Hope...

I have often favored the harsher reality of life over the vague uncertainty of hope. Somehow knowing the truth and being prepared for it seemed better than the optimistic hope that keeps you unhinged from reality.

But today, when hope is actually dashed, and reality has made itself clear - somehow, I prefer that sense of hope - however tempestuous and elusive it may have seemed. It was enough to let me get through to the next day. It was enough to let me sleep and wake up.

It held a possibility, however small. Undaunted by probabilities or statistics, It held a possibility. It was enough to keep me calm in the face of the storm.

Hope is the thing with feathers 
Emily Dickinson 

“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.

I hope I learn to value that little bird and its song without words. Because sometimes, you are just not ready for that storm. Sometimes, even that glimmer of hope, however remote, however uncertain, is sufficient to keep you together. 

Remember that - will you? The next time you want to curse hope for leaving you vulnerable, uncertain and confused.