Thank you for this, Bernadette. Every time I head out with the dogs, I notice a bunch of poppies and wild flowers that took root in the cracks of my neighbor's sidewalk. They don't question their situation, they just grow. It's a beautiful thought.
One of the books that gave me the most comfort during the dark days of the pandemic was Rebecca Solnit's Hope in the Dark. It's a beautiful meditation on hope. If despair is the belief that tomorrow will be exactly like today, hope is the belief that things could be different. Things could change and hopefully for the better. It's not a naive belief that things could get better. People have hope in some pretty horrible actual life situations. But hope is a belief. After all, no one knows what will happen tomorrow. But hope is a conscious decision. It's a way to live in the world. I don't want to surrender to despair. I choose hope.
Also, I don't know how you can pick up a pen or sit down at a computer to write if you don't have some hope. Writing is one of the most hopeful things we do.
Yes, writing is one of the most hopeful things we do. I do it even when I lack any confidence that it will lead to anything. I appreciate everything about this comment, Robyn. Thank you.
Kate, this was so lovely to get. To think that we are in the same place even as we are on opposite sides of the country and in different time zones -- that made me happy and feel connected. I found and read Emily's poem again after reading your note here. You are right - the belief that persists even amid the "gale." The last stanza and last line really struck home:
Perfectly timed words once again. How do you do it? With the onslaught of news about the state of our country, our libraries, our schools, I have felt myself sliding into despair. Reading helps, writing helps, my work helps. No good suggestions here, except I do have a suggestion for sleep. I take an antihistamine every night. It was prescribed to me for hives on my scalp due to stress years ago but it also helped me sleep longer each night. Just sayin'. Try Benadryl or generic. Same antihistamine as in Ibuprofen PM.
A look through a lot of Substacks and posts this week suggest that there is a general feeling of anxiety and sadness. Despair is always there waiting for us to slide into it. I'm glad reading helps and work helps. The things we do for love and for livelihood are themselves acts of hope.
As for the antihistamine, thanks. We keep them on hand but i use them sparingly. There are confusing articles out there about the effects on the brain as we age so I am careful. Besides, these 4 am wakeup calls from my brain seem to be associated with something else. I sleep soundly until that point. So I am going to see how things unfold. Maybe it will resolve on its own.
Well, today Betsy, you have led me to Sandra de Helen’s ‘Poetry for the People (3)’, which I have just bought and will be delivered in a few days, having tasted a sample on Amazon. Fist clenching punching the air stuff. I feel and share her anger. I also share her hope and wear a ‘Hope Not Hate’ campaign charity badge on the lapel or breast pocket of every coat I own. This is what you do so well. Lead your followers. I hope you begin sleeping better again before too long.
As for poetry. Read in the 1-7 April edition of ‘The Big Issue’, a street magazine here in England for the homeless and vulnerable, a quote by a playwright, Steven Knight, which reads as poetry: ‘A town or a city without art and culture is like a room without windows. No light gets in.’🐰
Oh Betsy, imagine my surprise (and little giddy thrill) when I came to the end of your beautiful writing on hope and discovered you posted my spine poem as the "moment of Zen" for this Spark. Thank you, I'm honored to be included.
As for Wendell Berry's poem "The Peace of Wild Things"—after I learned of my first husband and still friend's death, I took myself outside to the "wilds" just beyond the edges of Bird Park and sat with the blooming native plants and bird song for long enough, however long that was...I don't keep track of time when I do that.
I have two new books of poetry for the month: The San Diego Poetry Annual, with its burgeoning collection of 350 poems by 331 poets, and "50 Poems to Open Your World," a collection with essays by Padraig O'Tuama, of Poetry Unbound. I read from each book, each morning before I commence writing in my journal. Sometimes a poem graces those first few lines in my journal, inspired by the poets who shared their work.
You've inspired me to try reading a single poem before I start my day and before I start to write. Thank you, Judy. And thank you for letting me steal your photo!
I have a conflicted relationship with hope. When I was locked in a long journey with infertility, hope kept me stuck in a life that lived only in my head, instead of the life that was actually happening around me. The letting go of 'hope' and acceptance of reality, marked a major (positive) turning point in my journey. Of course, hope can be a lifeline too at certain times, and is necessary to remind us that the dark times will eventually pass, but it can mean living in an imagined future rather than being present with reality. It's complex I think....
