I look at my hands, wretched, blistered, black from soot and oozing oil. I lift the glass, light the wick, mumble in my dreary sleep, “Let there be light,” and there is light. There will always be light.
Because when life throws the good, the bad and the sometimes questionable things at us, it will be the people in our lives that make it all so very interesting and undeniably rich every single day.
When I look to islands today, I see yesterday — island and islanders — looking right back at me. I see pointy spires of trees catch and hold fog as it annoys, gulls floating on bands of unseen air, rocks pummeled by surf, the spray wetting my view.
Whether they are alone or in large groups, it is a foregone conclusion when in the company of wind, sea and land that there will be seagulls.
Life is a clock, and hope is that internal mechanism within life we must wind every day.