Hope is not a thought; it’s an action.
I sit and wait and wonder. I ruminate. I ask a million questions. I have to be sure. I have to be safe. The risk is simply too much. I could never have all the answers. I must listen to the messages; read the signs. But still, there’s no avoiding the pain. The love and the fear lay down side-by-side.
Your soft manor turns into razor blades and I bleed out all too soon. I hope the blood will stop seeping through my blouse for all to see but I may as well be naked; I’ve never been good at hiding my heart.
I smile – there is hope only in rising up, holding my head up high and beginning again.
I stand like a priestess and walk my talk, freeing the butterflies, abandoning safety, risking it all for the grand experiment of the unknown.
I light a torch and enter the cave. I find them sitting there. The ones like me – with eyes and lips and tongues alight with truth and ancient tales. They speak of hope; there is no more waiting now. It’ll be too painful to ponder, too bitter to berate myself one. more. time.
The choice has been made. I’ve chosen the path. I will not walk around the mountain, I will climb its rocks. And there will be hope with each step as I sweat and breathe and settle with each word of fear and feel it, and feel it, and feel it, until the next step. Until the sky changes from blue to red and the birds migrate south, and the ice hardens on the rivers surface, and crocuses emerge through the snow. When the blisters on my feet have healed, and risk and hope and fear and pain turn into love and it is in them all and in my breath and it all becomes Holy.