Hope is not linear. It bubbles. It twirls in circles, like a Hindu time spiral. It comes out of left field sometimes and feeds you like food. All sorts of different vessels carry hope. Some of them are the diametrical opposite to what or where you think hope would reside. Hope seems to be quite happy to attach itself even to a shit-encrusted shoe sole. It's just having the eyes to see it. Lately I can be a little blind.
I have noticed that when I am closed down to love, hope also passes me by. I don't know how to say that without it sounding twee and wanky. Hallmark, schmaltzy Hollywood movies, and the way we live separated from the earth and wedded to money have appropriated certain good things like love and hope and shoved them into containers where they don't belong. The containers are too small.
I think it's time we invented new words for love and hope.
This morning, I'm kindling hope communing with that place very deep in me which knows that the reality we see is not all that there is. I don't know any further than that. But this morning that is enough.
This morning the best demonstration of hope to me is this picture from Kel. As far as I'm concerned, there is a definite dearth of red doors in the middle of paddocks, sitting all by themselves.
It's whimsy, I guess. Whimsy gives me hope.