Gratitude for the Wellspring of Hope by Barbara Quinn

Today, with a huge hurricane bearing down on the Gulf again, I’ve been thinking about the difficult times so many are facing. I find it hard to find anything to be grateful about in the face of nature's wrecking ball. But in reality, there is much to be grateful for at times like this. The "hurricane hunters" who fly into the storm to get bearings on where it is going, the government officials like Mayor Nagin who urge people to get out, the bus drivers and hospital workers who make sure people get to safety, are humanity at its best.

Besides all these angels of mercy, I have come to be grateful simply for being able to hope. No matter how bad things get, when I dig down deep there is a small spring of hope trickling away waiting for me to discover it. That's what enables us to act. That's what keeps us going in times of need. We hope that we will be all right, that things will change, that there is light on the other side of the darkness.

I rely on that tiny trickle of hope. It’s elusive at times and sometimes I'm afraid it's dried up entirely. But I’ve grown to be patient about waiting for it to grow once again, and fill the chambers of my brain with the silvery liquid of life. When hope gives birth to joy, well, there is nothing better. Joy, like hope, washes over us without any thought and we accept it willingly without questioning. No dwelling on either of those to muck up the day.

Dante’s Hell had a sign over it, “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.” Think of it. A place without hope. Hell is darkness, burning darkness, the complete absence of hope. Living hell. Horrible to contemplate, and horrible to live with. We all have dark days, and when I do I am amazed at the power of the darkness to blot out everything. This darkness is palpable at times, weighing heavily on me, making movement difficult, threatening to plug up the wellspring of hope for good. Nothing matters, nothing attracts, nothing makes sense.

So what do I do when the darkness falls? I dig deep and search until I can find the trickle of silvery hope that is meant to keep flowing, meant to lie in wait until the darkness passes. I can’t hurry the dark, but it does pass, the way night passes. I find one good thing to think about. And then another. I take care of other people to the extent I can. And then good old hope returns, slowly at first and then so bright some people shy away from it. Hope is a good and glorious thing. I wish you hope wherever you are, no matter your situation. It can keep you going and get you to the other side. Act, take care of yourselves and those in need. Hope will follow. Godspeed to all in the path of the hurricane.

Water Sounds by Kathryn Magendie

There are signs of spring on the mountain, and I’ve opened the windows and the front door to let in a brisk breeze. Green shoots are peeking, buds on trees; tiny awakenings. But what I notice most on my mountain walk is the water. Our creek is again singing louder, rushing wildly down to find the bigger creek to find the lake to find the ocean. Our creek has been ill lately, because of the drought in North Carolina.

It isn’t just the creek sounds that excite me, although I can now hear it even when my windows and doors are closed, just as I used to be able to. There are more water signs I’d forgotten about, one of which is along the road we walk in a shallow ditch where rainwater run-off flows. I’d forgotten water ran there, since it has been dry for so long. But there it is, clear and clean and cold. Kayla drinks from it, just as she used to. Jake watches it gurgle with his head cocked to one side, just as he used to.

I want to reach down and cup my hands, catch some of the mountain water, and splash it to my face—not yet; it’s still a bit too chilly for that, however, that day will come as the days grow warmer. If, and oh please let it be so, the drought continues to wane, the rains will come to our mountains and valleys and farms and yards, and into creeks streams rivers, all that feed into the ocean, all are connected, all are brother and sister, all will be replenished, fed, watered.

Back in my home, I stop what I'm doing and listen. The wind blows hard, setting the chimes to ringing, the branches to rubbing, the birds tittering, but beyond that I hear the roar of the creek and it is music music. I feel an affinity for all nature. A love that holds no grudges or boundaries, but oftentimes a hope when nature seems cruel. Nature does as it will without emotion; nature is what it is and to personify it is a disservice. There is only the way of the Earth, and today, I am grateful for its way, its voice, its song, its nurturing, its rain that brought my creek and rushing water back to the mountain—almost just as it was before the drought, almost, but still good…good.