Fully Known, Mostly Misunderstood.

Notes from a man finding courage in partial sight

I’m currently sat alone in a quaint apartment in Portugal.

I’ve just spent the last two hours on this little table I pulled from the balcony, reviewing my year, trying to remember the moments that defined me. It was strangely terrible to realise how little I remembered. Although I live a very full life, only a handful of moments surfaced as I moved through the hundred-plus questions across different areas of my life.

I’ll probably write more about some of the themes I uncovered another day. But tonight, I’m writing to share a simple thought that came to me.

‘The artist is rarely ever understood.’

That line flashed through my mind as I reflected on the work I spent this year immersed in. As I listened to myself expand on my answers, I noticed something curious. Although I was the speaker, I was also listening. And what I heard, beneath the details and achievements, was a deep, recurring groaning of misunderstanding.

I’ve spent the majority of my life feeling misunderstood.

I’m certain, to some degree, many of you share that sentiment too. But what struck me was how central this feeling was in my reflections. And yet, it didn’t arrive with sadness. Instead, there was a strange, quiet ownership to it. I’ve grown more comfortable in the places where I’ve been missed. And there’s something unexpectedly beautiful about that.

It’s wild to think that there are parts of me reserved only for God to understand, and perhaps for a few others to one day discover. I think this is what makes relationships so unique. Not everyone around you will know you. Only some will. And even those few will have to journey with you deeply and intimately. And still, there will remain remnants of you that belong only to yourself and to whoever you call God.

I don’t know if that thought is meant to feel liberating, but I’m finding a quiet freedom within it.

I’ve taken this space as my open journal. And as I sat with these thoughts, that earlier line returned, like water to dry lips. It gently stilled an anxiety I hadn’t realised I was carrying. It’s funny how we don’t always know how thirsty we are until water touches our soul.

I find the same is true of quiet.

It’s the least afforded space I’ve given myself, yet it’s the place where I’m filled most deeply.

I laughed to myself as I realised how meaningful my nomadic lifestyle has become. It’s not just an escape. It’s a lifeline. A way to assess the wounds of my soul. The image that came to mind was that brief inhale of an exhausted soldier, finding a moment of cover beneath flying bullets, only to rise again and throw himself back into danger to protect those entrusted to him.

As I reflected on who I’ve become, and the person I say I want to be, I was reminded that I can’t treat myself with the same assumptions or idleness of a civilian life. There are necessities attached to my wounds. There are testimonies behind each blow. (2 Tim 2:4)

In other words, God has called me to much. And being understood is probably last on that list.

1 Corinthians 13:12 (NIV)
For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.
Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

This scripture speaks directly to that reality. Clarity comes later.

If you’ve ever wondered why obedience so often feels wrapped in confusion, it’s because, for now, we are at best partially sighted. But one day, we will see more clearly. One day, we’ll understand the picture our decisions, wounds, and lives were quietly painting.

Returning to that thought that urged me to write, and I want to add a small note to it.

Art, in all its glory, is deeply shaped by what one chooses to see within it. Often it’s simply a reflection of impressed thoughts. Rarely is it ever intended to be profound, yet it often becomes so. usually because somewhere inside of you it invites a gentle exhale from a place you didn’t know was holding its breath.

That, I think, is what art really does.

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Humour me for a moment.

In this little Airbnb, I made a short visual. It came together because I noticed this space while deciding whether to take an end-of-year trip. It wasn’t the most convenient decision given my schedule. But it became clear that it wasn’t about going to Portugal. It was about coming to this place.

Maybe it was the colours on the walls. Maybe it was the freedom I felt standing beneath the archways, maybe it was the view. I honestly don’t know. But within the mix of pastels, furniture, and the view, I felt a peace that stopped me. It mesmerised me enough to book a ticket just to stay indoors for five days and soak in the inspiration I didn’t know I needed.

The space released something in me. An expression I couldn’t have planned.

I think this is how most people find their voice through art. Even through pieces that feel overzealous or overhyped. I know, I’m a hater. But maybe that’s because I’ve rarely understood what others felt when standing before certain paintings. Yet, I’ve always been captivated by the stories that led artists there.

If there’s any consolation, I’ve learned to appreciate art not as something to be understood, but as the outpouring of groanings. Ideas. Convictions. Expressions.

As an artist myself, I’ve noticed that the moments most meaningful to me often pass unnoticed by others. They may as well be a leaf on the forest floor. And yet, for a few, that same leaf becomes the one they stop for. In it, they find language. Direction. Relief.

Somehow, the things most people miss carry tremendous meaning for the right ones.

So if you’re someone putting something into the world, an artist maybe, I hope this reminds you that your work matters, even in a forest full of others.

Remember this:

The artist is rarely understood, yet in their work, the partially sighted find their sight returning. In but moments there it is, a clearer picture.

Your confusing, misunderstood journey may become a path for someone else. Someone will one day kneel to pick up your leaf, knowing clearly that they’ve found the tree. The tree of life they’ve spent an eternity searching for.

So keep going.
Keep sharing.
Keep being hope.

Even when you feel hopeless yourself. Therein you yourself may see that the oil pressed out of you was for a purpose. To be ointment to a deeply wounded heart.

Alright. I’m out.
Speak soon,
J