Cultivating Hope

At one point in time I could barely define hope, let alone have it for myself. I had people around me telling me that there was hope for this, hope for that, hope for a future, just hope in general. To me, it was all lip service. I just didn’t see it. Thankfully, even at some of my darkest places, I had a few people around me that held on to hope for me. One even helped me define it in a beautifully sardonic way. Hold on, pain ends. I held on to that promise.

Fast forward ten years and part of defining my recovery journey is recognizing hope for a future. It’s the light shining in the darkness. It’s faith that this storm will pass. It’s knowing that circumstances are temporary and will change. It’s understanding that I may not be able to control much of anything around me, but I can control how I choose to react to it.

In that realization, I learned something about hope. It wasn’t something that someone could magically bestow upon me. It wasn’t some concept that I had to study and dedicate my life to understanding. It certainly wasn’t something I had to fight to attain. For the longest time I thought I had lost all hope for any kind of meaningful life or a future where I could find peace. The funny thing that I noticed was that hope wasn’t lost, I was.

In a moment, I stopped. Stopped everything I was doing. I sat down, I pet my dog, I concentrated on my breathing. I let my mind free from the past and the future, I focused on that very moment and looked for something to hold on to right then. The softest spot on my dogs body was just behind his ears and when I rubbed that tuft of fur between my fingers he’d lean into my hands ever so slightly. There was a tinge of salt in the air from the ocean, it reminded me of the expanse of the sea and the ever flowing waves of motion that moved eternally. A light breeze touched my face and ran across the line of sweat from my brow. The breeze cooled my face and then sent a shiver down my back in the heat of the day. I was thankful for that. A few more deep breathes and my heart rate slowed, my muscles relaxed, my dog sighed and began to softly snore in my lap, and I slid my feet out of my flip flops and curled my toes in the sandy grass in front of me. All I could think of was how beautiful a day it was, and for that moment, I was at peace.

That’s hope. Living for the moments where we can release the pain of the past and anxieties of the future, so we can be fully aware and open to the present. That’s the beauty of it. It’s not some mystery to be solved or something I have to constantly strive to achieve or hold on to. All I need to do is pause. Look around. Then recognize and be grateful for what’s there. That cultivates hope. The more I do that, the more hopeful I am. Hope is contagious. It overflows into all aspects of my life and sometimes into others. The only thing I need to do, is to allow myself experience it.

Hold on, pain ends.