Let me speak to you of hope. Take a breath of faith, so to speak, for you are convinced, are you not, that one breath follows another even though you know there will come a time when it will not.
Think of the billions of breaths bestowed on you. Think of the next beat of your heart.
Is it not hope that causes you to plan a day, set a menu, organize an outing, eat, shower, dress, work?
Unless we act, however simply, we become a sack of cells, unmoving, unloving, uncaring – for ourselves or for others. It is how we fight for life, these billions of acts of courage. It is how we disallow depression, depletion, despair. We learn to act, not react.
I "hope" I have challenged you to think of hope as a natural part of being. Hope may be fragile, intangible, easy to spurn and thwarted by fear, but it exists within us at deeper levels than we may recognize.
I was irritable in the Spring, hating to awaken each day to the fact of the state of this government. It is easy to be annoyed, fearful, moved to inaction, depressed, despairing, depleted. But I do not like those feelings, so I look out my window to the sea. I open my door. I open my mind.
And, here is my story.
My tropical island suffered a drought from November (when normal rainfall usually sets off flooding) through March. It was a time of water trucks laboring up the hillsides to deliver water to empty cisterns. It was a time of growling while writing checks for these unexpected bills for water. It was a time of leaving laundry undone and the briefest of bathroom showers. It was a time of asking, how can it be Spring without rain?
Finally, the rains came, not quite monsoons, not quite tropical storms – but enough. Enough to indulge in a longer shower, not cutting off the water while soaping up.
And Spring energy erupted, every vine, every branch, every flower, every leaf in surprising superabundance, as though a drought had never happened.
And Carnival arrived, sang and danced (plagued by showers) and went.
And I waited for the butterflies. The winter months had lacked the usual small white creatures, moths actually, that kiss the winter flowers, making Christmas here somewhat magical.
My wait was tinged with sadness, for I feared the drought might have altered the nature’s timetable.
April into May, I waited. And finally they appeared.
The small white moths were augmented by a yellow variety and an occasional mystical bright-red butterfly with black markings, a new addition to this island. Otherwise, their display looked quite normal, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
And they multiplied. More and more butterflies appeared, including an orange and black-striped variety.
And still they came. Inundation: I open my door and butterflies surround me. I scan the hillside and their flighty dance fills the air. They wreath the entire island. Every week or so tiny ones appear and a new crop takes over.
They have not abated yet.
I telephoned the Extension Service to ask about this splendid display. The reason, the scientist surmised (he lives on another island), was the drought killed off the caterpillars’ natural predators, such as wasps. The butterflies are free to be.
Recently, I bought the DVD "Copying Beethoven" and while watching the film and listening to the music, I made the connection to the movement of the butterflies. It has to be Beethoven’s spirit on holiday in the Caribbean, for there is no more perfect interpretation of this motion, this dance, than the "Ode to Joy."
This, my flickering screen, is the miracle of unfettered metamorphosis.
It exists.
"Hope is a state of mind, not of the world. Hope, in this deep and powerful sense, is not the same as joy that things are going well, or willingness to invest in enterprises that are obviously heading for success, but rather an ability to work for something because it is good."
Václav Havel