Hope, such a short word.
Four letters packed with promise. A minimalist in the dictionary. A powerhouse of potential, like a seed waiting to grow. The one word I want in my pocket when storms brew, when doors close, when injuries arise, when bullets pierce, when a pandemic rearranges our interactions, making human contact scarce.
Hope, the spark that lives within the darkness, that reminds me right when I need it most, that light will return. That light always finds its way back, even to the darkest of rooms.
This I believe.
This I hope.
“Maybe someone took it who really needs hope more than we do,” I say to the kids. It’s the holiday season and we stand at the beach next to the tree we decorated the week before, the one we adorn every year, the one that has grown several feet since we started the tradition, the one we can no longer reach the top branches of as it stretches towards the sun.
A silver star ornament with the word “hope“ engraved on it no longer hangs from the branch where we placed it.
“Maybe it fell off in the wind,” Nick says. We kick the snow around the base of the Spruce tree.
No luck.
No star.
No hope.
Only footprints in the snow.
It's that kind of a year, where hope goes missing, carried off by wicked winds of change, stolen by greedy hands, covered up by layers of complications, plucked by a raven and plunked in the middle of the deep blue sea.
Hope trapped behind shuttered doors of stores forced to close, caught behind paper masks covering grim lips, strangled by lungs unable to breathe. Hope packed away with the parties, concerts, theater tickets, travel plans, family reunions, all canceled due to Covid 19.
Long dark nights filled with worry, fear, uncertainty. Days without the intimacy of friends, without the magic of live music, without the collective gasp of movie theaters, without the cheer of the home crowd, without the warm embrace of multiple generations of relatives all in the same room.
Days without the loved one whose heart stopped far too soon.
No luck.
No star.
No hope.
Only footprints in the snow.
But light always finds its way back, even to the darkest of rooms.
Spring arrives with the promise of migrating birds, the return of social gatherings, the gift of days that sparkle with warm relief. We breathe a little easier as the snow melts and green memories break through the thawing earth.
Last Sunday, I rose early with our new puppy Hemlock, a short walk around the property turned into a trek down the hill to the beach, the sunshine drawing me towards the glistening bay. I met a neighbor by the seashore and our light conversation turned more meaningful as we discussed the changes in our lives both personal and universal, from the adoption of puppies, to the pandemic, to travel plans, to the death of a father. Our dogs played by the waves, without conflict, as we sipped our coffee in a comfortable silence, watching the sun rise higher in the sky.
As I walked back towards home, on a whim, I cut off the path to look under our holiday Spruce tree. And there it lay, the missing ornament, sunken in the dirty snow, a silver star with the word hope chiseled into the center.
Not missing. Just hidden. Buried beneath winter's stubborn layers, but there all along. No-one stole the star from our tree for their own needs-- a brazen breeze lifted hope free. I picked up the lost decoration and its absence left a perfect star imprint where it lay.
Sometimes hope is nothing more than a five-pointed indentation in dirty snow. Arrows pointing anywhere and everywhere but here. Hope for something better, for something different, for something more.
Hope is the Geranium wintered-over, tucked next to the wood stove by the sliding glass door, sprouting tiny red buds.
Hope is wood floors covered with dirt, sand, hair, crumbs from the tread of daily living and handing your legally blind boy the vacuum cleaner.
Hope is asking a classroom of students to write and draw not just what was hard about Covid 19 but what was good. What did we learn? What made us stronger?
Hope, the small hole in the bay of despair, where an alternate story can take hold, a tale of homecomings, celebrations, potlucks, dance floors, hugs.
Hope, the ever-present four letter word that reminds us to keep searching for the light.
For light always finds its way back, even to the darkest of rooms.
Christy, this is a rock solid piece of writing. I just smiled remembering all the way back to meeting by the donut tray in the faculty room before walking to Baldwin on the stone wall, and your propensity for tucking notes away in the old leather bound books. You are a born writer. Thanks for sharing your gift so perfectly.
Posted by: Greta | 04/28/2021 at 08:56 PM
Thank you for the eloquent reminder to look for the hope. It is there.
Posted by: Denise Woodbury | 04/29/2021 at 03:55 PM
Greta, I have such fond memories of that upper balcony in the faculty room, of the donuts and cookies, and walking along that rock wall with you on the way to school. Thank you for the reminder that I would write notes back then too. I wonder if there are still any notes tucked away in books up high in this stacks. Love to you my friend.
Thank you Denise. i often write what I need to remember--and yes hope is everywhere when we look for it.
Posted by: Christy | 04/29/2021 at 08:52 PM