Ep. 13/ That thing We Call Hope
A raw stream of consciousness on hope.
In 1861, Emily Dickinson wrote, “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words.”
Half a century earlier, in 1815, John Keats wrote a poem called To Hope, in which he compared hope to the soft morning light. Hope has “silver pinions,” he said.
As much as I love these giants — and I truly do — I have to come clean and say, Ms Dickinson and Mr Keats, I respectfully disagree.
You see, I have never been able to wrap my head around the concept of hope being a delicate, winged thing made of whispers and wildflowers. To me, hope has never been a bird, featherlight and singing sweetly from the safety of the soul. Or a soft light in the sky, far above the reach of storms.
No. Hope does not perch. Hope does not float. Hope does not glaze.
Hope fights.
Hope is not delicate; she is defiant.
She does not whisper; she roars.
Hope drags her callused hands to wipe the dirt from her face. She has blood on her knuckles, the grime of every street she’s crawled through in her hair, and the stink of every alley where she’s been cornered on every inch of her body. Hope has a broken rib or two and more scars than you’d dare to count. Hope’s legs buckle from one too many hits to her kneecaps. But even when her hands shake, lungs burn, and eyes blur, she squares her shoulders, spits out a broken tooth, and rises. Again. And again. And again.
Hope is a soldier, battle-worn but not tired.
Hope is a gladiator, bruised and battered but belligerent to outlast.
And when the world calls her foolish, when the odds scream “stay down,” hope grins and growls — make me.
After all, hope is not the soft glow at the end of the tunnel, but all the might that gets you through it.
Until next time.
Xoxo
