Part Two: What the Old Mill Taught Me About Resourcefulness

There are some places that seem to whisper every time you visit. For me, one of those places is the Old Guilford Mill just outside of Greensboro.

I've painted it more times than I can remember. It has appeared in my books, including North Carolina Beautiful, and even served as the backdrop while I painted during a PBS television special. Yet every time I set up my easel, I discover something new—not because the mill has changed, but because I'm seeing it through different eyes.

As I've been creating the commemorative painting for the Association Executives of North Carolina, I realized this beloved landmark beautifully illustrates the second principle in my upcoming keynote,
 There's an ART to Making a Difference.

Built more than 250 years ago, the Old Mill continues to grind grain much as it did in the 18th century. Before American became the United State and George Washington our first President. We didn’t have electricity or modern machinery, its builders looked to the water flowing through Beaver Creek. They didn't invent the power—they simply learned how to harness it. A turning waterwheel transformed an ordinary stream into something capable of feeding an entire community.

That simple idea has stayed with me over the years.

First, resourcefulness begins by appreciating what you already have. The mill's builders didn't wait for better tools or perfect conditions. They looked at the natural resources around them and found a way to put them to work. The same is true in life. Often, our greatest opportunities begin with the gifts we've already been given.

Second, resourcefulness is fueled by creativity, not abundance. Great accomplishments rarely come from unlimited resources. More often, they come from people willing to think differently, adapt, and make the most of what is available. Artists understand this well. Every blank canvas is simply an invitation to create something that didn't exist before.

Finally, resourcefulness has a ripple effect. The Old Mill wasn't built to impress visitors. It was built to serve a community. For generations, families brought their grain, shared stories, and depended on the steady turning of that waterwheel. Real resourcefulness isn't measured by what we accumulate, but by how many people benefit from what we create  

Perhaps that's why I've returned to this old mill so many times over the years. It isn't simply because it's beautiful. It's because every weathered board and every turning wheel reminds me that remarkable things happen when ordinary people use ordinary resources in extraordinary ways.

Next week, we'll travel east to one of North Carolina's most recognizable landmarks—the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse—and discover why Timing may be the most overlooked ingredient in making a lasting difference.

Until then, I hope you'll remember this:

Resourcefulness isn't having everything you need. It's discovering that what you already have is often more than enough.

Part One: What the Linn Cove Viaduct Taught Me About Seeing

Some paintings begin with a photograph. Others begin with a memory.

As I recently stood at my easel painting the Linn Cove Viaduct for this year's Association Executives of North Carolina commemorative artwork, I realized I wasn't simply painting a mountain road. I was revisiting one of the places and one of the people that helped shape the way I see North Carolina.

Many years ago, I had the privilege of knowing Hugh Morton. Hugh had a remarkable gift for recognizing the extraordinary in ordinary places. His love for Grandfather Mountain inspired countless people, including me, to appreciate not only its beauty but also the responsibility of protecting it.

The Linn Cove Viaduct is a perfect example of that vision. Instead of blasting a highway through the rugged slopes of Grandfather Mountain, engineers designed an elevated bridge that gently wraps around the mountain. Built one section at a time from above, it preserved one of the Blue Ridge's most fragile ecosystems while creating what many consider one of America's most beautiful scenic drives.

As I worked on this painting, I realized the viaduct still has something to teach all of us. 

First, awareness helps us see value before everyone else does. Hugh Morton understood that Grandfather Mountain wasn't an obstacle to overcome it was a treasure worth preserving. Great opportunities often begin by recognizing what others overlook.

Second, awareness uncovers the story behind the scenery. I've learned that every memorable landscape has a story waiting to be discovered. Understanding the people, history, and purpose behind a place gives a painting meaning that goes far beyond the canvas.

Finally, awareness preserves what matters most. The Linn Cove Viaduct is remembered not simply because it was built, but because of what it protected. I believe great art and great leadership leave behind more than accomplishments. They leave behind something worth remembering.

