My grandmother gave me a sweet little watercolor print many years ago, before my life saw college and marriage and life away from home. When I first received it, I had it nestled among my books and belongings my bedroom. Upon leaving home, I tucked it into a keepsake bin where it stayed for these many years.
Then last summer, during an all-too-short decluttering spree, I sorted through the bin. The watercolor was uncovered. Something about the colors grabbed my heart once more. I couldn’t imagine packing it away again. It’s now on my desk.
A landscape is at the center, drawn as if viewed out of a window. I imagine myself standing at this windowsill, gazing out to the horizon, watching the day unfold.
The sun is shining bright yellow, but the other colors suggest a bit of gloominess with their blues, greens, and grays. Maybe a storm has just let up or darkness has just succumbed to the dawn.
I’m joined at the window by five birds, all peeking out to the hills. Something about them seems happy, expectant. Perhaps from their vantage the view is broader and they see something just beyond my sight?
Today, I’m staring out this window with my bird friends, thinking of the story that goes along with this rendering.
I think it is a picture of hope. In my experience, hope is often seen in a backdrop tinged with melancholy. But the sun is on the rise and will soon offer its warmth. The skies will clear of gray and yield to blue. Shadows will soon flee the rolling hills. Light is rising, chasing away darker shades. This is the story I see in the watercolor.
This is hope for the day ahead.