Mood: Determined | Drinking: Tea
A friend and I had a discussion recently about the nature of hope. She said, “Without hope, what is there?” And I agree.
But hope is so hard, and so painful. It’s the knife edge that cuts both ways.
With hope, you live on the edge of constantly being without, being proven wrong, being a fool. The object of your hope, the things you hope for, may remain forever elusive, may never materialize.
With hope, you feel the edge — the prick of faith, the sting of doubt.
But without hope, you’re so lost. No light in the blackness. No promise of a way out.
And so we hope. In spite of, because of, in the face of all fear and doubt and evidence to the contrary, we hope. What else can we do?
Years ago, I tattooed a mantra on the inside of my wrist. Written in latin so strangers couldn’t read my heart whenever they chanced upon it: “I am a prisoner of hope.”
The days of late have been dark, and not just for me. So many sad stories from so many people.
As for my own story, I’m working my way through a morass of anger, of fear, of helplessness, of sadness and loss. But I’m leaving room for hope. I’m turning my face toward the light.
What else can I do?
-Lo, who is getting better at waiting.