This kind of day is for breathing deeply the summer air stretched thin against an inevitable autumn. My mom finds hope in these seasonal moments, she says the songbirds are gathering to remind us they will return with spring on their wings. Where would the world be without such hope?
But hope is a tricky thing. An illusion almost. Like a cloud. It holds promise as if it were solid (and audacious enough to be the basis for a presidential campaign), but hope can be neither solid nor audacious. Like a wish, like a cloud, hope can only hang in the air, weightless and magical.
Like most people, I have many wishes and hopes. Indeed, I fling them about recklessly, and somehow I am always surprised when their opposites land in my life. Perhaps life is easier for the more real and less hope-full (or at least the better prepared). And yet. There are the songbirds, gathering at the end of August, again and again.
3 comments:
That first sentence is so beautifully put!
"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all..."
Emily Dickinson
I think hope surrounds you much as the air does; it's your blankie, your mom, your job, that new shirt you bought, dinner in the making... it's wherever you are and whatever you're thinking.
it is beautifully written...the change of seasons and our anticipation of each... susan nunn
this photograph is stunning!
hope is the thread that keeps life moving forward...a belief that allows us to make changes and explore. our desire, determination, will power, and courage are the vehicles in which we travel.
without hope we would never survive. (because sh*t happens and sets us back, breaks our hearts, scares us to death, sinks the boat, and injures us along the way!)
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