Hope is the Thing
Have you ever found yourself wondering why it is that some debris of your life continues to be washed ashore, if not here in this time, then down the beach or round the coastline further? And you know it’s the same because it has a certain familiarity to your touch or to your senses, except that each time, it sort of looks different.
Our lives ask us so many questions and I often wonder why it is we fail to answer them properly. Too busy? Too rude or just plain too scared?
They ask of us some of the hardest questions that will ever be posed by anyone and there’s a reason for that. No-one and nothing else has more to gain than when they’re answered. Still, for some of us, it doesn’t make the inquisition any easier does it? No. But as they say, “there was never meant to be a Spanish Inquisition” either. How droll!
One of my favourite poems by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) goes like this:
“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea,
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.”
From Part One: Life XXXII
Perhaps it may be this then, that, makes answering the more nagging questions easier. Why? Because hope offers us something. Nothing tangible that can be held up to others as proof that we’re not mad (and that can be disconcerting to the control freak in us), and it’s not even explainable in some rational able-to-be- explained way. We are compelled to believe from somewhere deeper than on a purely rational level and yet in doing so, may be deemed by others to be totally irrational. It’s a fine line wouldn’t you say? To cross or not to cross now there’s a question. If only the answer were as simple.
I’ve been trying to catch Lester’s eye because such things require a more bookish approach, and he, with his bookish looks is a more likely candidate for such conjecture than the erstwhile Larry who simply muttered that ” such concerns of mine were not concerns of his …” I’m of the opinion that blaming the weather for his bad manners lately has become an all too common practice!
Lester meanwhile is hot-footing it across the backyard, he looks a trifle harried, perhaps it’s the Mafioso-type LHMDT (short for Long Haired Male Domestic Tabby) close on his heels. I’ve never seen this fella before, the neighbourhood is changing. Hmmm, maybe I’ll catch him later if he doesn’t get caught himself.
My soul feels weary. Does yours ever feel that way? Where does our soul go to restore do you think? Well don’t look at me, I just asked the question. Somewhere warm is all I can surmise.
Today I’ve purposed to pick up one piece of driftwood off the seashore of my life and make it into something. I’d like to fashion it to become sculptural, or even an architectural feature of my house. Infact, I know just where I’ll put it. What will you fashion from yours and where will you put it?
