Hope is the thing with feathers, photo by K L Wood, author |
As we witness worldwide disasters, both natural (hurricanes and earthquakes,) and unnatural (the atrocities against the Rohingya people of Myanmar,) I wonder at the resilience of the human spirit. How can people survive such devastation and live on? Is it merely a survival instinct that pushes us forward?
I
believe it is the concept of Hope.
Hope,
the quality sitting between Faith and Love in 1 Corinthians 13:13.
Hope,
as Herman Melville, author of Moby Dick,
expresses, “is the struggle of the soul, breaking loose from what is
perishable, and attesting her eternity.” And from Miguel de Cervantes, creator
of that ever hopeful character, Don Quixote, “The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the
desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.”
Final Gifts, photo of author's mother and daughter by K L Wood |
Of course Hope is
empty and fruitless without the inner strength and determination to truly
believe in it so much that we do the hard work, be it physical, emotional, or
spiritual, to move forward. Facing our own death may seem the ultimate hopeless
situation, but I saw Hope in my mother’s eyes as she spent her last earthly
days with us last Christmas. She had Hope in her future, even though it was a
future for which she had no physical proof. Through a lifetime of experience
she had done the hard work of anchoring her Faith in things sometimes unseen.
Her Hope had a strong foundation.
Fred Rogers, 1960s, (photo in Public Domain) |
One of my favorite things in life is watching the myriad of
birds that flock to our birdfeeders. Birds of all kinds, sharing the sunflower
seeds, feeding their young, singing their songs. In the sunlight, in the rain,
in the snows of winter, these stalwart little creatures press on with the
business of life and I am reminded of a poem by Emily Dickinson:
Hope is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson, photo by K L Wood, author |
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.
Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back now.
Kate
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.
Thanks for stopping by...y'all come back now.
Kate
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