Recently I Instagramed my succulents, which, for the most part, seemed to survive my abandonment during my trip to Florida: weeks without water. I had lost only one plant, and had my doubts about my Christmas Cactus.The Christmas cactus seemed "flat", and no matter how well it was watered and how much light it got, it seemed to not improve at all. But yesterday I noticed a small pink dot on the end of ever branch, and today those dots look like this.
And seeing this, I thought "This is what hope looks like". Hope is that little thing you see when you think everything else is gone, it's the seed that lies buried until the darkness passes. Hope is that tiny bud that lets you know something better is coming.
I don't know much about Christmas cactus. It seems to me, however, that this looks very different than what a new segment looked like as it formed. I may be wrong, but some part of me thinks I might be looking at a flower bud, and that in 6-8 weeks, my Christmas cactus will not only be back from the dead, but in bloom.
Once hope blossoms into possibilities, once those possibilities are realized, there is no need for the Hope. The Hope is transformed into certainty, into acceptance, into (at times) dismay. Hope is transient.
I don't know what form my hopes will morph into going forward. I have a lot of hopes. I hope to make it through this pandemic. I hope my surgery goes well. I hope I can find some peace in Ellen's passing. I hope that I gain some level of food and housing security. I hope that my children find stability and happiness in their lives. I hope that my son-in-law can move forward in his life. And I hope my tea doesn't get cold before I finish drinking it. Hope comes in all sizes.
Today the pain in my leg continued to make it difficult to walk as I did the rest of my grocery shopping. Things have gotten expensive, and my freezer is not yet full going into this time of isolation from both the pandemic and my surgeries. I wonder what life will be like without the use of my left hand when I also can't use my right leg fully. I am unsure how I'll get in and out of the car... knowing there will be close to 6 weeks when I won't be able to at all. I wonder how I'll push a grocery cart, or how I'll reach the top shelf if I'm in an electric grocery cart. I know at the end of all this, there is some sort of hope: that when the pandemic wave subsides, my hand and leg might both be healthy enough to resume the activities I've missed... and that it's still somehow better to be disabled during lockdown, when, at least in theory, all I have to worry about is getting around my apartment.
Then, in spring, when this is ALL over: the pandemic wave, my hand surgery, whatever will go on with my leg... then I will start looking for that little bud of hope for a healthier, more able future. I'll be ready to bloom.
And seeing this, I thought "This is what hope looks like". Hope is that little thing you see when you think everything else is gone, it's the seed that lies buried until the darkness passes. Hope is that tiny bud that lets you know something better is coming.
I don't know much about Christmas cactus. It seems to me, however, that this looks very different than what a new segment looked like as it formed. I may be wrong, but some part of me thinks I might be looking at a flower bud, and that in 6-8 weeks, my Christmas cactus will not only be back from the dead, but in bloom.
Once hope blossoms into possibilities, once those possibilities are realized, there is no need for the Hope. The Hope is transformed into certainty, into acceptance, into (at times) dismay. Hope is transient.
I don't know what form my hopes will morph into going forward. I have a lot of hopes. I hope to make it through this pandemic. I hope my surgery goes well. I hope I can find some peace in Ellen's passing. I hope that I gain some level of food and housing security. I hope that my children find stability and happiness in their lives. I hope that my son-in-law can move forward in his life. And I hope my tea doesn't get cold before I finish drinking it. Hope comes in all sizes.
Today the pain in my leg continued to make it difficult to walk as I did the rest of my grocery shopping. Things have gotten expensive, and my freezer is not yet full going into this time of isolation from both the pandemic and my surgeries. I wonder what life will be like without the use of my left hand when I also can't use my right leg fully. I am unsure how I'll get in and out of the car... knowing there will be close to 6 weeks when I won't be able to at all. I wonder how I'll push a grocery cart, or how I'll reach the top shelf if I'm in an electric grocery cart. I know at the end of all this, there is some sort of hope: that when the pandemic wave subsides, my hand and leg might both be healthy enough to resume the activities I've missed... and that it's still somehow better to be disabled during lockdown, when, at least in theory, all I have to worry about is getting around my apartment.
Then, in spring, when this is ALL over: the pandemic wave, my hand surgery, whatever will go on with my leg... then I will start looking for that little bud of hope for a healthier, more able future. I'll be ready to bloom.
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