JANUARY 8
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.
—EMILY DICKINSONSometimes we know hope as much by its absence as by its
presence. When we’re depressed, hope seems almost un-
knowable, a total illusion. We feel inwardly flattened, unable
to move, or as if we are just going through the motions. The
song of hope of which the poet speaks is muted. Yet the will
of the spirit, as well as of the body, is for life, even for zestful
life. Then something happens—a friend calls and we mobil-
ize ourselves, making an effort to be useful, to ourselves or
to someone else. The energy quickens. At least the moment
has some meaning again and that persistent note of hope,
without which we cannot live, starts thrumming in our
minds once more.
Sometimes all I can hope for is that I’ll feel more hopeful tomorrow.