I wasn’t allowed to eat in my bedroom as a little girl, but that didn’t prevent me from making snacks. My mother knew it wasn’t about food when she asked what I was doing. It took a little explanation at first. It was with crayons and paper. I colored in the books. I wrote tiny poems in my Big Chief notebooks. All on the chance that I would need them later. That I would hunger for these little bits of color, these little snacks of hope. 

And in later years, when it was she who needed them, I wrote them in spiral notebooks. Painted them on boards. Burned phrases into wood. Typed them on recipe cards. Penned them on yellow sticky notes. 

And when we both were fed, strong, I was able to share. She was able to share. 

I suppose it’s why I go to the studio each day. Maybe I will need that little bird later. Maybe you will. Sometimes you write in the comments, “this is just what I needed today,” and I know, I know exactly what you mean. We never lose our taste for hope. So I fill the sketchbooks. Because it’s never just a bird. It’s a snack to get us through. Use all of your courage today. All of my hope. Take it. Fly. I, we, will make more tomorrow.