised my sister and me in that belief system. Around the same time, I began questioning it. Through grief, I found myself longing to open up to something beyond the visible world—something spiritual, connective, and mysterious.

I have yet to fully process his passing. I buried myself in routine, suppressing the transformation that began over two years ago. But that moment was a turning point. And now, it’s time to move forward—with courage.

Art has been with me for as long as I can remember. Through it, I’ve learned, created, and reflected. But lately, it’s taken on a more sacred role.

When I sit down to create, I’m not just making something—I’m practicing something. Each dot, each mark becomes a form of meditation, a prayer. A place where the soul speaks. Of course, I still crave the human need for validation. But I’m learning to let go of that being the reason for the work. Once the art is in the world, it no longer belongs to me. My attention must return to what the soul is asking next.

That is the true partnership I have with art.

Which brings me back to becoming.

I used to think validation would come from being paid to be an artist. And while there’s some truth in that—we all have to exist within an economy—it’s not what brings happiness. It’s what sustains the work, not what gives it meaning.

Becoming, I now understand, is a process of integrating what has long been hidden into something whole. It means embracing complexity—past and future, logic and intuition, grief and hope—not as opposites, but as necessary partners. It’s about seeing contrast not as division, but as depth. Becoming takes work. And it’s easy to get distracted. But within that effort lies the light.

On the horizon stands a sentinel—an unseen force that connects everything and everyone. It keeps vigil over our moments of clarity and calls us to return to our path when we stray.

Sometimes we ignore the call, paralyzed by our instinct for safety and control. But life is change. The universe is dynamic. Uncertainty is inevitable. And the only way to meet it is with faith in the process of becoming.

For me, that faith lives in art. It calls me to live on the edge—not in fear, but in trust.

How do you engage with becoming?

As always, I hope the art and writing spark something in you. If you feel moved, please leave a comment. I promise I’ll respond.

Let’s see where it takes us—on this shared journey of becoming.

Thanks for reading,

Doug