This week I want to talk about hope.
Emily Dickinson called “hope” the “Thing with Feathers” and then proceeded to conjure up an image of the little bird in my soul being abashed by a storm. Every time I think I get it, it slips away.
In 2001, I responded this way to Emily: “If Emily had your hope, what kind of thing would it be? My hope is the thing with pizza stains down its front. Maybe your hope has chocolate all over its face.” At the time, my anti-depressant was severely depressing me, so it’s a wonder I had anything positive to say at all.