Hope

“Hope” by Emily Dickinson
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.



I can't seem to shake this nagging sense of hope. For a self-proclaimed pessimist, this comes as quite a shock. I'm used to seeing the glass as mostly empty, and occupy my time worrying about worst-case scenarios that are pretty unlikely. So to feel my spirits lift on the cusp of this new year is a little disconcerting. Perhaps it's the relief of overcoming so much in the past couple of years, or the thought of dreams coming to fruition. But I catch myself appreciating more, and daydreaming often of what can be...what will be. I have hope that I will continue to open my eyes and see all the gifts before me, and I have faith that God will continue to transform me, and hopefully use me to help bring transformation in others.

It's a strange feeling, but I think I might get used to it.