Hope is the things with feathers

Last night before I went to bed, I was thinking about hope. Foremost in my thoughts was a poem by Emily Dickinson:

"Hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul,
and sings the tune without the words,
and never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
and sore must be the storm
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
and on the strangest sea;
yet, never, in extremity,
it asked a crumb of me."

I thought of the hopes I have--the real hopes, not just "dreams" or "wishes." I hope to be better. I hope to grow; to grow in goodness, in love, in right action, in resolve; to be less foolish, less selfish...which led to me thinking of St. Francis:

"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace
where there is hatred...let me sow love
where there is injury...pardon
where there is discord...unity
where there is doubt...faith
where there is error...truth
where there is despair...hope
where there is sadness...joy
where there is darkness...light
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled...as to console
to be understood...as understand
to be loved...as love...."

Hope is the thing with feathers. It is alive and active and constantly present. It remains a living presence in my soul, spurring me forth to grow, to renew, to never give up trying. The hope that says "be better," "sow love," "so peace," "seek understanding," "look outside yourself."

It struck me that hope was an interesting thing to be contemplating when so much despair surrounds; when I have for the first time felt a sense of hopelessness and helplessness. Crushed lives, crushed communities, crushed structures in Haiti--devastation on an incomprehensible scale. Gushing oil uncontrollably attacking the Gulf, seemingly unstoppable. The economic recession still resulting in waves of job loss, foreclosure, and spirals of debt and worry. Earthquakes around the globe, flooded cities, uprisings in fragile governments. I've never felt so hopeless for situations, as I sit on the couch watching it unfold on the TV, without any way to plug the oil or rebuild homes in Haiti.






Yet, from the rubble and sewage of Haiti comes a beautiful tin carving, with three little birds perched in a tree, brought home from Stephen's recent trip. Even Haiti, where the continuance of life seems so endangered and hope seems so absent, hope is the thing with feathers; people are surviving.



The oil gushes and the pelicans and gulls are mired, but one at a time they are washed clean, surviving. Hope is the thing with feathers.



The bird hope may be small, but hope is present. Amidst so much despair, it's song seems so dim. The bird hope in my soul is restless--I feel useless; but I can sow goodness here in my place. I can stir up hope in the souls of others so that together we may amend, or at least begin to heal, what these unhindered atrocities have destroyed. Hope may seem small, but hope is stalwart. How do we follow hope's quiet and constant call? I don't know, but I'm trying.