Hope

The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.

I have to be honest: the past few weeks have been hard for me. In light of many recent events, my optimism has taken a hit. Politicians circle each other in endless rhetoric that goes nowhere. Senseless killings are so common that we've stopped reading the news. The world is still run by profit and greedy corporations, even as I see the valiant and critically important work of hundreds of nonprofit organizations. How much more could they be doing if they actually had enough funding and support? What does it take for things to change? How bad does it have to get before we make it stop?

I'm battling hard to keep the faith. One phrase that keeps coming to mind is this: Cynicism is easy. Hope is hard. I can't fall into the cynicism trap.

My worst fear used to be complacency. I don't fear that as much anymore -- I have more fire than ever. Instead, I've been struck by a new fear: that the world actually will never change for the better. But that kind of thinking only leads to more cynicism, which is a force that convinces us not to act. It's a line of thought that persuades us that nothing we do will actually make a difference, and I simply can't stand that idea from anyone, especially not from myself.

Cynicism is easy. Hope is hard.

Last night while reading, I came across a quote which, though spoken by a character in an entirely fictional universe, felt particularly appropriate to this world at the moment.
"What do you suppose [...] the people on other continents, across all those seas, think of us? Do you think they hate us or pity us for what we do to each other? Perhaps it's just as bad there. Perhaps it's worse. But to do what I have to do, to get through it...I have to believe it's better. Somewhere, it's better than this." (Sarah J. Maas, Heir of Fire, p.422)

That's the way I'm feeling now. In a despairing, broken world, I have to believe that things will change. I desperately need to see the world get better in my lifetime.

I don't have any answers about how to move forward. I know what I wish everyone would do to facilitate change, but it's all been said many times before, so you can probably imagine.

So instead of going on about this, I'll just talk about something I found incredibly beautiful -- because hope is all about finding beauty in the midst of struggle. (Apologies for the moving-car pictures. I hope you can use your imagination a little.)



Here's the thing: I have grossly underestimated the significance of pine trees in the winter.

In the early fall, I was lamenting the comparative lack of Colorado fall colors because there are fewer deciduous trees here than in Virginia. Especially when you head west out of the city toward the Rocky Mountains, everything becomes coniferous.

Last week we were driving to Woodland Park (a little town in the mountains about 20 miles west of the Springs). It had been snowing off and on for a couple of days, and never got warm enough to melt much.

Driving out this way is beautiful any day, but never before had I seen it so striking. Everything -- mountains, rocks, trees -- was blanketed in snow and ice. Hills upon hills of conifers rose up around us until the tops blended into the cloud and fog, a hazy winter wonderland. It was just before sunset, and the sky was a shade of silvery gray that was almost a perfect match for the color of snow on pine trees.

LOOK AT IT.

I hope you can find ways to live into hope today, friends. I hope you can do what you have to do to keep the faith. For me, that's listening to Linus and Lucy while drinking peppermint tea. Soon I'm "going brunching" (as my German housemate would endearingly call it), and later there's a Christmas parade.

Today, let us turn away from the easy road of cynicism. Today, choose the rugged path of hope.