hope

data

~ onehopefulyear ~ 5 Comments

I discovered this morning my watch now measures the amount of time I spend in daylight.

In addition to this new feature, I’m able to access up-to-the-minute functions of my health: my blood oxygen level, how steady I am while walking, the rate at which I climb stairs and how many flights I’ve climbed, the duration and quality of my sleep, my respiratory rate, and my heart rate under a variety of conditions. Among other useful health data checkpoints.

But what I ask myself most often is … how do you feel?

I’ve been keeping my own sort of data. Little colored hearts on a calendar. Each color a measure of how I feel upon waking. Do I feel calm? Anxious? Rested? Happy?

I am (and feel) more than the sum of my data. And if I’m honestly able to answer how I feel, I’m more likely to ask and answer the next question … Why do you feel this way? And the next … What will you do about it?

These are important questions for me to ask and answer.

I know the health data my watch provides is helpful, and even necessary as I monitor a heart condition. And for the record, I’ll try to spend more time outside in daylight today than I did yesterday.

But my watch provides no measure for hope.

That’s one data point I’d like to keep track of on my own.

chasing light

~ onehopefulyear ~ 4 Comments

This time of year, I follow light around the house like a puppy after its best friend. I am sun hungry, and I measure rays stretched across hardwood floors and count minutes of daylight like coins in a bank.

It’s easy to feel miserly, hoarding each minute of light, a bit bitter at the hours of darkness.

Much better to feel grateful and celebratory for the minutes I have. To delight in howsoever I choose to spend them.

I sit on the porch, cupping my tea, on watch as the sun recedes from view. Wrapped in a blanket against the increasing chill, I’m basking, sun on my face. Today’s last rays a deposit I took the time to make.

The light of faith and hope and prayer notwithinstanding, It is up to me, I think, to find my own light. Make my own light. Be my own light.

Live the light.

what’s good for me

~ onehopefulyear ~ 2 Comments

Focus on what’s right in front of me – no looking ahead or what-ifs, ands or buts.

Replace complaining with gratituding.

Keep moving. No lull, no lolling about, no lamenting.

Ponder can-dos over can’t dos. Wishes and want-tos will have their moment.

Relax my shoulders. Unfurrow my brow.

Turn my face to the sun, but remember even rain waters something within me.

Enjoy the exquisite fullness of this one moment.

Wonder about wonder.

Listen for the morning chorus of birds.

It’s quite possible, after all, each bird whistles a song of hope . . .

today’s hope

stress

~ onehopefulyear ~ 4 Comments

My stress brain tells me I have to do it all now. (I don’t.)

My stress brain tells me it’s impossible. (It isn’t.)

My stress brain tells me I can’t. (I can.)

My stress brain reminds me of past failures. (I’m looking forward.)

My stress brain says, “You probably shouldn’t.” (I will.)

My stress brain tells me I don’t have enough time. (I have plenty.)

My stress brain tells me I’m not enough. (I say, “I most certainly am!”)

My stress brain tells me it’s hope-less. (I am hope-full.)

patience

~ onehopefulyear ~ 4 Comments

It’s an -if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em – kind of day here in northern New England.

Rainy. Cold. Gray. Breezy.

It is Spring, after all. And every year I forget just how this season dilly dallies its way into becoming. Yes, I see daffodils. A tulip or two. And the lilacs are on their way. It’s my own impatience I struggle with. We need the rain and clearly, spring knows just what to do without any input from me.

Anticipation is nothing if not hope.

There’s beef stew in the crockpot. A soft blanket nearby to burrow in. Candlelight on the counter. An extra sweater. And a hot bath before bedtime is in the forecast.

Today may not be the day I hoped for, but it’s the day I have. I’ll enjoy the day and count blessings like raindrops.

