Hope often comes easy when we are young, As young seekers, we often believe we will someday discover unalloyed truth. As young artists, we often trust we will someday give birth to fully blossomed beauty.
After drinking from the bitter cup of experience it is understandable we would question the maturity of our earlier hopes. It is understandable we would question hope itself. But hope is not some wispy dream that may or may not be realized. Hope is our sense of the creative energy of life itself being expressed through our very being.
Hope cannot be defeated by any roll of fortune’s dice because it is not directed toward any one fate. Hope is an expression of the vitality of life itself. Hope beats silently behind the ebb and flow of events. Buried beneath a sea of ashes the hope cannot but dream of beauty. Chained to the withered tree of sorrow, hope whispers to give ourselves to each moment for the sake of something yet to be.
Hope is our trust in the creative unfolding of the universe even amid our own destruction. Hope is not some childish wish for a particular outcome in life. Hope is the assurance that the same creative energy driving the stars is ever to be found in our hearts as well.
Hope is living in the energy more profoundly within us than the temporary life we mistakenly call our own.