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.

I've been robbed of hope. (But not of friends.)

(Today, it was 70 degrees here, so I decided to skip my at-school workout and go home for a walk instead. Since it has been suggested that I work on being present in the moment instead of constantly trying to plan for the future, my very simple goal was to be present in my walk.)


As I went down the road to the lake and began the loop, I started to think about how I used to love walking this path and daydreaming about the day I'd be pushing a stroller (or strolling next to Jeff as he pushed a stroller). Today, though, those daydreams just weren't possible. After a miscarriage, many women express that they've been robbed of the joy of a carefree, joyful pregnancy. I didn't feel that way; I'm enough of a nervous Nelly that my pregnancy was always destined to be fraught with anxiety as even this past one was. Up until now, I couldn't understand the idea of my miscarriage robbing me of anything other than my little Blueberry, but, today while walking, I realized something new: I've been robbed of hope in the future. A month ago, I believed getting pregnant and having a little one to bring home was possible--I had nothing to prove me wrong. Now, I do.


One of my goals in being present in the moment is to acknowledge the feelings that wash over me and live with them for a bit. As I tried to do that on my walk, as I tried desperately not to distract myself with coming up with new things to be hopeful about, as I tried to just let myself hurt, I became more and more sad. Rounding the corner to the straight part of the path that overlooks my favorite house on the lake, I tried to focus on the German Shepherd in front of me, carrying an unwieldy stick. The runner coming from the opposite direction smiled at the dog, too, and then I realized I knew that smile. That was M.


M. is one of my closest friends--she lives just a mile from us and has been supporting me constantly in recent weeks. She went through a significant life upheaval in the last year herself, so she really gets where I am. And while M. is at our house at least two nights a week and we text almost daily, we've never discussed the fact that she sometimes runs the exact same loop that I walk. (God clearly had a plan for my walk today.) And so, as my thoughts plunged to a point of hopelessness, I found M. standing in front of me, laughing in joy at discovering me, opening her arms to envelop me in a hug. When she realized I wasn't doing well, she immediately turned around and started to walk beside me in my direction, slowing her pace to match mine, sacrificing her own workout, encouraging me to talk, letting me quietly cry. She just loved me--in that moment, in that place of darkness, in that absence of joy.


Hope is the belief in things yet to come. Yes, I've been robbed of one little person who I loved so much and desired so desperately to hold in my arms this summer. But I haven't been robbed of people who are present already today. I trust that if I can just appreciate this moment, hope in tomorrow will return when I least expect it.