Hope is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all. ---Emily Dickinson


Sometimes we know hope as much by its absence as by its
presence. When we're depressed, hope seems almost
unknowable, a total illusion. We feel inwardly flattened,
unable to move, or as if we are just going through the
motions. The song of hope of which the poet speaks is
muted. Yet the will of the spirit, as well as of the body, is for life,
even for zestful life. Then something happens - a friend calls and
we mobilize ourselves, making an effort to be useful, to ourselves or
to someone else. The energy quickens. At least the moment
has some meaning again and that persistent note of hope,
without which we cannot live, starts thrumming in our minds once more.


Sometimes, all I can hope for is that I'll feel more hopeful tomorrow.

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Healing After Loss by Martha Whitmore Hickman