Dickinson, Steinbeck, and Hope

Emily Dickinson wrote that hope is the thing with feathers.

Have you ever tried to hold onto a bird that is not trained to the hand? It is not easy. They fight. They flap their wings and puff themselves up. They scratch and bite. They are vicious and will try to attack rather than allow you to hold them gently in your hand.

This is hope, the thing with feathers. If you hold onto it when it doesn’t wish to be held it scratches and claws, it bleeds you painfully, it pecks and bits until you let it go to fly away.

Hope for a cure. Hope for an answer. Sometimes you have to let it go. Right now, I still hold on, painful as it is. But my hand is loose. I don’t hold quite as tight as before. Next week I’ll see a new neurologist. He may or may not give me a reason, an explanation. Right now, knowing I have the appointment gives me hope. Knowing that he looked at a friend’s test results that were inconclusive and said that inconclusive was not a good enough answer gives me hope.

But I’m at the edge of my hope. I’m scared that if I hold on too long it will die in my hands, fighting for freedom as I fight to hold on. Like Lenny, crushing the fragile thing’s life until it is no more.

Hope is the thing with feathers that sometimes kills you in trying to make you let it go before you kill it by holding on.