Tuesday, 10 February 2015

I want my child to see the beauty of this place. To walk from the mountains, to the sea.



Those words come from the Fat Freddy's Drop song Hope. It came up on my playlist today as I lay in bed, my body up to it's usual shenanigans. My right arm sprained and protesting my latest attempt to exercise. Grievances heard loud and clear as I tried to comb my hair, or lift my coffee. Frustrations abound. Listening to words of hope whilst cursing my body. Listening to words of hope while reading an anonymous email telling me that by speaking of hardship, I have none. I am charged as having given up and without hope, simply because I dared to say sometimes it's hard. Rather than stuffing it down to be more palatable to others. Not the first and not the last. Because there are those who have an overwhelming need to tell you how you're doing it wrong. And the positive that is hope, becomes twisted and used like a sledge-hammer, by those who don't understand that different doesn't instantly mean wrong.



Hope and I have a contentious relationship. At least the shiny plastic version that is shoved down my throat on a regular basis. My nails on a chalkboard.

Saccharine sweet hope. The hope you MUST have. The hope you SHOULD have. Held down, the syrupy hope poured down your throat until you swallow.

Become ill and you are beaten over the head with hope. The hope of others. The hope that must look a certain way. Sound a certain way. The hope that negates reality. The hope that wears blinkers. The hope that feels fake when I touch it. The MUST and the SHOULD that cause me to dig in my heels and baulk at any attempt to force it upon me. 

Every interaction and the Hope Card is pulled out. To suppose I have none. To be tossed in my face at the first sign that my infirmities might be offensive to others. To silence.

A hope forged of perfection. Perfect sickie towing the party line. Deviate at your own risk.

Hope it's a four letter word. At least the faux variety we are sold.

Snake oil wrapped in fancy words and flashing signs. Promises and panaceas. Fools gold. Diluted and reduced to a buzzword. Until it is barely recognizable and becomes unachievable.




Hope floats.

Bobs and weaves amongst crashing waves and the calmest seas.

A living thing. Exhale inhale. I can feel it inside me. Forged on an anvil and with a gentle caress.

The first hint of a cool breeze moving across my skin.. Promising change after a long hot day.

My hope is mine.

Composed of a hope of laughter and hope of love. Of hope for compassion. A hope of reality. A hope of dreams. A hope to endure. A hope for strength.

A hope no longer required if I allow myself to see that so much of what I want and desire already resides within me.



Hope that I will laugh? Or choose laughter?

Hope for joy? Or choose to find it?

Hope for strength? Or finally see that I have had it all along?  

Hope for better days? Or find the beauty in this moment?

Hope that my children learn the lesson? Or teach them myself?



Hope and I dodge and weave. Come together and fly apart. Evolve and change. We sit quietly together and find common ground. It is rough around the edges, a little worn and weary. But we agree it has a place. We mark the lines. And agree to the importance of its presence.

It is quiet.

It is patient.

It is practical and workaday.

And it fits me to a T.

My hope may not look like others' hope,

                                             but it is mine all the same.


Michelle

1 comment:

All who are lovely enough to comment should be showered with cup cakes, glitter and macarons. I promise to use my spoon bending mind powers to try and get that happening for all who are lovely enough to share their words. Those who go the extra step to share posts should really get a free unicorn. Or at least the gift of finding the shortest and quickest line at the supermarket on a regular basis. xx