Hope is a thing with wings...and claws

"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.

And sweetest in the Gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest Sea
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb of Me.
—Emily Dickinson


How about that Emily, huh?

But there's something that Emily kept secret.
Like most creatures with feathers, Hope also has claws.

Hope speaks softly in lilting tones, making promises and demanding action. Hope cheers you and mocks you, whispering in twin tongues that you can do it, don’t give up while also berating you that you’re not trying hard enough, not nearly hard enough. Hope claims to have secret answers buried beneath its feathers, claims to be the keeper of secrets you desire, of answers that you seek, and will not give you any hints. Hope even claims to know the questions you should ask, and the reasons you should ask them, but will not offer clues. Hope awes and frustrates, inspires and disappoints. It won’t tell you clearly where you’re going, and at times blinds you with its feathers so you can't tell if you're even moving at all. And sometimes in that blinded state, wandering in a darkness self-imposed, you'd swear you could hear Hope laughing.

But Hope will not be left behind. It seems such a sweet and innocent thing, but it uses its claws. It perches in the soul tenaciously, grabbing hold of your most tender parts and refusing to loosen its grip. It uses those claws to avoid being put into in a bag, or on a shelf, or even slid behind your back when company comes. It's then that Hope cries out for attention, in a voice only you can hear.

When you would have quiet, Hope jumps up and down in a circle around your feet, anxious, requiring, demanding, making you feel the rapid thundering of it's quickened bird heartbeat as your own. Ignored, it will bite and scratch at you, until it draws blood, scream its name in your ear. Dare to strike out, and it will call its big sisters, Fear, Anxiety, and Despair, and they-will-kick-your-@ss. Don’t mess with Hope.

There is only one thing worse than the claws of Hope. That is if you should be so unfortunate as to make those claws release, and find a way to leave Hope on the road behind you. For where you leave Hope is your last marker on the road.

And from that point you shall progress no further.

And so you stroke it, and nurture, and coax breath back into its lungs. Because it is tenacious, and sometimes painful, and sometimes obstinate and willful. But it is yours, and you are its. With it the progress may be difficult, and sometimes painful, and even seemingly without point or direction. But without it you progress not at all.