holding room for (the possibility of) hope





how much I've needed my word this year. 

hope. 

it feels like it has gone completely out the window. everything in the world feels hopeless; between abrupt climate change, senseless violence, systemic injustice, I'm feeling hopeless that things will improve. 

and (obviously) that's when I need hope the most. that's when I have to dig felt to find that one bit of me that sees this too will pass. something better will rise from these ashes. 

(despite it feeling apocalyptic. there's always the post-apocalypse.)

one moment at a time. one month. one year. 

we will make it through these days, or we won't. 

we've got to hold room for hope. 

(amidst the anger and despair and fury and angst and grief and love and all of it. forcing emotions doesn't work. that's not what I'm suggesting. but I made myself a promise, this year, in choosing hope as my word. and I mean to keep it. to keep holding on to hope. it's what I've got, right now.)