Not sure if I have ever needed anything enough to know if I hoped for it for real. Something in me resists hope. Part of it is my personality–I can be, I am, fine with this little bit, less even, if you want. Don’t ask me to play your disappointing hope games. At least with faith there is a something to put the thing (faith) in to; hope hangs out on a ledge just looking good. It’s not enough. Or maybe I don’t remember what it means. Hope asks the sky, from the position of being stuck on concrete on the earth, to come to the park “sometime” so that maybe I will have the luck (!) to be here and the courage to say, “Oh, hi, you rule my world and I wrote to you in hieroglyphs on the ground, just knowing you would show up today. Hi, and maybe let’s fall in love or something.”
I don’t want to (continue to) sound like a cynic, but it has been this way for me forever. I don’t get hope. I get belief because I know that what I invest my action in, is called belief and since I act in the world, I must believe something. I believe in love because there is a part of me that has no walls and cares no matter what and receives even when I can’t and that is love. I believe in trust because I know what it is to ruin it and I know what the emptiness of its lack looks and feels like, it’s forlorn desperation. Hope though?
I want this to happen? Hope it will? Where am I in hope? Can I define it in terms of connection to the power and will of others in my life? I call that connection to the “not me”, I call that spirituality. I don’t hope for it; I tap that syrup or I don’t.
Still, this kid writing on this sidewalk, this is hope. There it is. Was going to say, “I get that”, but it’s more like: I can’t avoid that.
I promise to let myself want in the void like this kid, or maybe not. I can’t promise, ok?
I will give you this:
I know I would never erase this message. Why? Because, with him or her, I hope. I want her or him to show up sometime, to take his/her hand and swing and to let this dream come true, this once.