The poem I presented on stage with members of the walking gallery at the innovation gathering on October 6, 2026 in West Chester, PA. The photo was taken by Munther Baara from the audience.
When did the pain start?
When a small body greets a belt
and a mind is struck with words,
How do the swords of our youth become ploughshares?
Where does the pain go?
It becomes heart conditions, cancer,
diabetes, depression, and self-harm.
On a scale from one to 10,
How much did it hurt an autistic child
Who was screened out of a clinical trial on anxiety
because he was too anxious?
Yet his jacket changed hospital policy
a painting about coins and loss and parking lots.
Did my years of pain transcend
while my husband died of cancer?
Did his doctor giving me the title
“Little Miss A-type personality”
Ignite the fire that still burns within me?
Can a painting in negative space become a positive?
What about institutional pain?
It helps create frequent flyer patients.
The system is not set up to help people caught in a repetitive cycle.
If ACES are high, they beat any treatment protocol.
Can we make a pill, a shot, or an elixir that will fix that?
A warm hand off is impossible
When we burn the candle at both ends,
And hold it like a baton in spinning circles.
What can we do to heal the trauma?
I prayed to God for an answer,
and the answer was to paint about it.
Take the pain and add a t.
Take up your cross and follow me.
With brushes in hand and cinder blocks before me,
I painted the story of a life
I testified and worked to change the system.
Using painted bricks that advocate every day,
And you cannot tell a wall shut up.
What if we could paint the story of a life not on a brick, but on a back,
replace the scars of years with images instead?
What if you told your story?
Wore it to a hall like this,
People would look upon it,
you the docent of your life,
explain the struggle or treatment protocol,
People would stop and stare and listen.
Why not paint the fabric of our life?
Seed our symbols and stories on business suits.
The garment that indicates power in our world.
Patients clad in Johnny gowns with grippy socks,
Know the words: no shoes, no shirt, no service.
When I paint in halls like these,
I hear the question birthed from worry
“Will the paint spill?”
Within that question,
is this silent other: “Is art safe?” No.
The child who draws a crayon masterpiece upon the wall
Knows very well, that art is not safe.
Art in a gallery, imprisoned in frame,
or tucked behind a paywall, may seem safe,
but we are the gallery that walks.
We bring art where it does not belong
From the front we are professional, and in the door we go,
from the back we are disruption, and we shall dig and sow.
There was a man who met an enemy
And the enemy became a friend,
Upon losing that friend to illness,
The man searched world for reason,
And found wisdom instead through the waters of the flood.
Sound familiar?
The Epic of Gilgamesh is our oldest poem story,
Yet we have forgotten the story and settled for epic instead.
How do we treat trauma at large? One story at a time.
Open notes are music, not a dry transaction in text.
And when we burn with FHIR, the sparks fly far and wide.
What is the etymology of investor?
On or in combined with dress or clothe
Doctors, lab techs, informatics professionals, researchers, developers, scientists, clinical operators, principal investigators, healers, policy makers, creators of the medicines to come.
Take up your staff and walk with me
Tell your team
to sow the seed
in rooms like these,
Unite the story of their life to the testament upon their back.
There are hundreds of us now, yet still a microcosm,
They told me it takes 20 years to change healthcare
And we have been walking for 15,
How much does it cost to join The Walking Gallery?
The painting is free, a gift of Grace.
The jacket is from your closet.
The story is from your heart.
The tears are from your eyes.
Love spreads between us as we form a walking wall.
And a story that has legs cannot help but change us all.
