Sometimes it feels like I am holding on to hope with my fingernails.
And that I’m slipping.
And that the precipice is getting sharper and sharper.
And I’ve started to bleed.
And hurts only to grasp at the lacerating edges of hope and feel so uncertain and not know if anything I will do matters. I fear holding on too much closely because I can’t tell if hope itself is doing the harm.
Is it hope, or optimism, or fear, and I actually can’t feel the hope.
Does hope pierce my soul and release it, instead?
Or is hope an arrow shooting through the night sky and I lost my chance to grasp it when it disappeared into the mist around me.
Maybe hope is the thing that is hovering around me as I grasp on the edge of this existence.
Will it catch me? Could it, even if it wanted to?
Maybe it isn’t hope that is cutting into my hands, but my desire to hold on to at least one thing that made sense this time last year, that now is ridiculous, pointless, impossible.
Could it be that I am harming myself by thinking that hope has anything to do with the past?
I’m tempted to compare my existence to those around me, to say that “I don’t have it that bad because we’re ok with money and we have a home and we’ve got a reliable job in the household and a stocked pantry, and a bunch of folks don’t have that.” And when my mind does that, I feel guilty for being lonely and angry and frustrated and tired and weary. But I am those things. And we can’t see our family. And we can’t go trick-or-treating. And I don’t risk going to shop for things that are outside of the essentials because even the pharmacy team can’t figure out how to wear their masks right.
And so, I’m left with a sliver of hope, that maybe I will get to escape this season of despair, but really not knowing how it will happen.
— — —
The last special worship service that we had in person was Ash Wednesday, where we imposed ashes on our foreheads and said “dust you are, and to dust you shall return.” And part of me has not left that space. We began our quarantine in the midst of lent, and I do not know if it will be safe for me to return to in person worship until next year’s easter, or pentecost, or will the kids actually lose a full two years of worship.
We don’t know. We don’t know, and so I don’t know how to grasp hope any tighter, if actually holding it tightly is causing it to diminish like water or sand in my grasp.
Perhaps I need to cup my hands like I am drinking from a fresh spring, holding a newborn kitten, or comforting a weeping child.
Maybe it is that I think that my hands can do the only bit of holding, and I forget that I can embrace hope like a friend or a child or a child or a parent or a lover.
Maybe my hands are not the right place for this holding. Or not enough, at least.
What if I gathered hope up like one of my gangly squirmy children and let it sit for a while. Or embraced it like my lover.
What if I need to be hope’s little spoon.
I wonder what would happen if I allowed hope to embrace me, hold me instead.
Can I rest in hope?
I’m unsure what to actually hope for that doesn’t feel directive. I can’t predict or conform the future to my hopes, and maybe that is why hope feels so ephemeral these days. I hope that my children are safe, that the children in my community whose skin is different than my own are also safe from the hatred of the fearful around me. But I want to look with better eyes than that. I want to hope bigger than that.
But I don’t know if my hope can do any more than that right now.
Here is the last thing.
I hope I can still find joy.
Dance in, breathe in, drift in, work in, sleep in, walk in, cook in, bathe in joy.
Not happiness, mind you. Nothing as saccharine or dismissive as that.
But joy. Embodied joy.
Thats what I hope I still spread and share and sing and soar in, even when it keeps getting darker.
I hope for joy.