Artful Advent 1: Seeing Hope in the Light
Letting the light we see be a tangible reminder of the hope we hold
This four-week series explores how parents of little children can nourish themselves in a busy season by looking at their lives like art.
Hello friend,
Welcome to the first week of Advent, this season of expectant waiting, this season that leads us in the Northern Hemisphere towards the longest night of the year. The first Sunday of Advent invites us to hold on to hope.
Hope is such a big part of being the parent of a little kid. So much is asked of us, and we hope that the love and nurturing we pour into our children will be what they need to flourish.
Having hope feels like sitting in darkness and trusting—knowing—that light will come.
Sometimes that dark is greedy, like the expanding winter nights in Quebec that trickle in at 4pm or the sound of your kid crying out at night just when you’ve managed to fall asleep. In that weary dark, we hold on to hope. The sun will come out in the morning, the days will start getting longer, our children will learn how to sleep through the night.
But as parents, we also hope that our work in the night matters. We hope that the time in the dark is not wasted; we hope that this hard work for love is taking us towards the light.
No artist understands light more intimately than a photographer.Â
Light is their paint. Light helps them sculpt a photograph, carve out the space. As they work, photographers are constantly attuned to the sources of light around them, natural and artificial. They need to know how strong the light is, where it hits, how it will interact with their subjects.
Light shapes how we experience and understand a photograph. Different lighting can change how we see the same thing. Light isn’t a neutral element, it has a point of view.
Look how Edward Steichen uses sunlight in this photograph to boldly highlight the mother and child, making an ordinary scene appear celestial. With the details of their faces in shadow, the figures feel archetypal. The light transforms the specific into the symbolic.
Or here, look how Roy DeCarava photographs his family. The flat light caresses these beloved faces, gently illuminating them for us to behold in intimate detail. With each face evenly lit and on the same focal plane, we see them all at once, as a unit. The light is the entryway to see the intangible ties that bind this family together.
Here’s my invitation to you, friend:
As you go through your week, look for the light. I mean that literally. See the soft sunlight diffused through a cloudy day. The flickering light of a candle on the dinner table. The bright light fixture glowing over the bathroom sink. The cheery twinkle lights decorating a neighbor’s window. The dramatic ray of sun hitting your bedroom wall in the morning. The blue glow of your phone as you read an article with a sick baby dozing on you
In these little moments, let the light you see be a tangible reminder of the hope you hold.
Here's what that's looked like for me:
A few times a day, as I sit at my desk or chase my toddler or attack my escalating to-do list, I look around to notice where the light is coming from. And in that moment, I am met by something deep and warm and shockingly compassionate.
Light, like hope, can have many flavors. Sometimes light is spectacular, sometimes it is dull and flat. Sometimes it dances with shadows, sometimes it is bold and steady like a spotlight. We can even sometimes feel it, like when we enter a warm pool of sunlight.
Open your eyes: if you can see anything, there is light.Â
This practice has been really powerful for me, especially in moments when life feels overwhelming (or underwhelming). Last night, my mind was swirling with anxious thoughts that wouldn't let me sleep. In an attempt to calm myself down, I looked to see if there was any light. The dull light of a streetlamp seeped in from a slight gap in the curtains. The soft glow from my Kindle gently lit up my hands and blankets. Even in that dark night, there was light. I was not alone.Â
By its very nature, hope resides in something outside ourselves. This means we don’t have to do all the heavy lifting. We don’t have to go through life white-knuckled.Â
When we are too tired to feel hope, we can let the light hold it for us.
The light is always there, and so is hope.
Let me know if you try this practice. Did anything surprise you? I'd love to hear from you; seriously, just hit reply to this email and say hello!
You can follow along on Instagram at @marinagrosshoy or by using the hashtag #LookingAtLifeLikeArt.
May you look at the light that illuminates your days and nights and children, and be met there by the beauty of hope.
You are doing such a good job. You are not alone.
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Wishing you a week filled with light,
