4.7.24
I woke up this morning, very content to stay snuggled under the covers a bit longer as it was still dark outside and there was a definite chill in the air. As I lay there for a while deliberating on if I should get up or procrastinate a bit longer, the thought came to me to write a story this morning. After all it is Sunday and I usually write a story on this day, but of late, the urge to write seems to have abandoned me. Oh, I still think about it, so I know the desire must still be there inside me somewhere, it is just as if it has been sidelined for a while. I hope the urge will return.
Rather a funny word is hope. According to the definition in many dictionaries it is, “A feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.” How often during daily thoughts and conversation does that little word come up? Quite a lot of late, for me at least. “I hope Heidi is bred this time!” or “I hope that new calf Willow just had is a heifer.” Even down to “I hope my Yorkshire puds rise nicely in the oven!” and “I hope we have a nice day today.! Yes, that little four-letter word has figured frequently in my thoughts this past while.
The other day while browsing through a section of a newspaper, I came across an article that might have been written just for me. In it, the author was talking about a friend of hers who had suddenly lost the desire to write. Now unlike me, a hopefully budding author – there is that word again! – this lady’s friend was a well-established author and editor. The article went on to describe how she had helped her friend get through this “dry” time in her writing career by simply giving her hope. As I read the article through to the end, I thought of how simple it had sounded and yet how hard it was to get back on the bandwagon when one feels as if all desire to continue writing seemed to have fled for good. I did not have hope.
Many, many years ago I was given a wee silver charm. You know, the type of thing that adorned the charm bracelets that were so common back in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s. It was a heart, a cross and an anchor. For years I wore that little charm around my neck, for the most part on a plaited piece of butcher string. Now it resides in a little box somewhere amongst all my things. It was given to me by my mother, whom I met briefly at the age of 13 when my father and I passed through Montreal on our way back home to England. Years and years passed before I decided to wear it and then it was only after learning my mother had died and unexpected grief filled me, having no idea why I had kept it for such a long time, it suddenly meant something to me. I have not thought about that wee charm in donkey’s ages! Yet as I think about it now, the urge to go and find it fills me.
Hope. That simple little word is for some reason consuming my thoughts today. Tears sting the corner of my eyes, as I take a big gulp of tea then glance out the window at the grey clouds scudding across the brightening sky. I had at first thought it was going to be a dreary day but as the sky continues to lighten, that thought changes. It is going to be a glorious day. Each day one can open one’s eyes, swing one’s legs out of bed is a day to be thankful.
So, as I sit here this morning, I suddenly realise the power that such a small, seemingly innocuous word can have on one’s heart and soul. I think about that wee charm and suddenly know it is far more than a trinket, it is a talisman. Faith, as represented by the cross, I have. The heart declares love and charity, but it is the anchor, that symbol of hope, which speaks to me this morning. It is a reminder that no matter how hard the journey before us may be, how heavy the load we may have to bear, hope in brighter days ahead will see us through. For in the words of Alexander Pope, Hope springs eternal.
