I painted this crow while thinking about what it means to look forward without certainty.
The turn of a new year often arrives with a particular pressure. There is an expectation, sometimes spoken, sometimes implied, that we will emerge from the threshold with clarity intact. That we will name our intentions, map our plans, declare momentum, and move cleanly from one chapter into the next. The calendar flips, and we are meant to flip with it.
But that is not how looking forward usually feels to me.
More often, it feels quieter. Less like a leap and more like standing still long enough to notice which direction continues to hold weight. Less about deciding, more about listening. Less about certainty, more about orientation.
There is a pause that lives at the edge of endings, a space where things are no longer what they were, but not yet anything new. It is an uncomfortable place if we expect answers from it. But if we allow ourselves to simply be there, it can be surprisingly honest.
Crows have always felt like creatures of that pause.
They appear at thresholds, roadsides, fence lines, the edges of fields, places that are neither fully one thing nor another. They watch. They wait. They seem to understand that not every moment requires action, and that attention itself is a kind of participation.
In many traditions, crows are associated with change. Not because they initiate it, but because they recognise it. They arrive when something is already in motion, when the air has shifted just enough to be felt by those who are paying attention. They do not rush transformation. They witness it.
That quality of watchfulness is what drew me to this painting.
This piece did not come from knowing what comes next. It came from acknowledging that something does. From accepting that forward motion does not always announce itself with clarity or confidence. Sometimes it arrives as a subtle pull, a recurring thought, a quiet curiosity, a feeling that refuses to be dismissed even when it cannot yet be named.
Looking forward, in this sense, is not about optimism. It is not about resolve or vision boards or carefully worded goals. It is about attention. About staying present at the edge of what is ending, without turning away from what has not yet arrived.
That posture requires a certain kind of patience. It asks us to resist the urge to fill uncertainty with declarations simply to quiet our discomfort. It asks us to notice what we are already responding to, where our energy naturally goes, what continues to return even when we are not actively seeking it.
There is a particular honesty in that stance.
When we allow ourselves to linger in the pause, we make room for release, not as an act of rejection, but as a natural consequence of growth. Some things fall away not because we push them out, but because they no longer fit the shape of who we are becoming. Other things remain, not as baggage, but as experience. They come with us quietly, integrated rather than carried.
The crow holds that tension easily. It does not promise transformation. It does not offer reassurance or instruction. It simply stands at the threshold and watches what unfolds.
That feels increasingly important to me, especially at the opening of a new year.
I find myself less interested in declarations than in orientation. Less concerned with what I should be aiming toward, and more curious about where my attention naturally rests. What do I return to when no one is asking me to explain myself? What continues to call me forward without urgency or demand?
These questions do not produce tidy answers. But they do create a kind of alignment, one that feels steadier than ambition alone. They help me recognise movement even when it is slow, and change even when it arrives without spectacle.
Painting from this place feels different, too. It is not about capturing a moment of certainty or illustrating a conclusion. It is about honouring the in between, the state of noticing, the willingness to stay present without forcing meaning too soon. The work becomes a record of attention rather than an announcement of intent.
Perhaps that is why the crow feels like such an honest companion for this moment. It does not rush the future or romanticise the past. It understands that being alert is sometimes enough. That standing at the edge, watching carefully, is not the absence of movement but a form of readiness.
As this year opens, I am allowing myself to remain there, to listen, to observe, to notice what continues to hold weight. To trust that forward motion does not always need to be dramatic to be real.
Sometimes, attention is the most faithful way of looking forward.
And sometimes, that is enough.
"Marking Time" watercolour on Arches hot pressed paper, 640 gsm