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:
|Hope is that thing with tiny leaves leaning toward the light.|
|Hope is three blackberries the first year.|
|Hope is building a nest on a ceiling fan.|
|Hope is a break in the clouds.|
|Hope is hay rolls for winter.|
|Hope is jars of home-pickled pickles.|
|Hope is freshly turned earth.|
How do you hope?