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