Beside a river, in a spell
Of utter silence, there am I.
Alone I sit within a cell:
The midnight hours are passing by ...
I gaze into the distance, staying
Focused on night's formlessness;
The heart is begging to be praying --
In holy calm, how effortless!
All problems seem so far from me;
The world seem foreign and unreal.
Up in the heavens, You I see;
Within my heart, deep peace I feel.
Hope is a muscle, a practice, a choice that actually propels new realities into being. And it's a muscle we can strengthen. It is not the same as idealism or optimism. This kind of hope has nothing to do with wishful thinking. Hope as I've seen it lived is at once fierce and persistently joyful. I've come to understand this quality of hope as an essential foundation and power for the generative story, the generative landscape, that is emerging out of all of the rupture this moment in the life of the world has laid bare.