When thinking about hope, I always think about Emily Dickenson and her poem
Image by Robert Balog from Pixabay
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –That perches in the soul –And sings the tune without the words –And never stops – at all –
Yet for me hope, is more like the surf. It comes in waves, then crashes on the shore completely falling apart, before regaining it’s strength and coming in again. As I try and fail at new things, my sense of who I am is transformed, sometimes leaving me proud of myself and sometimes causing me disappointment.
These undulating emotional responses are driven by the challenges in which I immerse myself and seem to share the rhythm of the sea. That moment when the waves crests and I thrust my arms into the water, pulling myself into the energy of the wave can be euphoric or deflating. Being in the flow with what I’m trying to do is wonderful, but it’s how I deal with the wipe out that matters.
Being tossed into the churn of white water and flipping head over tails, while trying to keep my surfboard from crashing into me, is not easy. As I tumble, I need to stay focused, conserve my breath and energy until the white water has passed me by and then, in that moment between crashing waves, I must breach the surface like a whale and inhale as much oxygen as possible before the next white water explosion comes at me like a freight train.
Sometimes, just remembering that breathing is the most important action to take helps me hang on through the times when I am wiping out in life.
