I used to think that hope was one of the big feelings or states of being that we ought to strive for. Much like joy, happiness, or love, it was a titan of emotions, a destination to aim for. But as time has gone on, I’ve come to realise that hope is not a destination at all. It’s not a place we finally arrive at one day.
Hope is part of the journey itself.
I’ve found hope many times, often when I didn’t even realise I was looking for it. Hope is vast and ever-present. It’s the undercurrent of the ocean upon which we all swim. It’s there to guide us and help push us along when our arms and legs become too weak. When we’re thriving, hope exists in cooperation with us, helping us to travel through life a little lighter, a little more buoyant, requiring a little less effort.
Then there are the times when we’re sure hope cannot possibly exist. When the world feels like it’s against us. When every action is hard, arduous, exhausting. When the simplest of tasks become challenging and we feel drained and overwhelmed, still, hope manages to filter through. Sometimes, it’s just a single drop. Other times, it’s a slow trickle, helping to refill our well. Occasionally, it comes as a wave, washing over us when we least expect it, when we need it most.
Hope can be easy to miss. In the rush of daily life, as we struggle to get from one moment to the next, to complete the next task on our to-do lists, to meet a work deadline, or just get everyone out of the house on time, it can sometimes be hard to see it. When the business of life takes over our thoughts, the mere notion of hope can feel an ocean away.
Yet, I’ve found hope hiding in the tiniest of places, for I’ve discovered that hope hides in plain sight, simply waiting to be noticed. Waiting to be needed.
Hope flew by my window one spring afternoon in the form of pink blossom dancing freely through the air. It found me again one day on the kitchen floor, exhausted and cleaning up mess, when my daughter took her first steps. Hope demanded attention when it fell on my face as icy, cold rain on a beach in Oban. It forced me to shut my eyes, turn my face upward towards the bright, rainy sky and open my ears to the sound of the crashing waves and the peels of pure joyous laughter coming from my son.
When tired eyes and an aching body desperately did not want to work, hope whispered in my ear. It promised sweet nothings and urged me on. It was there, waiting for me as promised, once I’d completed my work. It held me just long enough for me to see that self-belief was all I needed to go on.
Hope comes to me every morning, when I groan at the inevitability of the stress of the morning school run. It smells of coffee and hugs me tight.
Just the other day, hope appeared to me as a bus, perfectly timed when I was running late and it jingled in the form of lost keys, thankfully found in an unchecked coat pocket. Hope was my lost bracelet being unexpectedly found on my doorstep by my son. When the forecast had promised only rain, hope surprised me as bright sunshine filled the sky. At the end of an arduous day, it rewarded me with a moment of solitude, stolen just for me.
Hope was the realisation that I had packed spare socks when my children’s feet were soaked by the rain. I’ve also found it every day in the sound of their laughter and in the purity of their play and imaginations. Hope made a habit of sneaking in in the middle of the night in the form of a loving smile when my baby girl looked up at me.
I’ve often found hope riding beside me when I sit behind a steering wheel. As the sunshine warmed my arm through the car window and I sang along to my favourite songs, hope was there singing with me. It waved at me from the mountains of the Highlands and called out in greeting from the caves and rocks of Strathy Bay. Hope swam alongside me as we jumped waves and followed schools of fish on Gullane beach. It has waved to me every autumn as purple heather on the Pentland Hills.
Hope exists in the tiny cracks of the mundane. It waves and sparkles in the most unexpected of moments. It’s there, lying in wait, when we go looking for a tiny ray of strength. It sneaks up and fills us full of itself at the precise moment we didn’t even know we were in need of it.
Hope is there whether we want it or not. Whether we’ve chosen to have it or not, to believe in it or not. It’s there. A constant rhythm and companion beside us through life.
Hope lives in the spaces between. We just have to be willing to look and see.