Hope Is The Thing

 

It’s been a year since everything locked down due to the pandemic. How funny it seems now that we thought it was going to be a two week lockdown to control the spread of COVID 19, after which we would go back to life as we knew it.  It’s been a rough, soul sucking 12 months, and it isn’t over yet. Yes, things are starting to reopen; some too fast, some seemingly not fast enough. Recently my husband and I went to dinner at a restaurant, a year almost to the day since the last time we did so before the big shut down.  It was quite a treat, but also strange.  Servers in masks, and patrons unmasked only long enough to eat with lots of space in between tables felt odd.  Since we are all vaccinated in our house, we felt that it was a minimal risk to spend time on a Saturday afternoon lingering over a meal we didn’t have to prepare nor clean up.  It was our first step toward a return to something close to life as we knew it.  As we wait for things to “normalize” we can take small steps such as a dinner out and ease back into being less isolated from others; it gives me hope.

Spring is on the way after a cold, snowy winter which had us hibernating here.  The tall snow piles are nearly gone, and much of our yard is mushy but free of snow.  The tops of the trees, closest to the sun are starting to look a bit reddish which tells me that the stronger March sun is coaxing forth buds in spite of the cold temperatures.  I look forward to the buds bursting and leaves unfolding to color the landscape with varying shades of green.  Soon crocus, daffodils, and tulips will sprout and bloom and forsythia will splash sunny yellow around the yards in my neighborhood for a few weeks before turning green.  We’ve already seen our first robin, but I have yet to hear the geese honking as they stop by our lake on their migration trip north—any day now they will appear.  It is another hopeful sign when the seasons begin to change that life goes on as it always does, turning page after page until the story of the year is complete.  The details of what happens vary year to year, but the framework remains in place—seasons come and go in a certain unchanging order we can rely on.  The moon waxes and wanes, the sun rises and sets, plants grow and die or lay dormant and it all begins again in its own time. Nature is reliable that way, thus there is always life and therefore, hope.

Things will get better, we will be able to enjoy the company of others, and feel as if we are living our “normal” lives.  There is comfort in that.

This is what hangs above my kitchen sink.

Look Up

Look up, dear friend, look up,

Consider what you see,

How amazing it is that it exists,

Whether it's jet, or bird, or tree,

Take a breath, a moment,

Forget what else you seek,

For wonder is all around you,

Take it in when all seems bleak,

A split second of contemplation,

Does not mean you're weak.

Take heart, dear friend,

You're stronger than you know,

Hold on to that mindful moment,

As through your days you go.

The view of sky while sitting on the patio looking up through my wisteria.

It seems as though many of my friends are currently going through a time of trouble. Some I know what they are, the death of a loved one, an illness, or a general feeling of unrest, and some ask for prayers for unspecified concerns. Indeed, if you pay attention to current events there are plenty of serious problems to worry everyone. When feeling as if things are bleak I find that if I can just go outside and look up, take a breath and contemplate the sky, I feel a bit restored. There is something about looking up that lifts the spirit and helps light an ember of hope. Like looking at the ocean and feeling awed, contemplating the sky can have the same effect. If that vastness can exist in the same world that we do, and it is filled with life and mysteries we cannot see, then there is hope that we will come out the other side of our difficulties; and when we do, we will be stronger and wiser. I take some comfort in that.

Hope

Today I spent a few hours outside potting plants and pulling weeds.  Every spring I plant annuals in the hanging baskets and help my husband plant vegetables in large pots for the front deck.  We have so many huge old trees around that the sunniest place is our west-facing front deck.  It's pleasant to sit there in the summer twilight and watch the stars pop out while inhaling the scent of tomato plants and flowers.  Even those years when we just weren't feeling like it we planted flowers and vegetables.  Some years we get some tomatoes, a small eggplant or two, a couple of bell peppers and some zucchini from our deck garden, and some years we don't.  I think it's a sign of hope to do that.  Above my kitchen sink is a wood carving that says "HOPE".  There's always hope, I've found.  I like having hope around.  I've tried hanging out with hopelessness and despair; they are not good company at all.  They are energy sucking companions who keep you spiraling downward.  Hope sits quietly by your side, encouraging you to keep putting one foot in front of the other, take one breath at a time until you feel your feet under you again.  I don't know if our plants will bear fruit this year or just decorate our seating area, and I don't know if the annuals I chose will survive the "death valley" conditions their locations get in July, but we'll keep watering them and hoping.