On a sunny afternoon in September 2012, Chris Condello showed me the vacant lots and boarded-up, abandoned houses along a few city blocks in Wilkinsburg, a beleaguered part of Pittsburgh. In the mix, there were also some garden patches. A few disheveled properties appeared to be inhabited. Here and there, kids played outside in yards.

A young man and volunteer gardener, Chris saw beyond the neighborhood’s blight. He spoke of the lush and beautiful community gardens he’d been helping to plant and cultivate, some in community spaces, others in vacant lots and why they were important. The gardeners then shared the produce to help feed people in the neighborhood, body and soul.

I met Chris that day while on a magazine assignment, writing about the power of community gardens to build, heal and nourish. His is essential, life-sustaining work, as I see it. I drove back to central Pennsylvania feeling inspired, with plenty of material for my story — and certain Chris was a creative force, a bright light.

Chris is now a fine art photographer in western Pennsylvania. His landscape images are gorgeous and uplifting. My favorites capture the colors and light of sunsets and sunrises over the water. (Follow him on Facebook @chriscondellolandscapephotographer.)

Small & Mighty Light

Over the years, Chris and I kept in touch only via Facebook.

Then, in the surreal, dark days of the summer of 2020, Chris’ work again lifted me. I felt isolated and shaky that summer. Heavy with the collective grief and anxiety of the pandemic. Enraged and stunned by the brutal murder of George Floyd and violent, angry responses to the peaceful protests that followed. Bitter, divisive politics and dangerous misinformation. By late summer, heat waves, riots and wildfires in the West.

All very heavy and stifling. I am lucky in so many ways and not acutely affected. Still, I struggled, Maybe I am too tender and sensitive for this world and these times.

I was — still am — determined to stay positive, to keep moving, pivoting and creating.

How could I, as one small person, rise to do something good and useful?

Then I saw Chris’ images of fireflies, presumably on Facebook.

Chris had worked many summer nights to capture beautiful images of fireflies lighting the dark at a Pennsylvania state park.

“Fireflies” captured by landscape photographer Chris Condello, summer 2020.

Be the Light & Shine

The potential of many small lights collectively shining became a powerful focus and symbol for me. They reminded me of a scripture verse: “You’re here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world.” I’d highlighted that verse when it appeared in the church bulletin and tacked it to our kitchen cork-board. But years had passed. The day-glo orange ink had faded.

I needed a reminder.

Those glowing fireflies struck me as a perfect metaphor. Shine no-matter-what. Little lights add up to a way through the darkness. With Chris’ permission, I licensed his image to use here on the site.

I forced myself to focus on the light, being the light and shining light, no matter how small it seems. Here is a little piece about the inspiring power of fireflies from winter 2021. I had learned this lesson while working to establish a community children’s garden, which is one reason Chris’ garden volunteering resonated so strongly. Helping to tend that patch of earth just for kids, a physical place for children to connect to nature and explore their sense of wonder, was the perfect antidote to an overload of dire information I was learning about the perils of climate change and decline of species.

So I’d learned the power of small, focused action. Then 2020 knocked me off my mooring and I needed a reminder.

Fireflies: Your Light Lifts Me. My Light Lifts You

Heading into the autumn, still feeling isolated, I asked two of my best friends who are also both creative, self-employed business women if they’d be interested in a weekly check-in. One owns a shop featuring beautiful, handmade artwork — paintings, pottery, jewelry, scarves, quilted table runners, woodwork — made by local artists. One is a non-profit finance consultant in Boston. (We call her the badass, because she always stands her ground for what she believes in.)

We call our group and dedicated time, “Fireflies.”

The model was simple and powerful: Your light lifts me. My light lifts you. We can amplify each other to shine brighter and stronger.

Your light lifts me. My light lifts you.

On our own, we can figure out a lot, but no one has it all figured out. We all struggle with a pain point, or weakness or blind spot.

