Emily Dickinson on Hope
“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 chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
Right now we are living in a time that at best whispers and at worst shouts to us to be on alert. Our bodies react accordingly and the resulting tension separates us from the quiet peaceful rhythms of hope. Is it the responsibility of the individual person to find a way to conjure up hope–like a magician conjuring up a rabbit from an empty top hat? But the magician knows the rabbit was there all along—although hidden from our view. Hope doesn’t demand that we bring it into being, it only asks that we be willing to be alert to the things that bring about hope instead of (or at least in addition to) just being alert to the things that cause stress. And since we don’t conjure hope up but position ourselves to be open to it, when we are unable to see it on our own, we can pray that our eyes be opened. And open to the dull brown of the robin and not just the jazzmatazz of bright colors of the Indigo bunting. What do we notice when there is nothing that demands our attention?
Suzanne
Photo by Vincent van Zalinge on Unsplash
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This is a precious jewel well worth memorizing…and your lovely reflection is a kind invitation. Thank you for sharing this.
Thank you, Suzanne, for sharing Emily Dickenson’s poem and your thoughts about it: this gentle reminder to be alert to hope, even in its most unassuming form, and not only alert to the latest alarm of the day, of which there are too many. Her poem encourages me to be open to allowing a landing place for hope to “perch.” I love orchids and have a beautiful one in bloom, sitting on our coffee table in all its glory, every millisecond of every day, asking nothing of me. I may pass by it even tens of times a day without a glance, but some days I make myself pause to admire its flowers. When I do, I hear the tune hope sings. Today, I was potting a basil plant and found a teeny gray snail. I was about to discard it, but as I grabbed it off the pot I decided to take the time to look at it carefully and found myself admiring how it’s made. Although it doesn’t have the apparent majesty of the orchid, it, too, is quite an amazing creature. I’m sure I heard the tune sung again. Maybe, like Emily says, “it never stops – at all.” I just have to be aware of it.
Such a good reminder! A lovely simple yet profound poem that tugs at my heart, reminding me that practicing social distancing with words, noise, busyness is all the more important these days….seeking out the quiet spaces and moments to be still enough inside and out, to be able to really hear the tune of hope sung from the rustling leaves, the sparkling sunshine, the vibrantly colored flowers, the myriad of feathered friends…thank you!
Thanks Suzanne for the great words. With stress my fight/flight instincts demand a reaction, especially in today’s environment. Being alert to the hope within, gives me the possibility of another response that of grace.
“What do we notice when there is nothing that demands our attention?” A disquieting question to ponder. Thank you to Emily Dickinson and to you for drawing my attention to the tunes of our feathery little friends singing in the gale, and to contemplate what lyrics I might put to them when hope feels threadbare in my own storm.