That is a point to consider: how hope works in us at different points in our lives for different reasons. You've awakened me to the difference between hoping for some specific outcomes versus hoping in general that things work out better than I expect. Although I was spared a journey with infertility, I've seen how it can upend lives and create exactly the focus you describe which causes you to miss some of the life you are actually living while living "in hope." Thank you for this. It is very complex.
I read poetry every day. This week, I was deeply moved by Andrea Gibson (again). These two lines are from her latest substack: "Awe is the most powerful medicine in the world.
I hadn’t really considered hope as something you have to make a concerted effort to feel or recognise that you’re feeling until recently, when it suddenly became a very crucial thing to do to keep moving (https://open.substack.com/pub/thodi/p/let-hope-find-you). Since then, every time I come across anything to do with hope, I take a beat to sit with the message and consider it and truly appreciate it. Love the implication that to hope is something so intrinsically human–there’s such a relieving element to the idea, that if I am human, then I hope, and that if I hope, I can keep going. Adored this piece, and also the pictures of the dogs. Thank you for sharing!
I just read your post and will now save it to read when I need a treasure trove of reminders about what hope looks like. Cortazar and Solnit really spoke to me today. Thank you.
love your thoughts so much, Betsy. I can't even begin to articulate my feelings on the necessity for hope so I'll quote Lady Bird Johnson instead:
"Where flowers bloom, so does hope - and hope is the precious, indispensable ingredient without which the war on poverty can never be won."
Thank you for this, Bernadette. Every time I head out with the dogs, I notice a bunch of poppies and wild flowers that took root in the cracks of my neighbor's sidewalk. They don't question their situation, they just grow. It's a beautiful thought.
One of the books that gave me the most comfort during the dark days of the pandemic was Rebecca Solnit's Hope in the Dark. It's a beautiful meditation on hope. If despair is the belief that tomorrow will be exactly like today, hope is the belief that things could be different. Things could change and hopefully for the better. It's not a naive belief that things could get better. People have hope in some pretty horrible actual life situations. But hope is a belief. After all, no one knows what will happen tomorrow. But hope is a conscious decision. It's a way to live in the world. I don't want to surrender to despair. I choose hope.
Also, I don't know how you can pick up a pen or sit down at a computer to write if you don't have some hope. Writing is one of the most hopeful things we do.
Yes, writing is one of the most hopeful things we do. I do it even when I lack any confidence that it will lead to anything. I appreciate everything about this comment, Robyn. Thank you.
Lisa Miller's card is beautiful; it's joyful, yet it includes subdued colors that balance unbridled joy with the darker colored reality of our lives.
Yes, I just loved that card. The images say it all.
Coincidentally, this very week, I read
"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul...."
The whole poem. Carefully, with new eyes and a new understanding.
Its sweet optimism touched me at a time when hope seems so often to be out of reach.
I love that, without knowing we were in touch, you and I were in the same place.
Kate, this was so lovely to get. To think that we are in the same place even as we are on opposite sides of the country and in different time zones -- that made me happy and feel connected. I found and read Emily's poem again after reading your note here. You are right - the belief that persists even amid the "gale." The last stanza and last line really struck home:
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
Perfectly timed words once again. How do you do it? With the onslaught of news about the state of our country, our libraries, our schools, I have felt myself sliding into despair. Reading helps, writing helps, my work helps. No good suggestions here, except I do have a suggestion for sleep. I take an antihistamine every night. It was prescribed to me for hives on my scalp due to stress years ago but it also helped me sleep longer each night. Just sayin'. Try Benadryl or generic. Same antihistamine as in Ibuprofen PM.
A look through a lot of Substacks and posts this week suggest that there is a general feeling of anxiety and sadness. Despair is always there waiting for us to slide into it. I'm glad reading helps and work helps. The things we do for love and for livelihood are themselves acts of hope.
As for the antihistamine, thanks. We keep them on hand but i use them sparingly. There are confusing articles out there about the effects on the brain as we age so I am careful. Besides, these 4 am wakeup calls from my brain seem to be associated with something else. I sleep soundly until that point. So I am going to see how things unfold. Maybe it will resolve on its own.
Yes, it is confusing as to the effects on the brain. I plan to her off them one day...Best of luck!
