“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

I was in my early forties when I first really read this poem. I love Dickinson. It feels right to remember this poem as I write my Hope Manifesto — my public declaration of Hope.

Hope is the bird. It flies as an act of simple grace, strength, and precision. Hope asks us to sing from our souls without ceasing, even when we don’t know the words, maybe especially when we don’t know the words. It’s powerful harmony — a flock of birds flying in a perfect formation — ready to sing the world awake.

Hope is creative, like imagination’s desire, and beautiful and fierce. It is fluid, like a waltz that marries intuition and skill. It is curious, like a child’s question that thirsts to discover. It is deep, like a river that flows, carrying all that was before to a new place. It is light, like soft clouds that clear after a storm. It is abundant, like a farmer’s market in July, which nourishes and sustains. It is open like an outstretched hand, inviting, welcoming, and comforting. It is up like eyes fixed toward a horizon. It is abiding like a tide or day or season. It is faith in the not yet and as if.

Magic lives inside each hope full metaphor.

Poet Katie Ferris asks, “Why write love poetry in a burning world? To train myself, in the midst of a burning world to offer poems of love to a burning world.”

I believe all writing (and perhaps all art) — even and especially love poetry — is an act of fearless hope meant to heal a burning world. The practice of writing is a profound act of hope. It is an exercise in strengthening love’s muscle memory. Hope is love’s muscle memory. Let me explain. Love has muscle memory. Muscle memory reminds us that life falls apart, back together, apart, and back together again. Muscle memory reminds us that we are not alone, and that connection to ourselves and others is essential to life. Muscle memory gives hope meaning, shape, and form.

Why write love poems in a burning world? Why not eat cake, build bigger fences, find sand to bury our heads, and wait for when average folks can afford to go to other habitable planets? Why not look for ashes, and hope we are around to ascend to whatever happens after it all burns? Why hope when witnessing and burning and loving are so painful?

Maybe love poems help us grieve together. Maybe love poems heal sadness. Maybe love poems teach us about ourselves and others. Maybe love poems are the essence of hope. Vulnerable. Open hearted. Soft. Fragile. Strength by a new and more honest definition.

I firmly believe that we find what we look for, that intention matters, and that we all conjure and create all the time. I resolve to find hope amidst it all. I will find hope front and center and in nooks and crannies. I will carry stones and move mountains. I will fly close to the sun. I will run marathons. I will turn pages, forgive 7 times 70 times, and open doors and windows. I will set audacious goals and go up in failure’s flames in search of hope.

Where do I find hope right now? In the small candles that sit inside my church. In the rhythm of my elderly cats’ purrs. Democratic State Attorneys General. In conversations with my Millennial niece and her crew. Independent journalism. In the light that shines through our skylight over my desk. In the angel choir that sits on our bookshelf assembled from our grandmothers’ angel collections. In my mother’s voice. In the smell of magnolia trees and red velvet cupcakes. (Maybe I am conflating hope with comfort with those two, but I am all right with that.) Poetry. Hymns. Friendships. Cards and letters. Long walks outdoors. Trees.

Hope is the substance of magic. The substance of magic looks like writing the book you have in your heart (or setting the book free) when the muse visits, getting out of bed (or staying in bed) when the world is too much, or building something (or burning something) when the zeitgeist calls for change. Hope and magic live in yes and no, birth and death, light and dark.

My hope for 2025 is to write more and connect more. To be gentler and softer than I can ever imagine. To do the work I know that is mine to do but struggle to even start. To be a creator and builder of the small and big. To show up to myself and others. Showing up is the heart of hope.