hope /hoʊp/ hohp] hoped, hop·ing.
–noun 1. the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best: 2. a particular instance of this feeling: 3. grounds for this feeling in a particular instance: 4. a person or thing in which expectations are centered: 5. something that is hoped for: 6. to look forward to with desire and reasonable confidence. 7. to believe, desire, or trust: 8. to feel that something desired may happen: 9. Archaic. to place trust; rely 10. hope against hope, to continue to hope, although the outlook does not warrant it:
[Origin: bef. 900; (n.) ME; OE hopa; c. D hoop, G Hoffe; (v.) ME hopen, OE hopian]
It occurs to me today that it takes a lot of courage to be hopeful. One has to walk into hope with the knowledge that hope is just a dream, yet, with hope that dreams do come true. What a dichotomy!!
We often have no hope at all that a certain desire may be fulfilled. So much so that we discard the desire as a dream that died and went to hell, and turn to a journey where we actively work for someone else's desires to be fulfilled. As we travel the road of fulfilling the hopes of another, our own hope peeks out from around the corner then darts back out of sight as soon as we turn to look at it - taking it's essense with it. (Wait a second! I sent that hope to burn in hell!!) Then, it begins to get more bold, and stay just long enough for us to begin to recognize it's face. It essence invades you, almost against your own will, to make a real change in your life.
You begin to question. . . Do I dare to hope? Do I dare take the chance? Do I have "reasonable confidence" (as is expressed in the definition above) that this can morph from being dead and in hell into livable reality? I can't go through much more pain, unless the pain actually produces some positive results. Is this a *real* hope, or only real because I secretly hope for it to be so?
Hope is just a . . . thing. But what courage it takes to dare to accept it.
Today, I start a new journey. One of hope for myself, not for another another this time. I choose to be brave. I choose to hope. I choose to rescue it from the hell to which I, personally, banished it - come what may.
Where is my shovel?