The little Celestial Hopper saw many, many stars and planets that surrounded him, their vibrant colors gleaming brilliant hues of green and purple like the shining grin of the sun right before it set. There are so many options! Now, which planet will it be? thought the little being of light, like a child deciding which ice cream flavor he wanted. The Little Hopper sat on the ground and pondered for quite a long time, staring intently at the ice cream flavors, all set out for him with open arms. As his eyes moved slowly around the night sky, he saw something that caught his eye. An almost unseeable, miniscule planet lay on the marine colored sky without a beautiful red or pink or yellow glow like the others. It seems lonely… Maybe I should go and visit it? and again the Little Hopper fell into a deep, thoughtful silence. Although the other planets and stars could easily glow brighter than that measley, barely noticeable planet, he felt that it was the one that was the most beautiful and unique among the other boasting celestial beings.

On the small planet there presided one small cabin with one lonely, old, grey-haired man who was surrounded by his multitude of paintings; but they were paintings that the lonely old man despised. He dreaded every single stroke of his brush and the childish ambitions that he had had trying to capture this passion. To stuff all those vibrant emotions into one canvas was a far too overwhelming task for the man, always ending in enormous despair. In anger and frustration, he would tear and rip with his loathing hands, never minding the injuries he got from the fits of outrage. "Just like the pain, they are temporary." the old man would always tell himself. Albeit the countless amount of times he told himself this, it was never true. He was only diverting his eyes from the scars that covered his soul. The Little Hopper opened the cabin door only to find a poor old man sobbing in a corner, his paintbrush still in hand, his easel and canvas thrown across the room. “W-what are y-you doing here?” stammered the old man, who was shading his eyes from the blinding sunlight the Little Hopper had let in. The Little Hopper, seeming to ignore his question, asked a question of his own.

“Why are you crying, Mr. Artist?” Although the old man was still shaking from his tears, he could see that when he said the word “artist,” the old man’s worn face twitched as though it had inflicted a twinge of pain inside of him. For a while, the old man and the little being did not say a word, the occasional echoes of the old man’s now quieting sniffles filling the room. “I am not an ‘artist,’” the old man finally said. The word “artist’”was said in such a hateful way that the Little Hopper could smell the poisonous odor of self-hatred being emitted from the old man. If he had not kept the door open, he might have suffocated from it. “Mr. Arti-,” the Little Hopper stopped when he saw the old man wince at the word. “Sir,” he corrected himself, “may I see what you have drawn on the canvas?” Before the old man could say anything, the curious little boy had already picked up the canvas, its smeared paint still strewn across the floor. The canvas had blues and blacks and greys coated all over it but where the painting was smeared, the Little Hopper saw that under the heavy coat of dark, upsetting colors lay a bright yellow painting of a meadow and a beautiful blue cloudless sky. “Sir, this painting looks wonderf-” the Little Hopper started. But before he could finish his sentence, the old man grabbed the smeared painting back from the Little Celestial Hopper's hands, his ears tipped red with heat and embarrassment. “I-I’m very sorry you had to see that.” he stammered sheepishly. The Little Hopper only shook his head as a reply and gently pried the canvas from the old man’s hands. He sat it down on the wooden easel. Stroke by stroke, the boy made of light started to paint over the blues and blacks and greys, continuing as best as he could, the old man’s painting of the meadow. The old man simply stared as the Little Hopper painted and saw his younger self in him: ambitious, perseverant, and willing to try even if it meant potentially making a mistake.

When the Little Hopper had finished, the sky was not tainted with dark colors and the meadows were no longer dark and bare. There were roses and daisies, rabbits mid-hop and butterflies in flight. The boy handed the old man his brush. Almost instinctively, the old man walked up to the painting and started to expertly refine the painting of the meadow; making the rabbits furrier, the flowers in the meadow more rich with color, and making the butterflies’ wings glow as if they were stained glass in the sunlight.

“It looks wonderful!” the Little Hopper exclaimed after the old man had released a content sigh. There was only the smooth scratching of the old man’s brush on his canvas creating the last details in the piece.

“Wonderful…” the old man muttered quietly. “Wonderful,” the old man now said louder. “Yes, it is. I guess so. Yes, yes, it is wonderful.” the old man finally accepted. “Young man, you remind me of myself when I was younger, always so ambitious. Thank you for reminding me of what I was cut out for, and what I strived for my whole life.”

“It’ll be called ‘Realization of a New Meadow’.” suggested the Little Hopper .

“Yes,” the artist said. “Realization of a New Meadow.”