hope

The other day, I was walking back to my office from lunch when a sparrow, somewhere above me, burst into song, piercing my self-absorbed silence with its beautiful melody.

The bird trilled expertly, and the lyrical composition of notes felt like a impromptu homage to my favorite Romantic-era composers, Chopin, Mendelssohn and Brahms. He quickly crescendoed, and then with a tiny flourish, it was over.

I smiled and stopped under the tree, staring up into the bare branches to see this winged musical genius. After about a minute of searching, I gave up and walked away.

I didn't matter. I knew he was there.

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"Hope deferred makes the heart sick." (Prov. 13:12) Truer words were never spoken. Everywhere I go, people tell me that I look tired and worn down. The dark circles under my eyes are prominent, and I haven't been getting much sleep. I am weary, physically weary, from toiling under the weight of deferred hope.

But today I feel guardedly hopeful - an unusual feeling of lightness and excitement in what has otherwise been a dreary, heavy month. The last few days have been lovely, filled with strawberries and used bookstores and crisp new pillowcases. My husband has been infinitely understanding of my shifting moods, bringing me ice cream and flowers home from the grocery store and reaching for my hand when he notices me wandering off into distracted reverie. I've also been consistently going to the gym, which has injected me with extra energy and motivation. The next few days are promising; tonight, a bona-fide pre-planned 'date night' with Aaron and next week, his 30th birthday, complete with a three-day visit from his mom.

The worst is over, I think. And not just because good things are happening - but because good things point us and push us forward. They give us hope that tomorrow holds promise, regardless of whether or not we know what tomorrow will bring.

I can hear it; I can feel it stirring inside. I can't see it, but I know it is there.

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Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

- Emily Dickinson