Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all.
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.
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.
My incredible husband, Matt, who keeps me tethered to hope, took all of the pictures in this post.