Hope is the thing with feathers

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 heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

- Emily Dickinson

I woke up one morning this week thinking of this poem. Since I've never been a Dickinson fan (if I'm honest, I'm not even really a poetry fan), it surprised me that she should pop into my mind. However, since it seems that mornings are the most hopeful time of day for me lately, I suppose it's not such a stretch. The personification of hope as a little bird who "never stops" singing is sweet and lovely, but it's the last verse that resonates particularly well with me. For the the past six weeks, like the poem's speaker, I have felt rather like I'm abiding in the "chillest land" and sailing through the "strangest sea."

Eight weeks ago, I thought I'd be sitting here today, unable to balance my computer on my lap thanks to the growing Blueberry who would be taking up valuable real estate. Five weeks ago, I believed my cycles would have returned, offering hope of the ability to start trying to create our family once again. And yet, today, I remain completely caught off-guard by grief in the simplest moments: when out with friends enjoying a glass of wine or late at night as I feel like I've failed in accomplishing all I was supposed to do that day. The purpose I thought my life would hold just isn't there anymore. I'm not a mom-to-be; in fact, I'm quite the opposite. I had the chance to be a mom--I just failed when I got the opportunity.

And yet, in these "chillest lands" in which I now wander, hope wakes up beside me each morning. In the extremist moments of my grief, it asks only one thing of me: to accept it. Some days, that's easier than others; on the days when it seems impossible, I get easily overwhelmed. However, I'm learning not to think in days but simply in moments. If I can accept hope just this second of this minute of this day, that's a small victory. Though I'm not one for small victories (if you've ever played Taboo with me and Jeff, you know this fact all too well), I'm going to have to learn to take them.

Hope, the door's open. I might not be the best company, but come on in and perch for a spell.