Robyn Hollister

I have a trio of wall hangings in my office. The largest is an embroidered piece—a floral design in soft pinks and greens, with a winged insect floating in the upper right corner. It is bordered by intricate fabrics in complementary colors and set in a frame that mimics bamboo. The other two pieces are dragonflies hammered from sheets of dark gray pewter, each wing tapped out in meticulous detail. I purchased them while shopping during a family reunion on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

When I look at them now, I notice the sharp contrast between the delicacy of the embroidered picture, with its pastel threads, and the darker, harder tone of the pewter dragonflies. That contrast—light versus dark, soft versus harsh—mirrors the week when they were purchased.

My parents traveled from their home near Raleigh, while the rest of us came from Charlotte. My father had recently retired and he was eager to enjoy the freedom that work had once denied him. I, too, was ready for escape. Long hours at my own job had worn me down, and the promise of the beach felt restorative.

The cottage was comfortable and welcoming, with well-appointed bedrooms, a large living room, and porches on every side offering views of both sound and surf. We explored everything the area had to offer: the Wright Brothers museum, fresh seafood, and quaint shops—one of which held the picture and another held the dragonflies. The weather cooperated perfectly, sunny during the day, with rain arriving only in the evenings, when we were already settled indoors. It was everything a vacation should be: carefree, fun, whimsical.

Yet beneath those happy moments were quieter truths. That week at the beach was the last time we were all together as a family. My marriage, held together by threads far thinner than those in the embroidery, eventually unraveled. I had done everything I knew to save it, but I no longer had the emotional energy to repeat the same arguments. After the trip, my mother’s long battle with cancer returned with renewed force. She passed away peacefully in her sleep in the summer of 2021, bringing a gentle end to years of struggle.

Now, when I look at the picture and the dragonflies, I think about both what was joyful and what was painful. I am reminded that one does not exist without the other. Lightness and delight coexist with weight and sorrow, woven together throughout a life. The good times give us strength to endure the bad, and the bad times teach us to cherish the good. When circumstances grow dark and harsh, I remind myself that softer, lighter moments will return. It is all a matter of balance.