Oh how I hope.
This moving transition has kicked my spirit to the ground, and the months before it were kind of soul battering as well.
And yet, I hope.
I hope that we will land safely and happily.
I hope we make some friends here.
I hope I see the dear friends I left behind very soon.
I hope my husband's hours level out and we can see his face in the daylight sometime.
I hope my children make some connections and actually want to go to school like they did before.
I hope a million other tiny little inconsequential hopes that will never mean anything to anyone else but me.
I can't help hoping. There are no guarantees, but I continue to wake up in the morning clinging fast to my hope.
I send my hopes to the Universe and my hopeful intention bends circumstances to my very will--I don't have any scientific evidence that this is the way things work, only my own limited experience.
When it seems like there is nothing but darkness and pain and confusion and chaos, there is, in that moment, growing from one tiny tether of hope, a pathway of peace. The problem is is that I am right in the middle of my chaos and it's impossible to gain ground high enough to see the path before me.
That is why I hope.
And one day, in one moment, I will recognize all that all I'd hoped for is blooming right before my eyes.
The key is to continue hoping.
After all, my other choice is to paddle upstream in despair.
I'm not strong enough for that.
And so I hope.
Hope brings me joy. What brings you joy?
"Once you choose hope, anything's possible." ~Christopher Reeve