Our dreams are held.
Our heartaches are held.
We are held.

As we are held, something opens, blossoms into being. Do you ever think of how a flower is a singular event. The beauty that arrives is something that has never been before and will never be again. Not in that precise iteration anyway. There is wonder in this movement, this astonishing and fleeting beauty of the flower, like our lives, like this moment. We are held.

"Only what is held can flower. Only what is contained can become something more than how it began." Francis Weller

24" diameter (c) Bronwen Mayer Henry

Acrylic on Canvas

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