As I completed this section of the painting, it struck me that the Linn Cove Viaduct had become more than one of North Carolina's iconic landmarks. It had become the perfect illustration of the first principle in a keynote I'll soon be sharing with the Association Executives of North Carolina: Awareness.

Over the next two weeks, I'd love for you to join me behind the easel as we explore two more North Carolina landmarks and the lessons they've quietly taught me over the years.

Until then, perhaps the greatest masterpieces begin long before the first brushstroke.

Every Masterpiece Begins with an Opportunity

Most people don't slow down at a traffic light to admire a utility box. But recently, as I drove through downtown Greensboro, I found myself smiling at nearly every intersection. What were once plain metal boxes have become colorful galleries filled with imagination—painted with the dreams of elementary school students from across our community.

Each design tells a story, but perhaps the greatest story isn't painted on the box at all. It's the story of a teacher who encouraged a student to enter a contest. It's the story of a child willing to try. And it's the reminder that opportunities rarely announce themselves as life-changing moments. They often arrive disguised as simple invitations.

I couldn't help but think back to my own childhood.

When I was in elementary school, my teacher, Ms. Strickland, entered one of my drawings—a colorful painting of Mount Fuji—into the North Carolina State Fair. I had no expectations beyond simply participating. Then something remarkable happened. My little painting won First Place and earned a big blue ribbon.

Looking back, that ribbon didn't make me an artist. It convinced me I could become one.  More than five decades and over 5,000 original paintings later, I still believe one teacher's willingness to take a little extra initiative helped shape the direction of my life.

That memory came rushing back as I watched these young artists proudly standing beside their work during Downtown Greensboro's Signal Box Project celebration.

Three Lessons Hidden in Every Signal Box

Great teachers don't simply teach—they open doors.
Every student whose artwork now brightens downtown Greensboro first had a teacher who believed the experience was worth pursuing. Entering a contest required extra effort, but those teachers understood something important: education isn't confined to a classroom. Sometimes the greatest lessons come from giving students an opportunity to discover what they're capable of.

Recognition plants seeds that often bloom years later.
A certificate, a ribbon, or seeing your artwork displayed on a city street may seem like a small reward. To a child, it can become a defining moment. Encouragement builds confidence, and confidence inspires courage to keep trying. We never know which moment of recognition may become the beginning of a lifelong journey.

Communities flourish when they celebrate creativity.
These colorful signal boxes do more than brighten downtown streets. They remind every passerby that creativity matters. They tell young people their ideas have value and that their contributions belong in the public square. When a city celebrates its children, it invests in its own future.

It was my privilege to play a small part in this wonderful project by recording a message for the students and presenting gift certificates to their teachers for additional classroom art supplies. Those gifts weren't simply a thank-you; they were an investment in the next generation of artists, dreamers, designers, architects, entrepreneurs, and innovators who are sitting in today's classrooms.

Perhaps one of those students will someday design buildings, illustrate children's books, create films, paint masterpieces, or simply discover the confidence to pursue a dream because someone believed in them.

After all, that's exactly how my own journey began. Every masterpiece starts with a blank canvas. 
Every meaningful life begins with someone willing to offer an opportunity. 

A Grateful Heart on America's 250th Birthday

For nearly forty years, I've had the privilege of calling Dr. Nido Qubein a friend. Like countless others, I've sat in audiences captivated by his ability to tell a story, challenge our thinking, and leave us believing we could accomplish more than we imagined. When he accepted the presidency of High Point College more than two decades ago, many predicted something extraordinary would happen. They were right. Today, High Point University stands as one of the nation's most admired institutions—not simply because of its beautiful campus, but because one man's vision inspired thousands of others to believe in what was possible.

What many people don't fully appreciate is that Dr. Qubein's vision was born from gratitude. Arriving in America as a teenager with little money and limited English, he embraced the opportunities this country offered and has spent a lifetime giving back. His recent essay published by Fortune magazine, written in celebration of America's 250th anniversary, isn't merely about patriotism. It's a heartfelt reflection on opportunity, responsibility, and the enduring promise of the American Dream. It reminded me of three timeless truths.

