Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson – Hope

After I accepted my powerlessness over my loved one's alcoholism, I had to find a new meaning for hope. I could no longer say “I hope for sobriety”, because that would set up an expectation. I had no way of assuring that expectation would be met, and so I would again find myself descending into the pit of despair. What hope came to mean for me, in those days, was that there was a possibility of change, not an expectation of change. This hope helped to sustain me. It “perched in my soul” and “sang the tune … sweetest in the gale”.

A meditation for December 19, 2012.