Bowl of Blessings ~~ Hope

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
~Emily Dickinson

I love Emily Dickinson’s sentiment — hope never leaves, never stops. I want to agree with and believe her concept, and deep down, I think I still do. Deep, deep down. Right now, my hope is that hope works its way back to the surface.

I’m mostly an optimist. A pragmatic optimist, maybe.

Hope seems dangerous, as if I’m setting myself up for disappointment. The regeneration prevalent in spring is so tempting. Who doesn’t love spring and all it offers? I can’t put too much pressure on spring, though. Hope will surface in its own time and when I’m ready to dare to hope. I’m working on it.

I lay in bed last night, thinking about this writing. Thinking about hope. About Cooper. Inevitably, I began to wonder when he lost hope. It wasn’t that day. That day may have just seemed like the day to him. I’ll never know. From his phone and computer, we know his suicide was not a rash decision. So, his hope was gone before August 24th.

But the hope.

Maybe it remained in the Shawnee when he came home. He was never the same after those 10 days, of that I am certain. I was sick with worry; I didn’t know if he was dead or alive, if he’d ever come home. I hoped. I prayed. He spiraled. He was out of his mind in the Shawnee and for many days after his return. Later, he wrote that he couldn’t believe he made it out alive, that he truly felt he’d died at Bear Creek. Did he lose his hope when he lost himself? Is it still out there somewhere with his glasses and wallet?

The hope.

When he came home, I was hopeful; I felt I’d been given a gift. I wasn’t wrong. That gift was two more months with Cooper. When he walked in the back door, filthy, injured, emaciated, exhausted, dehydrated, all I saw was my son, home. I was filled with hope. Within 24 hours, we were in the ER, battling a psychotic break. I was watching his future fade away. Another 12 hours and he was on his way to a hospital across the state. A week later, I picked him up. He wasn’t himself, but he was stable. Medicated. Maybe the medication stole his hope. If Robert Johnson could sell his soul to the devil in exchange for mad guitar skills, maybe Coop had to trade his hope for stability. That medication stole his joy and his anger–his emotions. It could’ve taken hope as well.

Hope.

It turned into a summer of hesitant hope. Cooper spent several days each week working for my parents at their farm. The physical work both helped and frustrated him. He loved the work he was doing, but was frustrated, especially in the early weeks, that he’d lost strength. Lost calluses. Lost himself. Lost so much.

Lost hope.

Looking back, I can’t decide when he lost hope. I’ll never really know and I suppose it doesn’t matter. Not knowing keeps me awake at night, but knowing wouldn’t change anything. He’s gone. His mind betrayed him, and he’s gone.

Hope to hope.

The trick now is to regain my hope. I want to hope. I want to have hope. And I will, eventually. I’m not blocking hope; I will welcome it when it’s time. Right now isn’t quite that time, but it will happen, gradually. I know it’s there. I see and feel the beginnings of hope.

See the hope.

I see the chance for hope in the hazy green that’s starting to show in the understory of the timber; the insidious honeysuckle is getting busy. I see the chance for hope in the school’s magnolia tree; long pink petals are visible, almost ready to open into blooms. I see the chance for hope in the twiggy lilacs along my fence as they morph from grey-brown to green-brown. I see the chance for hope in the memorial trees as they leave their dormancy behind. I see the chance for hope in the lakes that have thawed, the rivers running high and fast, the winter wheat brightening the landscape.

Feel the hope.

I feel the chance for hope in the strangest ways. Yesterday was seven months, and that day was less horrible than six months. Six months felt like a gruesome milestone; seven months, another sad anniversary. I feel the chance for hope when my students make me laugh and cheer for their homecoming week antics. Laughter is rare, but it happens. I feel the chance for hope when I touch my bare toes to the still-bristly-but-softening grass. Fresh air, sunshine, and bare feet combine for hope. I feel the chance for hope during the hours I spend in the pool each week, working hard, clearing my mind, floating to my heartbeat, treasuring the time.

Be the hope.

I can’t expect spring to rejuvenate my hope. Spring is just a season. A great season, but a season. In normal circumstances, I’d say it’s up to me to fix myself, restore my hope, but these are no normal circumstances. I can work at feeling better, but this isn’t something to be fixed; I don’t waste time hoping to be fixed. I hope, I pray, that I learn to carry this loss or allow it to walk alongside me, but it’s not to be fixed. The heartbreak and pain are my love for Cooper — for his lost hope and lost future — and I can’t let go of that love. I won’t.