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.
This picture was shot the other day on South Congress. At Uncommon Objects, of course. (This blog seems like an advertisement for them at times.)
My life should be a cake walk right now. I have enough money. I have things I enjoy. Tennis, exercise, dining out, reading, writing. I am pretty healthy, it seems. I have things to worry about, sure. The parental units. Moving. The future of ourselves and the planet. But ninety-nine point nine, nine, nine....percent of the people in the world could only wish for my circumstances. (And yours, probably, if you are reading this and will admit it. Although, yeah, I know I am really lucky.)
Still a little dark cloud sneaks in. While I was looking up the Dickinson quote I searched for 'depression' as well as 'hope' and found this anonymous one: "Depression is anger without enthusiasm."
I don't know where this little cloud came from. Was it my attempt to start writing a memoir in my head? (I started thinking a bit too much about what I had done.) Was it a series of little things that go awry and make life less than joyous? (My dad, who for his part maintains hope and good cheer with the best of them says: "There is always something to take the joy out of life.")
This I do know: Writing helps. Just writing down that I felt down makes me feel less so. It makes me feel silly for feeling that way. Makes me give thanks for the blessing of fingers painlessly touch-typing this sentence. It makes me happy to go play a bit of tennis and go about the chores of the day.