Pockets of Light
Pockets of Light is what hope looks like from inside, before you can see where it is going, but you can feel it reaching you where you are.
I had been climbing a steep hill for a long time when I had to stop. Not for a photograph, just to catch my breath. It was hard yakka, as we say. My attention had been on the ground, on my footing, on getting up. When I finally looked up to rest, the sunlight was doing something specific in exactly this spot. A few degrees in either direction, the effect changed. Here, in this place, the light was falling through the canopy of tall eucalypts in separate pockets. Each tree receiving its own portion, each finding its own way to the light, without needing to see the whole sky above. Not one of the trees is complete in the frame. Not one needs to be.
That idea stayed with me long after the walk. You don't have to see the whole path to know that the light is already reaching you where you are. You don't need to understand the entire forest to know you have a place within it. You can thrive in the space you occupy, with the light that finds you there, and trust that it is enough.
Pockets of Light arrived because I was forced to pause. Which is also, perhaps, what it asks of the person who lives with it: to stop pushing forward long enough to notice what is already glowing.
