Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

Hope: steel-toed boots and all.

November 23, 2016

 

I know in light of recent events, hope can seem a dangerous, apathetic, complacent commodity. A liability. I hear that argument, and I understand it. 

 

But in this life, I have clutched the floorboards in panic, in substance-draining terror, in sweat-drenched and erratic surely-this-must-be-it palpitations. I have been there; I have seen and welcomed darkness, even asked for it. 

 

But I'm here. You see? I'm here. Nothing saved me, no one saved me. Things pass. Things pass because Pandora, bless her curious soul, was right to open that box. She was right to free hope. Sure, she let out a slew of nastiness that hounds and haunts us now, whose slimy touch is still on our skin from earlier in the month, but think of it this way: hope was trapped in that box with those things. And it survived. 

 

It not only survived; that sweet sister flew--last out, cramped and stuffed beneath an eternity of darkness, and still she flew. 

 

Hope changes everything. Hope is what assures us that yes, yes, the sages were right: things are unfolding as they should. We may hate it. We may rage against it. But we rage together. We find new ways together. We sit on hilltops, binoculars in hand, sharing stories and coffee, scanning the skies for hope. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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