On the Subject of Hope

I've been thinking a lot about hope lately. What hope demands from us, what it means to be hopeful. My mom got that little guy at the hospital around the time she was diagnosed; when she's in remission she is supposed to pass it on to another person she knows with cancer. I love that little boy; he's sanded down, beautifully sculptured. He's soft and comforting. Somehow, just that little guy is enough.

I'm not a religious person, but I think that's the nature of it, isn't it? Hope. You grow to believe something, because you want it to be true.

And hope is such a strange thing; you barely feel it, but you know it's there. It's not like you're really aware of hope; it's just part of you. It's what keeps your blood pumping, your joints moving, your heart beating. I think hope is really what makes us more than just the sum of our parts, more than just biology. It's the hope that keeps us alive, gives us a soul.

And hope is becoming more important than ever. With winter moving in, rain falling, constant chills. With the Christmas season bringing all it's terror, everything is becoming a struggle. Finals are almost over, probably with mixed results. I quit my job, a desperate attempt to pull my life back together.

But my sisters are now home.
At least I have my family. And my friends who ultimately put up with more crap from me than they should ever have to.
And hope. I have that.