And if the pansies on the porch can be patient, so can I.

an exploration

Image ~ ~ onehopefulyear ~ 4 Comments

I’m exploring a day in which it’s hard to feel hopeful. In which the unexpected arrives. A day when what-ifs gather like dust bunnies under the bed. When what-do-I-do-nows show up, and their endless chatter about maybes and might-bes and possible scenarios make it hard to hear myself think. Forgive me, I say, I’m knee-deep in disbelief just now. I’m not ready for options. For optimism. For hope. On the other hand, I’m no wallower either. At least not for long. If not hope, then at least and at last faith enters the room. Pushing both sleeves up past my elbows, faith readies me for work. Even stronger than hope, faith will guide. Faith lights my dark thoughts, pushes me past disbelief, and strengthens me enough to overcome emotional inertia. Both authoritative and compassionate, faith kindly leads. More powerful, more passionate even than irony, faith can save any day – even one where hope feels a little lost. Faith finds my way. And hope follows along behind.

in the morning

~ onehopefulyear ~ 6 Comments

lots of mornings lately

find me in the porch rocker

sipping warmth

predawn

bundled up

rocking

bird-listening

star-marveling

witness to light overcoming darkness

hopeful and humbled

unassuming

anything at all about the day to come

(perhaps already missing the night

just a little)’

gentling myself into morning

breathing deeply

the chilled air

sharing in

the awakening of birds and dogs and chickens

somewhere beyond, a woodpecker

knocking out a hallelujah – it’s a new day

and me

cherishing all the shades of blues or grays or pinks in one morning sky

just today

the world around me suddenly

clouded or misted or fogged

like some morning mystery

and softly, silently,

poetically

it began to snow

in a winter garden

~ onehopefulyear ~ 2 Comments

In a winter garden, I plan next season’s plantings. Reflecting carefully, of course, on last year’s harvest.

Now is the time for imagining the ideal. The time for optimistic enthusiasm before the rolling up of sleeves and the dirt of hard work and effort and hope collects under my fingernails. A season of dormancy. A renewal of strength, purpose, and spirit.

In this season of life and living, I’ll determine what’s important to plant. Which fields in my life to let lie fallow in rest. There’s preparation to be done. Research. Trust. Faith in the future. A belief in the cycles and pace of my own nature. Knowing the truth that all is as it should be: living in the cold, wind, and darkness of winter as necessary precursors to light, warmth, and germination.

I winnow through expectations, weeding out what I’ve got to let go. Sow starter seeds, watchful for what takes root. Which seeds prosper? Which seeds – promising as they may be – were never really meant for my own little patch of soil? Some seeds, I know, only sprout after repose.

How will I nourish myself? Gather strength? Coax growth?

In a winter garden, I reap what’s happiest in today, hopeful tomorrow’s garden will grow in it’s time.

lessons from a still life

Image ~ ~ onehopefulyear ~ 4 Comments

make time . . . look for the light . . . appreciate shadows . . . find beauty in the ordinary . . . take one thing away . . . experiment and learn . . . change the lens . . . try again . . . focus on what’s right in front of me . . . move for a new point of view . . . think through problems . . . simplify . . . make adjustments . . . trust my eye . . . work is pleasure . . . it’s okay to make a mess . . . to create is to hope

when finally

~ onehopefulyear ~ 4 Comments

Oh, when finally I feel better, the promises I’ll keep. The good will I’ll spread and gratitude I’ll share.

I’ll remember how I feel about most things. I’ll know how to string several words together to express a coherent thought. I’ll read fluently, keeping track of plot or ingredients or news. I’ll remember decisions I made when I was was well, when I was able to think clearly, when what was on my mind and in my heart was more dominant in conversations than my symptoms.

When finally I feel well, I’ll buy balloons for no other reason than balloons make it a party. l’ll revel in good health and confetti the floor, toot-tooting the New Year – no matter how many days late I am for the celebration. Big, red balloons. Full. Luscious. Bright. Happy. Healthy. Whole.

When finally I feel fine, the big, beautiful breaths I’ll breathe … fully and with utter appreciation. I’ll fold up my fatigue like a quilt at the end of my bed, ready – as it should be – for the very end of my day, not throughout it. I’ll taste. Smell. Smile.

Oh, the walks I’ll take, the hope I’ll feel, the life I’ll live.

When – finally – I feel better.