I don’t think it’s an accident, this walking up to the things we didn’t know existed, we didn’t know we needed. On our last trip to the US, I was strolling Linden Hills. I saw the bookstore. Already knowing my suitcase was full, I knew I couldn’t add the weight of more books. And yet, my feet shrugged my shoulders and I walked inside. Forever drawn to little things with feathers, (hope itself as Emily poemed us), I saw it on the table. Flat bookmarks with pens inside. It was if they saw me coming. 

But maybe that’s always the way with hope, if we pay attention, it will lead us to where we need to be. 

Is it hope I’m painting daily? Surely it is peace — this meditation of time and feathers. And perhaps that is where hope best lives. Not in a flurry — even birds know to rest. Secure in the flights to come. So too, I mark the daily hope, with the gentle stroll that led me here. And I am saved.