HOPE - "The Hardest Love We Carry"

 

"Hope is the hardest love we carry."

Recently, I was so struck by this quote from a poem by Jane Hirshfield that I wanted to share it with you. In these times when there is so much outrageous suffering all over the world, our hearts are heavy with the wrongness of it. It struck me, when I read her words, that it is because of love that we are hurting - love for this beautiful planet and all of our fellow beings -  Mother Earth showering us with starry skies and midnight moons even as the bombs are dropping and people whose mental faculties are alarming are making hugely consequential decisions, based on nothing at all.

Sigh.

Anyway, let's look at the two poems of inspiration. 

Hope and Love
by Jane Hirshfield

All winter
the blue heron
slept among the horses.
I do not know
the custom of herons,
do not know
if the solitary habit
is their way,
or if he listened for
some missing one—
not knowing even
that was what he did—
in the blowing
sounds in the dark,
I know that
hope is the hardest
love we carry.
He slept
with his long neck
folded, like a letter
put away.

That "long neck folded, like a letter put away" is so beautiful.

Hope is indeed hard to carry these days. And yet without it, how can we go on? Let's contemplate it today, in whatever way feels right to you. It might be you are having trouble holding onto hope; it might be that you have found ways to carry it, despite the evening news (which is more alarming than new, and the warring is just way too old.) 

Ada Limon is another poet whose message resonates with me. Let's see what Ms Limon has to say.

This heron was blending into the rocks,
but I was amazed she landed so close to me.

The Great Blue Heron of Dunbar Road
by Ada Limón

That we might walk out into the woods together,
and afterwards make toast
in our sock feet, still damp from the fern’s
wet grasp, the spiky needles stuck to our
legs, that’s all I wanted, the dog in the mix,
jam sometimes, but not always. But somehow,
I’ve stopped praising you. How the valley
when you first see it—the small roads back
to your youth—is so painfully pretty at first,
then, after a month of black coffee, it’s just
another place your bullish brain exists, bothered
by itself and how hurtful human life can be.
Isn’t that how it is? You wake up some days
full of crow and shine, and then someone
has put engine coolant in the medicine
on another continent and not even crying
helps cure the idea of purposeful poison.
What kind of woman am I? What kind of man?
I’m thinking of the way my stepdad got sober,
how he never told us, just stopped drinking
and sat for a long time in the low folding chair
on the Bermuda grass reading and sometimes
soaking up the sun like he was the story’s only
subject. When he drove me to school, we decided
it would be a good day, if we saw the blue heron
in the algae-covered pond next to the road,
so that if we didn’t see it, I’d be upset. Then,
he began to lie. To tell me he’d seen it when
he hadn’t, or to suppose that it had just
taken off when we rounded the corner in
the gray car that somehow still ran, and I
would lie, too, for him. I’d say I saw it.
Heard the whoosh of wings over us.
That’s the real truth. What we told each other
to help us through the day: the great blue heron
was there, even when the pond dried up,
or froze over; it was there because it had to be.
Just now, I felt like I wanted to be alone
for a long time, in a folding chair on the lawn
with all my private agonies, but then I saw you
and the way you’re hunching over your work
like a puzzle, and I think even if I fail at everything,
I still want to point out the heron like I was taught,
still want to slow the car down to see the thing
that makes it all better, the invisible gift,
what we see when we stare long enough into nothing.

Wow. "What kind of woman am I?" A lucky one, in my case, because, often, when I raise my eyes from the keyboard and look up, I will see one or sometimes two herons flying over, like skinny matrons with their purses tucked under their arms, circling, then perching, astonishingly, on a slight and bending topmost cedar branch one would think would not hold their weight. A gift, what we see when we raise our eyes from the screen full of horrors and gaze at the clear blue sky.

Where do your hopes lie? How do you hold on to it in the maddest world we have ever known? My method lies in Ada Limon's closing lines: seeing those gifts, either around us or in memory, to "see the thing that makes it all better."

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