I’ve written about hope before. Hope is so much different in my world of after, than it was before. Almost exactly a year ago I wrote this in response to a prompt on hope, and I still feel very similar to what I did then. More recently, I wrote about my struggle with optimism (so closely related to hope) in this piece. My head and my heart both remember hope, my body knows what hope feels like, but those nerve channels, the brain cells that fire to create hope are still so incredibly raw. The word hope and all its connotations feel wrong most of the time still, but it isn’t as if I’m in a dark pit of despair all the time… I may have my moments (which are okay to have), but I don’t live in that despair most of the time. I find I’ve had to adjust my angle and look for a replacement to hope, in a way. One way to describe it is this quote:
“when all the ordinary divides and patterns are shattered, people step up to become their brother’s keepers. And that purposefulness and connectedness bring joy even amidst death, chaos, fear and loss.”
Rebecca Solnit
I am not feeling particularly certain or hopeful that any one aspect of my life will work out in any particular way. I had to give up all pretenses of control when 2019 happened, and I’m honestly afraid to invest too much in visions for the future until they actually happen. I will take steps to manifest the future that I want to see, and try to be prepared either way, but believing that anything is a certainty (or near so) is pretty impossible for me, right now. That said, I do know that even if my life were to blow up again – if my IVF were to fail, or my remaining two living pets from my life with Sara were to suddenly die, or I were to lose my job, or I was diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, or… one of a million other “this would feel like the end of the world if it were to happen” scenarios, I have people in my life who would step up for me. I have family and friends and acquaintances, even, who would be willing to lift me up. And while none of them can individually be all of the support that I would need, I do believe that there are enough people in my pretty amazing community that they could collectively help keep me from sinking.
These are people who have asked how I am and truly wanted to hear the real answer, people who have had meals with me and allowed the conversation to go wherever it ended up going, people who don’t judge me in my grief, people who talk about Sara or George, people who don’t mind me being awkward, people who act as though no time has passed when it’s been a year since we’ve seen each other (or more)… the list could go on and on.
So – I don’t exactly have hope, but I do have a deep-rooted knowledge that I am not alone, no matter how lonely I get in my day-to-day life without Sara here with me. I am fortunate to have this, and I know there are so many people out there who don’t have such a community safety net in place. I am grateful for it and for all of the many individual who compose my different circles of people. Thank you all for giving me an alternative to hope, when hope is something I am unable and unwilling to really grasp most days.