The sky above her is ablaze with streaks of red and orange, like the heavens themselves are on fire. Floating among the flames are giant, tearful eyes, witnesses to her struggle, yet powerless to help. It feels as if the entire universe is bearing down on her, watching, unable to offer reprieve.
Behind her, an unlocked and unassuming box lies open in the sand, its lid cast aside. A soft, mysterious glow seeps out, casting a golden light—a faint, lingering promise of something more. A key rests nearby, just out of reach, almost mocking in its simplicity, as though it holds an answer she isn’t yet ready to grasp. A remnant and reminder of a past choice once made.
A stark, solitary "No" sign stands off to the side, a strange barrier in the empty landscape. It feels out of place here, like an unyielding reminder that the way forward isn’t always clear or accessible. It symbolizes obstacles that seem arbitrary or insurmountable, adding to her sense of isolation.
This painting embodies so much of life’s complexity—the despair we sometimes feel, the weight of struggle, and that elusive glimmer of light, hidden but present. Perhaps this glow represents a quiet kind of hope, a reminder that even in the harshest deserts, there’s something left to hold onto. The painting seems to ask: Can we keep faith when the world is on fire? Can we find light even when shadows surround us?
I bought this painting on the night of 9/11. That was an unusual choice for me. I tend to gravitate toward art that lifts me up, that brings a sense of calm or joy. But that night, something about this painting pulled me in with undeniable force. The artist had captured exactly what I was feeling—a mixture of fear, sorrow, and the weight of witnessing something incomprehensible.
In that moment, the painting became a companion in my grief. It felt as though I were seeing my own inner turmoil reflected in the figure of the woman in the desert, surrounded by shadows and flames, holding onto hope in the face of darkness. Somehow, it offered solace, allowing me to feel seen and understood when words couldn’t quite capture the enormity of it all.
Over time, I’ve come to see this painting as more than just an image—it’s a mirror. The woman in the sand represents those moments when we face the unthinkable, alone and raw, surrounded by fragments of dreams and fears. The silent eyes above, watching but unable to offer reprieve, remind me of the quiet witnesses in life: loved ones—past and present—strangers, even parts of ourselves that observe without always knowing how to help. And the glow, faint but resolute, remains, whispering that even when all seems lost, there’s something within us that continues to shine, no matter how small.
Looking at this painting, I’m reminded of something I learned not too long ago. There are times when the world feels heavy—so heavy, in fact, that the weight of it starts to seep into us. It’s easy to let that worry, that sadness, fill our hearts until it feels overwhelming. But I’ve come to believe we can’t let the world’s troubles consume us completely. If we do, we’ll be too weighed down to lift a hand to help anyone else—or even ourselves.
It’s a bit like the oxygen mask rule on airplanes: “Put your mask on first before helping others.” Because, let’s face it, you’re not much use to anyone if you’re running out of air yourself. I think hope works a lot like that. We have to find and hold onto that bit of light inside us, even if it’s just a faint flicker, to keep our hearts steady. That’s where we draw the strength to show up—not only for ourselves, but for everyone who might need us.
In a way, finding hope is an act of self-care and an act of service. If we can hold onto that light, keep it safe, and let it guide us, maybe we’ll find we’re stronger than we thought, more resilient than we realized. That’s what gives us the strength to help, to live fully, and to offer whatever kindness or comfort we can to those around us.
This glow, for me, has become a symbol of resilience, that precious quality that keeps us moving forward, step by step, through life’s harshest trials. It’s a reminder that even if we find ourselves surrounded by shadows, as long as we hold onto that light—however faint—it gives us reason to hope.
Hope is an active choice. Life doesn’t always make sense, and we may never fully understand why things unfold as they do. Yet, hope persists. Storms may rage, but they are often what bring the rainbows.
Hope might be quiet, but it is fierce. It lives in those small acts of kindness we offer to ourselves and others, in the routines that carry us forward, and in the belief that life, in all its complexity, still holds the possibility for something beautiful. Much like the proverbial fork in the road—hope is a daily decision to seek out the light, even when shadows press in. For many of us, it lives in spiritual faith—a light we can always turn to, no matter how dark things may seem.
Even if all you have is a faint or distant glimmer, hold onto it—it is an enduring treasure, and might be enough to guide you through.
