Hope as a Practice
Hope is a practice.
It is the stubborn commitment to believe in possibilities that we cannot yet see.
But so often in times of darkness and despair hope can feel naive, innocent or impossible to find. After all, aren’t we supposed to greet reality?
Sometimes with hope we worry: what if things don’t turn out? What if I’m wrong? What if my heart breaks?
What if I’m seen as naïve or idealistic? What if people scoff?
Despair can offer the illusion of safety; refuge sought in cynicism and armour. Guards at our heart to protect from disappointment; the dull, bitter ache of apathy more tolerable than the sharp pain of life.
But hope is a practice, and there is power in it. Not a naïve positive thinking, detached from the pain of the world, nor an innocent longing, that knows nothing of struggle.
Rather, hope is the willingness to live in a story that is not yet complete.
This hope is rooted in our potential. It knows there is a field with myriad possibilities; ones we may never see or touch but that nonetheless still exist.
Hope in this sense is less feeling, and more practice.
Hope as a Practice
So, if you’re in need of a little hope this week, I invite you to explore these practices.
Grieve. Hope is not detached from reality; we cannot feel hope without the fullness of our emotions. And while hope can be dark from the midst of grief, grief in an age of despair is a sign of our humanity. It is the consequence of our love, and to offer it ritual and honour is part of what makes hope possible.
Beauty-Making: The practice of finding or making beauty wherever we are. Maybe it’s in the clouds, the sky, the birds or flowers. Maybe you can help make it through art, an act of kindness, a delicious meal. Maybe it’s a sunset or the lake at dusk. Hope and beauty are close friends. Where can you find beauty today? How can you make it?
Imagine. Imagination is the lovechild of hope. If possibilities exist, what might they look like? What ‘third way’ can we find? Can we allow ourselves time to dream, play and create?
Look backwards. We often think of hope as a forward looking thing – and it is. But sometimes we generate most by looking backwards.
Where in our lives has change seemed impossible? Where has it happened anyway?
Where throughout history might change have seemed impossible? Where has it happened anyway?
Who have you thought to be impossible of change? How might they have changed anyway.
Surrender. Part of our struggle with hope is our need to see the outcome. Our need for things to be a certain way. Our need to not be wrong, to know with certainty that things will turn out – often with a nice, neat arc and ending. We confuse hope with control, hope with certainty, hope with knowing, hope with a fixed ending, hope with utopia, hope with relief, hope with the end of anxiety… each time missing what hope really is.
Because hope, at its most raw, is the willingness to live in a story that is not yet complete.
A story that we are not the only author of, and a story that never really ends.
