“Idealism is a seed of naïveté once planted in a youthful heart that grew into a tree of hopefulness.” – Erika K Rothwell
It’s Monday again. Yes I am moving forward with hope. Yet, my mind stays persistently intertwined with the past. Stuck in an observation mode, I cling to new ideas as if a collection of fine jewelry meant to be coveted rather than worn.
The day seems too simple to be adorned in bright shiny new ideas. So, reflection pulls me deeper into acceptance of my inability to complete any one of my projects in progress and I find an odd sense of comfort in stagnation.
I turn my attention to the view outside my window where the bird couple has landed on the tree branch. I am reminded, once again, of the fleeting moments that pass by my eyes of observation, pleading to be captured in words. However, with the best plan in place, the hours still burn up in the heat of day, and I am left with ashes of intent.
I reread my words of the past, rediscovered today, in a note written to myself months ago. “Idealism is a seed of naïveté once planted in a youthful heart that grew into a tree of hopefulness.” My daydream is insistent and alive, albeit buried beneath the surface of deeply packed minutia.
A state of reflection along with my strange preoccupation with fantastical imagery, draws me into a centrifuge of swirling thoughts, finding myself unable to categorize or prioritize.
And as the birds fly away, I am left only with the “tree of hopefulness” and a reminder to persevere…
It exists in all of us, whether initially a flicker or a flame, creativity eventually asks for engagement. Art is born not only in painful moments of life’s unexpected and uncontrollable events, but also in the peaceful serene entrance of morning when an invitation is presented to begin a new day with the most playful of heart.
My wish to capture the sunrise this morning as a photograph was not granted as I was traveling on the highway. I could only gape at its beauty and imbed the picture in my memory. Difficult as it was to keep my attention on the road, mesmerized by the half crescent shape of the bright orange globe peeking out from the horizon, I turned my thoughts to the inspiration from nature once again.
Further down the road where the sun’s rays had not yet touched, a heavy ethereal mist was floating above the red river and evoked my fantastical imagination of a world where mystical delights swirl around each and every one of us playfully invoking a powerful urge and desire to create art from the inspiration of tiny water droplets suspended in air.
For me, the mist represents a lightness of heart that floats above the harsh realities of a mundane existence or the senseless casualties of loved ones. As with atmospheric changes, the heaviness of life can be transformed into featherlight peace. Once again my sense of purpose has been reestablished and confirmed.
As I was elevated from a mechanical state of tending to daily cares to one of sublime happiness, a magical gift was received again from above. A place created by a societal and collective imagination, but also quite possibly a place revealed to us in tiny glimpses of unimagined beauty upon daybreak in nature’s masterpieces.
Appreciation of these slivers of magnificence can fan and fuel the burning desire to bring forth our own creative beauty deepening our relationship with the creator of all.
Hope is my therapy. Where else can such a profound sense of acceptance be felt? It exists for all of us, gentle support that anchors our souls. A belief and expectation of something good.
Two blue jays visited today on a branch outside my window as if to remind me of a universal smile of goodness. A pureness that radiates from nature all around me, a perfected treasure gifted to me to view daily if I slow down enough to do so. If I delete one “o” what remains in the word is the strength I put my hope in. For it is in recognizing that power and glory that I accept my own goodness.
My initial inability to rebound and cope seamlessly with loss pours life into these words. They exist only because I still have hope. Hope in a future, not without pain but with a gift. The gift of believing each day, itself, is a gift.
We wake naively without any anticipation of who we could lose in a split second, an occurrence taking only .00001157 of the entire day, changing the course of life for thousands of others. That one second does not define the life of the lost, rather it defines the implication that even a second of each day matters.
That particular second changed everything for me and many others this past week. Except Hope did not change. Hope remained a constant. Life goes on because of Hope. Hope that all happens eventually for good. Even if the temptation is to sink low into an abyss of confusion, the universe reminds us that all is good with it and invites us to put our hope in the power harnessed within.
Strong arms of healing wrap around me gently, reminding me that my pain of loss needs hope now more than ever.