Well, today Betsy, you have led me to Sandra de Helen’s ‘Poetry for the People (3)’, which I have just bought and will be delivered in a few days, having tasted a sample on Amazon. Fist clenching punching the air stuff. I feel and share her anger. I also share her hope and wear a ‘Hope Not Hate’ campaign charity badge on the lapel or breast pocket of every coat I own. This is what you do so well. Lead your followers. I hope you begin sleeping better again before too long.
As for poetry. Read in the 1-7 April edition of ‘The Big Issue’, a street magazine here in England for the homeless and vulnerable, a quote by a playwright, Steven Knight, which reads as poetry: ‘A town or a city without art and culture is like a room without windows. No light gets in.’🐰
Well, that's great! I'm glad you are going to read Sandra's book. And I love that line -- Mr. Knight is correct about all of it.
You inspire me every time!
Thanks Grace and I hope you had a happy birthday!
Really. Pure coincidence. Amazing and heartening!
Oh Betsy, imagine my surprise (and little giddy thrill) when I came to the end of your beautiful writing on hope and discovered you posted my spine poem as the "moment of Zen" for this Spark. Thank you, I'm honored to be included.
As for Wendell Berry's poem "The Peace of Wild Things"—after I learned of my first husband and still friend's death, I took myself outside to the "wilds" just beyond the edges of Bird Park and sat with the blooming native plants and bird song for long enough, however long that was...I don't keep track of time when I do that.
I have two new books of poetry for the month: The San Diego Poetry Annual, with its burgeoning collection of 350 poems by 331 poets, and "50 Poems to Open Your World," a collection with essays by Padraig O'Tuama, of Poetry Unbound. I read from each book, each morning before I commence writing in my journal. Sometimes a poem graces those first few lines in my journal, inspired by the poets who shared their work.
You've inspired me to try reading a single poem before I start my day and before I start to write. Thank you, Judy. And thank you for letting me steal your photo!
I have a conflicted relationship with hope. When I was locked in a long journey with infertility, hope kept me stuck in a life that lived only in my head, instead of the life that was actually happening around me. The letting go of 'hope' and acceptance of reality, marked a major (positive) turning point in my journey. Of course, hope can be a lifeline too at certain times, and is necessary to remind us that the dark times will eventually pass, but it can mean living in an imagined future rather than being present with reality. It's complex I think....
That is a point to consider: how hope works in us at different points in our lives for different reasons. You've awakened me to the difference between hoping for some specific outcomes versus hoping in general that things work out better than I expect. Although I was spared a journey with infertility, I've seen how it can upend lives and create exactly the focus you describe which causes you to miss some of the life you are actually living while living "in hope." Thank you for this. It is very complex.
And thank you so much for linking my essay in your post. xo Sandra
I read poetry every day. This week, I was deeply moved by Andrea Gibson (again). These two lines are from her latest substack: "Awe is the most powerful medicine in the world.
I have never felt awe and shame at the same time...) Read the whole thing here: https://andreagibson.substack.com/p/benefits-of-befriending-our-mortality?utm_source=post-email-title&publication_id=1148330&post_id=143960049&utm_campaign=email-post-title&isFreemail=true&r=1o0wok&triedRedirect=true&utm_medium=email
I love Lisa Miller's poem. In that spirit, and in the spirit of your thoughts about hope, here's a short poem from the late, great Jane Kenyon:
The Suitor
We lie back. Curtains
lift and fall,
like the chest of someone sleeping.
Wind moves the leaves of the box elder;
they show their light undersides,
turning all at once like a school of fish.
Suddenly I understand that I am happy.
For months this feeling
has been coming closer, stopping
for short visits, like a timid suitor.
This is beautiful, Andy. Happiness, and perhaps hope, can steal up on us in just that way. If we let it.
I hadn’t really considered hope as something you have to make a concerted effort to feel or recognise that you’re feeling until recently, when it suddenly became a very crucial thing to do to keep moving (https://open.substack.com/pub/thodi/p/let-hope-find-you). Since then, every time I come across anything to do with hope, I take a beat to sit with the message and consider it and truly appreciate it. Love the implication that to hope is something so intrinsically human–there’s such a relieving element to the idea, that if I am human, then I hope, and that if I hope, I can keep going. Adored this piece, and also the pictures of the dogs. Thank you for sharing!
I just read your post and will now save it to read when I need a treasure trove of reminders about what hope looks like. Cortazar and Solnit really spoke to me today. Thank you.