In the early days of the pandemic, it was easier to stay hopeful. After all, surely it would soon be over. But as the days, weeks, months drag by, as our problems compound, it’s easy to become discouraged. But as Emily Dickinson reminds me in her beautiful poem, “Hope Is The Thing With Featuers,” hope is an inside job.
On the footpath where I walk in the mornings, people have begun leaving messages of hope painted on colorful stones. As I walk by, my spirits are lifted by these small thoughtful gestures. And they remind me of all the goodness and beauty in my life. Hope is always there. I just have to look for it
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 stormThat could abash the little birdThat 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.
The beautiful photo was provided by my good friend Carlton, a master photographer.