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.

Melancholy, Baby by Kat Magendie

It's a hollow place we go sometimes, don’t you think? There is an indention in the soil, and we curl into the indention where it's safe and comfy—even though we lie about how comfortable it is, since there are pebbles pressing into our skin, there is a chill in the night, and there is dirt under our nails that aggravates. We ignore the lamenting low howl of the wise wolf, calling us back calling us back calling us back, don't we? Because we’re snuggled into our hollowed out space, curled just as we did before birth. The place in the soil upon the earth, in the hollowed out hidden forest, where we pretend how comfortable we are, and alone, don't forget how nice it is to be alone. Sounds good, doesn’t it? Who doesn't like a bit of melancholy from time to time?

Melancholy is an old friend, a good ole chum (unlike depression, that mean spindly spirit of woe). Melancholy won’t fuss at us, and even allows us to eat too much bad food, or drink too much bad liquor, and shut out everyone who is important to us, even our own voices. Our melancholy has a bit of imp to it, an angsty charm, a cute way of winking at us, a way of drawing us into the indention. Funny how one can be flying through the sky, feeling the wind, and some twist of synapses, some bitter pill, some disappointment, and next we find we are falling. Melancholy catches us, then wraps around us its familiar soft blanket.

But wait! Just as we think we will stay huddled forever, melancholy takes its blanket from our shoulders, pulls us up by the hand, gives us that wink, and says, "I've got to go now. Ta ta!" And there we are, rising up from our hollowed space. There we go, the sun on our face, blinking in the light, brushing the dirt from our clothes, trying out a grin, flexing our fingers, pointing our toes, saying "Hey, I'm hungry for life now, give me a big ole plate of it! With a side of hope and a glass of thank you may I please have another." A stretch upward, a glimpse of blue oh so blue sky. A squirrel blinks at us and we laugh. And just like that, the earth turns turns turns and we dance around on the head of a pin.