I sat down as if I was being poured out from a pitcher. Giant tears fell hard as I broke down, and fractured words tumbled out. I didn’t understand what was going on. Why I grieved something we never had. There had been hope for something I wasn’t sure I wanted, and now that it was no longer an option I cried over the thing lost.
Hurt and sadness enveloped me. I wanted nothing more than just to weep, and to give up hoping.
It’s times like these I don’t want to even dare to hope. Knowing, or rather feeling certain the outcome isn’t going to be in the way of what hope longs for. But I still entertain hope, foolishly my brain says in hindsight.
Hope can be a paradox. There are times we hope, when we shouldn’t even humor the notion. I wonder at why we look for silver in grey clouds as we walk along pitted, dirt roads. One moment we are pregnant with expectation, and the next our hope has been miscarried….and we mourn that which we never had.
How we balance the seesaw of hope & expectation?
How do you continue to hope when it has been miscarried in the past?