Somewhere along the way, most of us lose our innocence. Life pushes, pulls, prods, tests, and chips away at facades. Our Disney World innocence is a page turned but, below the layers of dust and frustration and hurt that are part of this hard life, hope, like a '65 Mustang up on blocks in some old barn in someone's backyard, is still quietly there.
Hope comes in many forms.
It's the horizon minus the distant silhouette of a prodigal son. It's the aftermath that follows sadness for a fallen bird nest taken out by a slingshot. It's the moment when you try to put down your daily problems to sit quietly with creation, and fail.
Hope is antidote, clearing dust, calming frustration, soothing failure and, most of all, naming hatred.
Hatred, of course, is a bully. It hogs the sheets and the bed and it doesn't want to give them up. The world is too big for hatred so it tries to shrink its own surroundings, grasping for a sense of control or power. Hatred lashes out first and, in its insecurity, ambushes hope again and again.
You'd think hope would've perished by now, this far along in human history.
Like a passively silent monk performing menial tasks in a remote monastery, the resiliency of hope is never apparent. Until it is.