Since then, we have a standing, weekly zoom call and an ongoing chat for whenever anyone wants to share a win, or a struggle, has a question — or needs to vent or be held accountable to her goals. We invited a Central Pennsylvania painter, advocate and champion of conservation.

The chemistry has been perfect, the support and fellowship invaluable. We hold each other accountable. Good stuff.

But when we can get together in person, it’s even more powerful — and a fantastic, raucous time.

Honoring the Creative Tug

Soon, I felt another creative call and set a goal to re-connect with the owner of Hameau Farm in Big Valley. We’d met once, long ago, through mutual friend Susan Nicholas, a distinguished plein air painter who teaches every spring and fall at the Hameau Farm retreat for artists.

I wondered: What about a retreat for creative business women? Hmmmm…. And Hameau seemed like it could be the perfect place.

Owned by farmer Audrey “Gay” Rodgers, Hameau Farm is a retreat space for artists, girls’ summer camp and working dairy farm known for its Plum Bottom Ayrshire cows.

So early in 2022, Gay Rodgers and I started talking. Last October, we co-hosted and tested a small-scale, invitation-only event for creative business women called “Fireflies in the Fall at Hameau Farm.” I planned the programming to be a balance of business smarts and creativity, a balance of structure, fellowship and on-your-own time. And I worked hard on the details to keep the cost reasonable.

We shared what’s working for us and helped each other with what’s not working. We brainstormed. And we enjoyed fellowship, conversation, laughter and stories, nourishment through beautiful food (& expertly hand-crafted firefly cocktails!) — in a gorgeous farm setting. Incredible.

A Magical, Peaceful Place

The farm has a magic all its own, the careful management over decades of a strong, capable and creative woman. Grazing cows. A meandering stream and roaming peacock named Pierre. A big, goofy-drooly St. Bernard named Ludwig. An art studio with a deck looking over the fields into beautiful Kishacoquillas “Big” Valley.

Our group enjoyed many artful touches and delicious food within view of the fall sunset and evening cow parade as the heifers come in from the pasture. I’m already dreaming and planning for Fireflies in the Fall, 2023 — Oct. 20-22— and a few “Fireflies” dinners at the farm. So you’ll be hearing more about this on the blog. Send me a message if you’d like more info or to be added to the “Fireflies” email list!

Faith in the Light

Does this work save the world from its wicked problems? Is it “enough”? No, not on its own, in isolation.

But I wholeheartedly believe in all the good that can come from a bouncing, collective light, and its power to push the world forward to a greater good, to be more just and beautiful and loving. This faith and focus helps me face the reality of the news, and the problems reported by responsible journalists and stay open-minded about finding solutions.

I will not look away from the brokenness of the world — nor will I let it swallow me. I will always seek out the beautiful among the broken, like those gorgeous sunsets and sunrises Chris captures with his camera and eye.

Let’s go back to those patches of gardens in those couple of blocks in Wilkinsburg, part of Pittsburgh. No one will ever know if a child hungry for love and food had a sweet, ripe tomato to eat on a summer night because Chris planted a few tomato plants in a place many people would write-off and forget.

I can’t prove it. But I still believe it — and in the possibility of those tomatoes reaching more than one kid, maybe two or three or more kids and that those kids felt loved and nourished by the fruits of Chris’ labor.

And I believe in the power of that little patch of flowers to have given respite to someone walking by with a heavy heart.

We don’t know all the places our light goes or who it touches — and that’s exactly my point. That’s not our job.

Our job is to do our best to be the brightest, strongest light we can be. To shine. To share.

What way do you do that? How can we all do more of that?

To ask for guidance then answer the muse and idea, the creative urge to explore this story or connection, or that new kind of gathering or event as best I can.

My job is to do my work and have faith that it matters.

Which is exactly what Chris — now an honorary “firefly”  — was doing in the community gardens and now does every day when he shares a beautiful image full of light and color on social media.

Maybe this is HOW we love each other — which is our most important job in our short time here. See the light. Be the light. Bring some light to someone else.

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