David McElroy

As the red Honda pulled up behind my car, I was afraid I was blocking the road. Lucy and I were at my favorite sunset spot Tuesday evening and I had been taking pictures, so I decided I’d leave rather than be in someone’s way.

But as I opened the door to get back into my car, a heavily accented voice called out, “You don’t have to leave. It’s OK.”

I wasn’t sure at first what he meant or what he wanted, but he pointed to the sunset. And I understood he had come there for the amazing natural beauty being painted in the sky toward the horizon.

I find few people who make an effort to come watch sunsets, so we struck up a conversation about the beauty and about other spots nearby where there was a good view. He was clearly just as passionate about beauty as I am.

Gerardo Alvarez-Chavez is originally from Mexico City. He said he hadn’t had many opportunities for his future back in Mexico, so he had come here seeking a better like. He owns his own painting service, according to his business card.

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Motivation should come from within. That’s what everybody says. You can read it in self-help books and on motivational posters. It’s what every well-meaning friend tells you.

Needing motivation from someone else is a crutch.

Ideas have always been easy for me, but being able to execute on those ideas has been trickier. I start projects and I can even know that a piece of work would be good if I finished it, but I lack the motivation to finish.

I end up staring at a blank page that never turns into a script. I look over old notes from a book project that never made it. I look at ideas I love — projects stillborn yet still full of possible life — and I feel powerless to breathe life into them. I crave a flesh-and-blood motivation — admiration, love, approval, passion — to inspire me to make my art.

I long for a crutch to help me walk.

For many years, I had wanted to make a film. I had ideas and I talked about making a first short film for a long time. But for years it was only talk — until something changed.

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The little family stood out because of the mixed skin colors but mostly because all three children were so young — enough to keep both parents constantly dealing with one or another as they ate dinner at Chick-fil-A in Birmingham on a Saturday evening.

The parents were both white and appeared to be early to mid 30s. A boy who appeared Latino was about 4 years ago. A black boy and girl were both about 2 or 3, I’d guess.

The table was a constant buzz of talk — children asking questions and wanting help, parents correcting and guiding. But it was all orderly and the tone of voice was always loving and kind. One of the boys seemed fascinated by my MacBook and he had trouble understanding his mom’s explanation that it’s impolite to stare at strangers.

After they ate, they pulled out little books and read together. Each child had a different book. I couldn’t tell what the books were all about, but I saw the younger ones pointing to cows and dogs and pigs and correctly identifying each. Both parents worked with each child from time to time.

It was like controlled chaos, but full of love and happiness.

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