Painting ‘Hope’

‘Hope’ by Sharla Miller-Baer

Hope. A concept I never planned on painting.

This is the moment when, after running until your lungs hurt, you sink down into the grass and watch as the storm clouds roll across the sky. Your hair and skin are wet. You can’t tell the difference between the rain and your tears. There is thunder, lightning, and chaos. The noise of the storm is an extension of your thoughts.

The storm overhead is terrifying, but not as terrifying as your own mind. You ran into the storm, trying to escape your mind. Your mind hurts, and your whole body hurts along with it. It seems like your tears are pulled from a depth you can’t reach with your conscious mind. There is a pain so deep that it can’t be grasped in a single moment, not even in a single lifetime. So, you sit with it. It washes over you like the rain and soaks up into you from the dirt you sit on.

As you sit in the wet grass, the storm calms. Your chest still aches, but it doesn’t burn anymore. The thunder slowly quiets, along with your mind. You begin to notice where you are. For the first time, you see the flowers, tousled and wet from the rain. They stretch around you in all directions, marching on and on until you can’t see them anymore. They are purple and white, velvety and comforting.

The tree takes shape as the rain slacks off. It stands there alone, as alone as you. But seeing it through the rain, you feel less alone. As you sit among the flowers, staring at the tree while the storm fades into the distance, a calm descends over you. An aching, lonely calm. The chaos is spent for the moment, so spent that in its place is a vacuum. A great, empty field of dirt and sky. The wind blows over your wet, soaking body, and you are cold and exhausted.

Slowly, even the wind calms into a breeze that cools your face. You touch a petal of a poppy and the dewdrops cling to your fingers. You watch as the clouds slowly part, and light begins to peep from behind them. The light is golden against the cold blue of the storm. It warms the horizon first, and you watch as it spreads toward you. There is a sort of pause, a brief waiting.

The sunlight hits the tree, bright and warm. You know it will soon bathe you in golden, glittering light. Your skin will dry, and it will warm you, inside out. Two birds dance across the sky, disappearing into the brilliance of the sun. Their wings flash golden in the light. You watch in quiet awe. This is a moment you will remember forever, a moment that stamps itself on your lonely soul, a moment that you were chasing and didn’t realize it.

This is an epiphany. This is hope.