I try to wear my wrestlings with hope and faith in sight. That way, other people who wonder if they can be spiritual and sometimes have questions and feel upside down can say, “Well, if she can, I can.”
Today I wrote about a dream for my friends who want babies. And a few days ago, I sent up a dream balloon for another new baby for myself. A baby girl, since I’m feeling specific.
When I think and dream about impossible things like babies, I feel the end of my arms’ reach. I can tell this is precisely where my control runs out. And of course, a squirming discomfort ensues since no one, especially me, likes to feel out of control, flinging through space with a blindfold.
But alas, we kind of are, aren’t we?
I wrote tonight that, thanks to my friend, Kim, I’ve realized that Hope by itself is very small and frail and can’t breathe dreams to life all by itself. It needs faith. Kim has faith and I guess I have hope because I write a lot of these dreams like I must. So I will borrow her faith as mine grows.
|[Photo cred: destinednomad.blogspot.com]
I wrote this poem about hope as I fought with her. I hate to say that these were my thoughts, these violent, terrible thoughts, but this was me. I gave in to hope eventually, but it was rugged and a bit ugly at times. It still amazes me that something weak and vulnerable can win a bitter heart simply by being persistent. But this is exactly what hope did.
And still, this is how I get some days when I feel helpless and fresh out of power. I get angry. Angry at hope for letting me dream myself into this mess in the first place. Angry at myself for being so gullible. Angry at God for not talking me out of it.
But dreaming is essential for life. I know it. I’m putting the hoping and dreaming out here for all of us to read, see, feel, experience. All I know is that hope seems to be worth it. And if you can add some faith, you will not be disappointed.
Hope, the Foolish Child
The child, Hope, is unrelenting in optimism;
Wakes up and says, “Today’s the day”, every day,
Even though It hasn’t happened yet.
With odds against the whole thing,
Hope seems blind to reality.
A starving Pollyanna,
Hope is a survivalist.
In a concentration camp of pain,
Hope is a finger of grass, poking through the asphalt.
Sometimes you want to strangle her neck,
Silence this thing that seems only to bring disappointment.
But she walks blindly, dodging death and famine,
Evading what seems to be true,
Believing in something that is nowhere in sight.
What shall I do with Hope, this child I can’t stop feeding?
I want to kill her, but she says the sweetest things.
She knows my desire,
Keeps telling me it’s coming, it’s coming.
I start to think she might be a liar.
And just when I’m about to stop standing there like a fool,
Hand over my eyes,
Staring into that thin horizon line,
Just then she points, shouts,
“Here It comes!”
I squint into the light and sure enough,
Here comes my Longing.
I reach over to hug Hope, that bouncing child.
But she’s gone,
Gone to lay claim to a new desire.
What if I’d given her up?
What if I’d sold her for a clever book title,
Something for the cynics’ best seller list?
What if I’d held her down and shut her up,
Put my hand over her mouth and made her quiet for good?
Disappointment would have moved in.
Skepticism would have been my neighbor,
Resentment shacked up on the couch.
I wouldn’t have been at the end of the drive that day.
I would have missed my Longing as It rode by.
My Cynicism proven right,
I would have looked haughtily from my balcony,
Confident my Self-Righteousness saved me much wasted time.
I would never have known.
I would’ve been right, sort of, but I would have never held Joy.
I thought of all these things.
And then I stood there one more day,
Stood waiting with Hope, holding her tiny hand.
I was there when the Longing came by.
I welcomed the Longing, gladly,
Snatched It up and planted It in the yard:
A Tree of Life for all to see.
A Tree of Life to remind me.
For those who will wait,
Who believe enough to stand out in all that weather:
She does not lie.
No, and Hope does not disappoint.
[by Sarah Siders. Written August 2009]