Hope is a Verb

Grab a Shovel!

Whatever did Emily D mean, when she declares "Hope is the thing with feathers." Really? That effervescent, that unreliable?

As long as I can remember, I've dismissed hope, so often rooted in fear and denial. It seems self-protective, justifying a complacent passivity rather than tending to an emergency. To hope seemed foolish, at best, and downright hallucinatory at its worst. Why would anyone settle for hope? It seemed cowardly to me., the devastation just around the corner.

Spending my university years studying the catastrophes of centuries of European colonialism followed by the horrendous 20th century of European fascism and two World Wars didn't change my views of hope for our times. Even the post-war democracies of the West and its former colonies did little to ease my dark views of global politics and human vulnerabilities.

Still, I lived out my own paradoxical life, profoundly committed to teaching a global student body, gifted in remarkable ways. I hoped (yes, I know!) to strengthen their critical voices for good, as they entered the complex politics of their adult lives and work. I believed in them, and I loved my work. I suppose I must confess it here, that with their critical intelligence and sturdy values, I was grateful to be able to place the messes of my generation in their capable hands and minds. Was I admitting to  a tiny bit of hope?

They taught me so much. I heard stories of violence, hunger, oppression, abuse and terrible poverty from around the world -  from China, India, Pakistan, Syria, Turkey, Bulgaria, Bangladesh and the US. "Where should I start, Penny? What can I do? "

I'm retired now, and like so many of us, I'm swamped by the ghastly stories that fill the news. I watch for small signs of clarity, of subversive thinking, or even head-scratching bewilderment at our collective behavior. They're there, but they're not easy to find. Denial, easy retreats to consumerism, mindlessness, all the way to violence against self and others. Not much hope there.

But something in me, stubborn as hell (Now, there's a phrase!) insists, something new and shining and kind could emerge from the destruction all around me. Maybe that is the only way it can emerge? That's what has been whispered to me, from time to time.

I must interrupt myself here, to re-tell a story from my finest teacher. "A person walks into a room that is knee deep in  manure. Many would be so disgusted, they would turn around and exit as quickly as possible. But sometimes a person might pick up a shovel and begin to dig in the mess. Why?  "With this much manure," she answers, "there must be a pony here somewhere!" Then my teacher would giggle and point her finger at me. "That, dear Penny, is an optimist, and you are surely an optimist." Isn't that a kind of hope?

Well, I stand convicted, I guess. My heart has a hidden stash of optimism, that somehow, we will find a way out of this very tough moment in our history. It's time to grab our shovels, for sure. Hope is a verb, and we must choose it.