This Thing Called Hope

Hope is the Thing with Feathers by Emily Dickinson

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 chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Although I'm not necessarily a huge Emily Dickinson fan, this poem resonates with me. Sometimes it seems easy to find hope. This morning hope was found as I watched three toddlers naturally congregate from opposite sides of the room. Their wonderment, laughter and smiles brought them together as their parents hurried to get them back to their seats. Finally the parents gave up and let the children enjoy each other. Hope can be found in the natural inquisitiveness people share.

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Sankalpa Day 5

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