When you see your dreams not happening, whether either from your own fear or lack of movement, or just because it’s not time – you can feel your hope begin to crumble.
We wait and we dream. Wishes upon stars that we stuff into little yellow envelopes like little notes. We bury the envelope some inches below the surface of the earth and hope they will sprout and grow wings and come true. And yet sometimes they don’t. Sometimes we go out in the back yard and we see the yellow envelope is now stained with dirt and has shriveled & begun to fall apart and our notes have started to disintegrate from the elements.
It’s hard. We see the hopes we had for a better future, for a promising life wear thin and shatterable. We begin to question our sanity for wishing dreams.
I’ve been in an intentional mode to maintain hope. I see its thinness and I can feel its urge to splinter when I place my palm upon my chest. My heartbeat feels somehow weaker. The things I’d desire for the now seem to be on hold. Some of them as I’ve shared previously is our own fears dictating that our steps not be taken. Some it’s just not time. Some what our ideal was, was made not an option and we’re left wondering what is next.
But this doesn’t make our dreams any less real, or any less difficult when we see time taking it’s time. It doesn’t mean we’ve lost our sanity for having them. I laid with my head against crisp, white, hotel sheets and considered all of this. I swallowed a dose of hope, a dose of “I can continue to breathe when I don’t feel that I can”. I suffer myself to not press a finger against the temperamental hope and shatter it back to the millions of pieces its been before. To remember the flight I’ve begun, and recall that it is better up here than down in the mire. No matter how appealing mire and giving up appears.
And it sustains me until it doesn’t any longer – whether that’s a day, a week, a month, an hour. It’s a continual process for me. I was talking with my friend Mandy about hope and how for me hope isn’t the anchor that so many see it as. I’ve lost all hope and the will for my dreams to live. To me, hope is fluid. I see often its waning and waxing as I try to hold tight to it.
When we are healing every part of us is vulnerable. We know that unless we make a conscious decision [sometimes with every breath] to continue walking, continue our upward spiral of flight, to continue believing that wholeness will come where shattering occurred – that hope, the one we see so thin and fragile, will only haunt our lives rather than invade them.
So today your hope may be just as fluid as mine, and you too press your cheeks against the cool sheets and wonder how you’re going to do the day, and your dreams distant and weak, and your courage barely a roar. Hold, with whatever grasp you have, tight to what little hope you are able to hold today. Resist the urge to trigger the shattering. Feel the wind ruffle your feathers asking you to join her. Our hope may always be fluid, but I am certain we’ll both fly.
