Messenger Between Worlds
I have always been drawn to the question of what happens after we die. Not because I expect an answer, but because there isn’t one. The mystery itself is what endures — the open space where belief, doubt, and imagination coexist. It is a question that returns throughout our lives, reshaped by time, experience, love, and loss.
Several years ago, I learned that in many Latin cultures the hummingbird is a symbol of strength, hope, and migration. In other traditions, it is believed to move between worlds — a messenger between the living and the dead. When I began exploring this idea, stories emerged. Friends shared moments that felt too precise to dismiss as coincidence: unexpected encounters, small and luminous. One friend, grieving the loss of her father, described a hummingbird flying directly toward her, hovering at eye level, holding her gaze. In that suspended moment, she felt unmistakably comforted, as if a message had arrived — that she was not alone, that everything would be okay.
These stories lingered with me. They offered a gentler language for grief that was not heavy, but tender- fleeting signs that carry immense meaning. For many, such moments become a source of strength and inspiration, a way of moving through sorrow while remaining open to wonder.
This belief led me to paint hummingbirds. In this series, they appear alongside objects passed down through my family: my grandmother’s flow blue, and the china my mother once carefully packed and carried home from a flea market in Europe. These objects hold memory in their surfaces. Paired with the hummingbirds, they form intimate vignettes — small moments caught and held, briefly, outside of time.
I believe that remembering a loved one keeps their spirit alive. Each memory, each quiet thought, is a form of continuation. For me, hummingbirds embody that connection- fleeting yet powerful, delicate yet resilient. They remind me of presence, joy and the enduring threads that link us to those who came before us. And in that reminder, I find both delight and comfort.
Janie Lowe
April 2026
I have always been drawn to the question of what happens after we die. Not because I expect an answer, but because there isn’t one. The mystery itself is what endures — the open space where belief, doubt, and imagination coexist. It is a question that returns throughout our lives, reshaped by time, experience, love, and loss.
Several years ago, I learned that in many Latin cultures the hummingbird is a symbol of strength, hope, and migration. In other traditions, it is believed to move between worlds — a messenger between the living and the dead. When I began exploring this idea, stories emerged. Friends shared moments that felt too precise to dismiss as coincidence: unexpected encounters, small and luminous. One friend, grieving the loss of her father, described a hummingbird flying directly toward her, hovering at eye level, holding her gaze. In that suspended moment, she felt unmistakably comforted, as if a message had arrived — that she was not alone, that everything would be okay.
These stories lingered with me. They offered a gentler language for grief that was not heavy, but tender- fleeting signs that carry immense meaning. For many, such moments become a source of strength and inspiration, a way of moving through sorrow while remaining open to wonder.
This belief led me to paint hummingbirds. In this series, they appear alongside objects passed down through my family: my grandmother’s flow blue, and the china my mother once carefully packed and carried home from a flea market in Europe. These objects hold memory in their surfaces. Paired with the hummingbirds, they form intimate vignettes — small moments caught and held, briefly, outside of time.
I believe that remembering a loved one keeps their spirit alive. Each memory, each quiet thought, is a form of continuation. For me, hummingbirds embody that connection- fleeting yet powerful, delicate yet resilient. They remind me of presence, joy and the enduring threads that link us to those who came before us. And in that reminder, I find both delight and comfort.
Janie Lowe
April 2026