Gratitude Changes the Way We See Opportunity
It's easy to focus on what's missing or what isn't working. Yet those who accomplish extraordinary things often begin by appreciating what they already have. Dr. Qubein's story reminds us that gratitude isn't passive—it fuels ambition. When we recognize opportunity as a gift rather than an entitlement, we become better stewards of the life we've been given.

Freedom Comes with Responsibility
America's founders understood that freedom is never self-sustaining. Every generation is entrusted with preserving and strengthening it. Whether we lead a business, raise a family, volunteer in our community, or simply encourage a neighbor, each of us has the opportunity to contribute something that outlives us. Great nations are built one responsible citizen at a time.

Our Greatest Legacy Is the Next Generation
Perhaps what impresses me most about Dr. Qubein isn't the buildings or accolades—it is his unwavering investment in young people. Every student who walks across the High Point University campus is challenged not simply to achieve success, but to live a life of significance. As our nation celebrates 250 years, perhaps the greatest gift we can leave future generations is our example—demonstrating integrity, kindness, generosity, and hope.

As America marks this remarkable milestone, it's worth asking ourselves a simple question: What will we contribute to the next 250 years?

History is rarely changed by headlines alone. It is shaped by millions of ordinary people choosing to do extraordinary things with the opportunities they've been given.

If you'd like to read Dr. Qubein's thoughtful essay in Fortune and the story behind it, I highly recommend it. It's a timely reminder that while America isn't perfect, it remains an extraordinary place where vision, hard work, gratitude, and character can still change lives.

"As I reflected on Dr. Qubein's words, I realized how blessed I've been to spend my own career painting the beauty of this country and meeting people whose generosity continually reminds me why hope remains one of America's greatest resources."

Why Some Places Stay With Us

Not long ago, a collector stood in the gallery studying one of my landscape paintings.  After a few moments, she smiled and said, “This reminds me of a place my family used to visit when I was a little girl.”

The interesting thing was that the painting wasn't actually that place.  The mountains were different. The road was different. The trees were different.  Yet somehow it transported her back to a memory she hadn't thought about in years.

Over nearly five decades as an artist, I've heard countless variations of that same conversation. A mountain scene reminds someone of a family vacation. A quiet road brings back memories of a childhood home. A coastal painting evokes summers spent with grandparents. Often the painting bears little resemblance to the actual location, yet the connection is immediate and deeply personal.

Three Reasons Certain Places Stay With Us

We Remember Feelings More Than Details
Most of us don't remember a place exactly as it was. We remember how it felt to be there.  We remember laughter shared around a dinner table. The warmth of a summer afternoon. The excitement of exploring somewhere new. The comfort of being surrounded by people we loved.  Years later, a landscape can awaken those emotions in an instant. It isn't the exact mountain, tree, or shoreline that moves us. It's the feeling attached to the memory.

Places Become Part of Our Story
Certain places quietly witness important chapters of our lives.  A favorite beach. A family farm. A mountain cabin. A golf course. A neighborhood street. Over time, those places become woven into our personal story. They remind us of who we were, what we valued, and the people who walked beside us along the way.  When a painting echoes those memories, it allows us to revisit a piece of our journey.

Art Gives Us a Way Back
One of the things I love most about art is its ability to reconnect us with moments we thought had faded.  A painting can remind us of a person we miss.  A season of life we cherish.  A dream we once pursued.  Or a simpler time that still holds a special place in our hearts.  In many ways, art becomes a doorway, allowing us to step back into a treasured memory, if only for a moment.

A Final Thought

As artists, we spend countless hours trying to capture the light, the colors, and the beauty of a scene. Yet I've come to believe that what people connect with most isn't always the landscape itself.   It's what the landscape reminds them of.  Perhaps that's why certain places stay with us long after we've left them.

Not because they were famous, not because they were extraordinary, but because something meaningful happened there.  And when a painting stirs that memory once again, we're reminded that some of life's most treasured places are not found on a map.

They are found in our hearts.