It’s counterintuitive. Like being told to drink hot tea on an even hotter day because it will cool me down. For me, the amount of hope I need to sustain me, is inversely proportional to the level of overwhelm and disillusionment I’m feeling. It should be the other way round, shouldn’t it?
These days I experience hope less like a dish that I want to consume until my belly yawns in replete satisfaction, and more like seasoning which, if judiciously sprinkled, enlivens anything it touches. I think hope shows up, not as a ‘pairing-specific’ seasoning – cinnamon for apple pie, oregano for tomato sauce, cumin with lentils … . Rather that any morsel of hope augments whatever it touches. Just as a pinch of salt enhances pretty much anything – sweet, savory or bitter.
I had to search hard for my seasoning this week, a week where the dishes being served up include collapsing world orders, exposes of sexual misconduct, and nearer to home, children acting up in school and job insecurity.
But when I searched back in the corners of cupboards or out in the world, I did indeed, find salt in abundance:
- In my post savassanah stretch at yoga, where I felt hope easing through my joints, reminding me that my aging body still loves to move.
- In the baby humming birds being nourished by their parents on the string of lights outside our living room – miniature beaks held up high in a commitment to their survival. Or the daffodils reminding me that spring is somewhere round the corner.
- In the smile of relief breaking out on the faces of a couple emerging from their ICE appointment on my volunteer watch, having been told that all was good and they didn’t need to come back for another year – hope that due process can still sometimes prevail.
- In my mother’s momentary fleeting first laugh since the death of my stepfather – reminding me that even the deepest grief will eventually loosen its grip.
Not one of these grains of hope created a permanent change of state. Neither did they offer long term transcendence from pain and the struggle. But I don’t believe that this is the role of hope. Hope doesn’t fix me. Or us. Or the world. Hope is not the end destination. It’s not even a stop off point along the route. Hope is the volunteer who drives in to greet hikers on the Pacific Crest Trail with fresh fruit. Who has band aids to give to those walking the pilgrim’s way on the Camino de Santiago. Or the water handed out in that last final mile of the marathon – just when the runner is ready to give up. She shows up at the exact point I think I can’t take another step. She can’t walk for me or make me whole. She isn’t my soul mate, committed to hanging out by side through sickness and health. For better or worse. There are other qualities that stick more faithfully by my side – Trust, Love, Honesty… But Hope does appear like a fairy godmother in times of trouble, offering me a glimpse of a future reality which is lighter and more loving than the one I’m currently experiencing. I just need to believe hard enough in the magic to be able to see her.
