hope is the thing with feathers...

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all.
                              ~Emily Dickinson

This morning the first stanza of the above Emily Dickinson poem danced through my scattered thoughts.  I love this poem.  I love the bird imagery.  Birds are, for some mysterious reason, incredibly meaningful to me.
They are free. 
They are fragile. 
They are strong. 
They soar. 
They nest. 
They sing. 
They hope.

Lately, I have felt a bit like a bird with an injured wing.  I am feeling a bit fragile.  I have protectively tucked my brood up under me in my nest.  And I also crave the healing melancholy of solitude. 

There are moments, too, when I am free.  When I am strong.  When I soar.  When I sing.  When I hope. 

And it's OK, right now, that I am a bit fragile, and that I feel the need to stay close to my nest and wrap myself up in solitude. 

And it's OK that sometimes I can see the light of hope, but it's a bit far away.

And it's OK to rest in those moments when Hope is right in front of me, when I can read it, I can feel it, and I can venture out of the shadows and into its light. 

Hope is a bird.

Hope is light.

I hope. 

J'espére.

My incredible husband, Matt, who keeps me tethered to hope, took all of the pictures in this post.