Hope

Dear Hope, 

On this first December day, I wonder about you as the sky is a mindless gray and the branches bare. If only you would burst out of Justin Bieber’s version of Jingle Bells that my daughter loves and listens on repeat. Or from the long list of gift finding, wrapping and giving, or the packed calendar of family gatherings. Why do I feel grinch-like?

When I am quiet, like at six in the morning, when all I hear is the furnace fan, and my knitting needles clicking this wool into a toque, I wonder if I am looking for you in the wrong places. You hunker down, deep within. At 59 years old, somewhere I know: you live within what is, not within the excess we create. You live inside the cold and gray, you live within the lonely and left out, you live alongside the doubts and irritation, the collapse and disbelief. 

I know too well that if I yank you out quickly, in my discomfort or in my need to control your outcome, I’m back to Bieber and low-grade anxiety. Sentimental overload.

When Quinn, my one year old granddaughter, notices the metaphor that is you, she gasps, breathes out, and sings a wholehearted, “Wow!”

I am learning. I am. 
You are not made up; 
You are born. 
In the dark. 
Tiny sparks, gifts like the stars
Ignite you. 
Into beauty. 
Simple and extraordinary. 
A fire flame that swirls and rises
From heat’s orange shifts and turns. 
You’re not in our control. 
When you arrive, you are noticed. 

I want to live in a way that notices you. 

Love, 

Bonnie