Seeds of Hope
I’m entering this new year thinking about seeds, and about hope.
Hope, I’ve learned, isn’t something we either have or don’t have. It’s something we can cultivate. Something that grows slowly, often invisibly, and very often underground, just like the seeds we plant or the transplants we tuck into the garden, trusting that something is happening even when we can’t see it yet.
Winter feels like the right season for this kind of growth. I don’t want to rush into declarations or resolutions. I don’t want to pretend that everything is fine or neatly tied up. Instead, I want to notice what has already taken root and gently encourage it to grow stronger.
Looking Back: What Took Root Last Year
As I look back on the past year — in my writing, my work, my teaching, and my community — I can see places where growth happened quietly. It wasn’t always easy, and it certainly wasn’t always visible in the moment, but it is undeniable now.
I began to communicate more consistently and more honestly about my spiritual beliefs and about how I feel regarding what is happening in our country. I spoke up, sometimes hesitantly, sometimes with resolve. I took part in my first political demonstrations. Along the way, I was met with far more support than I expected, encouragement offered both in public spaces and in quiet, private conversations. That support mattered deeply. It reminded me that speaking truth, even when it feels risky, creates connection rather than isolation.
Last year was also a year of opening doors, literally. I hosted my own open studio, not as part of a tour, but simply as an invitation. It turned out to be one of the most meaningful studio experiences I’ve ever had, richer and more connected than any tour I’ve participated in before. I also hosted the first workshop in my home studio, welcoming people into both my creative space and my process. Both experiences affirmed something I’ve long suspected: community grows best when it’s nurtured slowly and personally. (And yes, you can expect to see both of these happen again.)
Perhaps most importantly, I did not let the constant stream of bad news and discouraging moments stop me. I didn’t give up. I didn’t give in. I kept moving forward, sometimes with energy, sometimes simply with persistence, but always with intention.
Naming the Seeds of Hope
As I reflect, I can clearly see several seeds of hope that took root last year:
Finding aligned voices, especially faith-based ones, that articulate the same convictions I hold, voices that remind me love must remain our overriding principle, and that care for the poor, the vulnerable, and the marginalized is central to the teachings of Jesus.
Community gathering, whether in my studio, my garden, or my neighborhood, moments where people showed up for one another, shared stories, and remembered we are not meant to do this alone.
Small, ordinary signs like tiny sprouts pushing through the soil, quiet walks in nature, and even the steady progress of my reactive dog learning to pass another dog calmly across the street. These moments remind me that growth rarely happens all at once.
Young people and students, whose compassion, curiosity, and commitment to justice give me profound hope for the future. Talking with them often leaves me encouraged rather than discouraged.
People changing course, individuals who are willing to admit they were wrong, to learn new truths, and to speak publicly about that shift. Witnessing humility and transformation, especially in polarized times, feels like a powerful act of hope.
These are not grand gestures. They are small, persistent signs, the kinds of things that remind me hope is still alive, even when the noise says otherwise.
“Mercy” published in the 2025 Year of Invitation Anthology
Why This Matters to Me, and to My Work
My work — making art, teaching, walking, sharing — is rooted in cultivating hope and helping others do the same.
Every time someone brings one of my pieces into their home, or signs up for a workshop, I’m reminded that this is what I’m meant to be doing: creating spaces for reflection, healing, and courage. Art can’t fix everything. It can’t undo injustice or erase pain. But it can help us breathe. It can slow us down. It can remind us of what matters, and of what we’re fighting for.
Hope doesn’t come from ignoring reality. It comes from facing it honestly and choosing, again and again, not to turn away.
So I’m entering this year not with resolutions, but with intention.
How do we tend these seeds of hope — in ourselves, in our communities, and in the places where we have influence — and help them grow into real healing and real change?
That’s what I want to explore next.
