Hope is a creative way to twist options into the ideas of our art that we listen to because, after all, things do suppress us, and we can’t always imagine ourselves differently while carrying the weight of what has formed on our pages.
Sometimes, hope is our vague strength that pulls us along because we don’t know how to keep moving and in other moments it’s a cliff of optimism between the scenery of our layered pain and the view of the better that isn’t detectable yet.
Sometimes it’s the negotiator between the fears that pop up to darken pages and the voice that is trying to light the way with words that aren’t always being understood and at other times it is a gentle nod to the uncomfortable realness that we are really hoping to share and to receive.
So, we hold it hoping that possible isn’t just an idea but will be the proof that safety is not a temporary state in our perfectly imperfect stories, and happiness will be a welcoming spot in our gardens where even sadness and anger are greeted with the strength of the hug that they need.
And we also let it go because we can’t ride it like we used to, or it’s being replaced by another hope that might be nourished by the soil-work that exists within us or it’s set to the side as something whose beacon has gone out, but we will always longingly look at how it once held the world in the palm of its design.
Hope, though, is a strange thing in that it’s born from our standing in the shade and yet until it actually becomes an observable form, our dreams remain in the state of just being a possibility and so do we as well.
But as hope wanders our moments, wins also don’t always appear as imagined and when we look for specifics, the dark stays as a recognizable character that we grip until we loosen our hands to connect with what unfolds instead of staying stuck in expectations.
The right answer begins in the moment that we recognize a dragon, a grief on our pages and we reach to add color to the black and white feelings of its pain, but hope can’t remove that mental load without our thinking about what else we can do.
Some days that target will be to simply acknowledge that the weather can be nice on the outside while it’s storming on the inside and that is enough because that is our vague strength showing up.
Sometimes it will be that the corners of our mouths turn up slightly as we practice breathing in the spot in our gardens where hugs aren’t just for being happy.
And in other moments more is simply turning around to see that we have come so far because we have called hope and believed in our possibilities up to this very moment despite the dragons and poor lighting.
Hope is a perfectly imperfect word, and the task is to let its care of us dance through every moment so that piece by piece its structure is slowly nourished because its purpose isn’t to give us exact wins but rather to help us find all right in the uncomfortable realness of our own art.
Have the best day POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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