Hope

In the Colorado mountains, spring always takes its time arriving. This year, it also seems to mimic the transformation in our lives.

Patches of withered, dormant grass are suddenly peeking through the snow and ice where we skied and skated just weeks ago. The grasses are waiting for the sun's warmth, on hold like all of us, waiting in our homes, hoping to stop a virus from spreading out of control. Fog hovers, obscuring the view in the distance. Even the clouds are full of uncertainty, sometimes dropping cold rain—sometimes swirling snow. Once in a while, we get a sunny day, and we savor its warmth. It gives us hope that more sunny days lie ahead. In the last few weeks, phrases like social distancing, personal protective equipment, and flatten the curve have entered our daily conversations. Like winter melting into spring, everything is changing. 

As we become engulfed in a health and economic crisis, our interconnection has never been so clear. No place is insulated. Lives and livelihoods depend on our collective actions. My heart goes out to those suffering; my hope goes out to us all.

We don’t know when our grass will turn green or when the fog will lift. We long for the day when the promising smell of wet earth is replaced by sweet smelling lilacs, and fuzzy, grey catkins sprout into fluttering, green aspen leaves. One can only hope that when we rebuild our gardens, we'll open our minds and our hearts. Spring will come, but how long it will take and what it will look like when it arrives will be shaped by the extent of our collaboration and compassion. 

One of the wonderful aspects of art is the ability to create a landscape the way my mind wants to see it, even if that's not what’s actually there—yet. This watercolor painting was inspired by a hike I took last spring to one of my favorite spots on a ridge overlooking Mount Daly. A meadow on the ridge was covered with tiny, white flowers and flanked by budding sage. Painting it lifted my spirits. I think I will call it “Hope.”