“Hope” is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all – And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard – And sore must be the storm – That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm – I’ve heard it in the chillest land – And on the strangest Sea – Yet – never – in Extremity, It asked a crumb – of me.

Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is strong like the wing of the bird that flies in an act of simple precision. It is strong like cynicism’s antidote that cures doubt and paralysis and fear. It is creative like imagination’s desire that is both beautiful and fierce. It is fluid like a waltz that marries intuition and skill. It is curious like a child’s question that sees with new eyes. It is deep like a river that flows carrying all that was before to a new place. It is lightness like soft clouds that clear when a storm passes. It is abundant like a farmer’s market in July that provides and sustains. It is open like an outstretched hand welcoming another. It is up like eyes fixed toward a horizon. It is harmony like a universal chorus ready to sing the world awake. It is abiding like a tide or day or season. It is faith in the not yet and as if.

“Hope” is simple like noticing a bird. “Hope” is simple like seeing shapes in the clouds or hearing that still small voice. “Hope” is simple like eating a meal that reminds and nourishes or sleeping under a blanket knitted by your grandmother. “Hope” is simple that.