Hope Issue

Hope. So many of us think about it, hold it close to our heart, try to live into the belief. The word dates to the twelfth century–and though those roots have religious ties, the meaning was also caught up in the idea to have trust or confidence in something larger, and it captured something about desire as well.  Holding on to hope is not always easy.  

 

I will admit that when I hear the word, the first thing that jumps to mind is Dickinson’s line, “hope is the thing with feathers.” I think about angels and then birds. The symmetrical beauty of feathers, the magic of them. I remember a friend telling me that in a time of deep loss, she began to find white feathers everywhere as if an angel was telling her that she was close, was present. When you consider them, feathers are miraculous. 

 

Think about all that a feather can do–birds we describe as beautiful are bedecked and bedazzled in astonishing palettes. Bright green, ruby, gold, hot pink. They capture our attention and make us catch our breath. They give us pause. And, at least for me, in that moment of pause, in the long exhale, my heart quickens. Joy fills up my body–from my toes, and through my torso, and down my arms. I think, “What a world.” And, yes, beauty fills me with hope, a belief in something better and larger, a desire for a world filled those things that make us gasp, that stop the heart for reasons that are good, fulfilling, miraculous. 

 

For the birds, those feathers also provide camouflage; quail have intricate patterns of brown and gray allowing them to live more safely, to survive. The patterns and varied colors make it possible for the quail to blend, to merge with the ground, melding with grasses and leaf fall. Yes, hope–hope that we too might find a way to blend into our world when we need to be safe.  

 

The wonder of those feathers continues. For the birds, feathers provide what is needed to find a mate, to be protected from extremes of weather, to offer bodily protection–and most miraculous of all to lift in flight. The branching structure, the small barbules that interlock, the muscles at the base, the architecture–all of this allows the bird to take flight. And, I don’t know about you, but when I need to conjure that feeling of hope, when I need inspiration, when I need a miracle, I look up. 

 

Miracles are all around us. We just have to slow down long enough to be aware of their presence. For me, the miraculous is an engine for hope.  

 

Yes, “hope is a thing with feathers” and it “asks no crumb of me.” It simply fills us and sustains us. This reminds me of a quote by Sharon Olds: “To the poet, the human community is like the community of birds to a bird, singing to each other. Love is one of the reasons we are singing to one another, love of language itself, love of sound, love of singing itself, and love of the other birds.”  

 

And thus, here we are. This gathering of writers. They sing to us–filling us with love in all its myriad forms, reminding us of our shared humanity, encouraging us to find our better natures, giving us hope.