"Hope is the thing with feathers --"
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Emily Dickinson is a wonderful poet, no doubt, but I have to confess that I do not agree with her on the subject of hope--unless the feathers she had in mind were attached to an eagle.
Hope is a feeling that is at the root of feeling human. It lifts the spirit; it is a beacon on the darkest night. But hope must be more than feathers. It must have hands and feet and a voice. Without them, hope is little more than a wish waiting on a benevolent fairy godmother. I like the idea of someone else working to make my wish come true, but I'm too impatient to wait.
Hope must be like a spur to a horse's flank. It must make me get up and work, so here's a few thoughts on hope:
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPBk_rsR5RB2Z0v4SjStrckjrbvmJMEnyir2QVXrCPNtmLzm_pMeCSOMcC7kezI3S0o2otF_ZPOWwm-hlR_iMAELPYLcwNkcrUdurCJluuWFzp5K2twiuOzeeaTzEtz0GmX3lDVVJ-Jfcb/s320/IMAG0008.JPG) |
Hope is that thing with tiny leaves leaning toward the light. |
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvXHvAklYxp4DzggrizZUoiTF7Ie2xGo9k6Knhb-xcUynpw0SGHHjnNSelmSpOGUOZIOOjC_UasGAPzM4FWZImdrgJEhu2jPw8U0FZICCIPrlyASUwUM-cL-tRDqhNLOIj-jYDy-NKIttB/s320/Photo_061411_001.jpg) |
Hope is three blackberries the first year. |
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXXWapecK1FSXcAjCHUWWwXBLFWrOBQJ-WfrO1dnptUAwbbQP5dOX0bzN__SRHfSNOz2vLbX5CG-pNJ5kYwcnlhIZzIuxLVgRDKdE2lJDgBHAlPxA-VEOVley_qvKpnReyckIoFPLKFpL/s320/swallowwaiting.jpg) |
Hope is building a nest on a ceiling fan. |
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2BAonyDIizaMCw40Yu_-GLUyWoq_zCFjtV3qRpH2eSLh8OYUviV5Qy1Py4W3ClryxM3naUnOCi-28i-pr6VOGVevhDTGUtCvXEADThM2Gs1LPN77HlexzwDulIZwUjgOc-NckWBnu70r5/s320/IMAG1130.jpg) |
Hope is a break in the clouds. |
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhugBYXGseBSVgixvgE6dZhqGEPXpH7vNjM3ODH3D0wYovaN7xncsNlXFYyn0hkP8coqSlabOyUB8E1pKOApt4vFTyIx-AweuMRkHi0XmiUB8LvakuYDbkyGM7JtlfDRd90pyUeCnUtonY4/s320/IMAG0114.jpg) |
Hope is hay rolls for winter. |
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr-0NrF8S7bPnl2IZBfLBkbaUROanLK0dV44nY_x_nU-I9IudtqJAxcL8Iu0FKchxRtzfwBNWEFSPj5dCnJC1TwureERU5fzbmoVkjRoZqPaxm9hd4mYQy1qdOSoWny0S2knwKhYSud18/s320/IMAG1250.jpg) |
Hope is jars of home-pickled pickles.
|
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcOA3KJSSBd9SfsDHrqIjFVDm-rBI4PbpuGb2vR8WEqscmvKAwpn1EUcd8jg4r7PcXI14jkskGjCGO4uK4jzV0VIlsvKkOfu3mvDt3KUnM7EJPktzaOjxIgS4ly6EaJ5LmbgVPlfSIVFI3/s320/Garden+Strip.jpg) |
Hope is freshly turned earth. |
Dickinson said that hope asked nothing of her, but I don't have her kind. My hope asks everything of me. Hope and hard work go hand-in-hand, and that's just fine by me.
How do you hope?
Nancy
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