I see a bird with a long thin marsh-reed trailing from its beak. The reed is four, five, maybe six times longer than her. One little wispy strand on an overly sunny winter day. It may snow and blow after dinner, but that doesn’t matter now. She continues on, little piece by little piece, building a home. A home full of future hopes, of healing and safety – a home to welcome something new, something strong, something resurrected. She sings while working, sings generously, even when the answers don’t come, even when the goal is still far off. I’m reminded to to do the same.
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.
-Poem by Emily Dickinson