If “Hope is the thing with feathers,” as poet Emily Dickinson tells us, no wonder we have trouble holding onto it! I don’t know of anything with feathers that tolerates being grasped for long. I know people consider the hummingbird a sign of hope but try catching one of those! In late winter, spotting my first robin, I feel a burst of hope. But I know better than to chase it. Chickadees might be enticed to eat out of my hand, but only an open palm, not a closed one. Then there are the feathered dinosaurs of ancient eras. But if hope is a flying dinosaur, I’ll have to pass on that one!
If I follow Dickinson to the next line of her famous poem, things start to make more sense. Hope, she tells us, “perches in the soul.” This sounds authentic to me. Hope perches, “And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all.” That’s a hope I want. One that flies in singing and never stops. But perching implies that hope’s stay is in and out, on and off, it comes and goes. The feathered thing is not always visible, perhaps not always audible. But maybe if I tune my ear, I can still hear the song in the distance. It doesn’t need words, it just needs melody. A recognizable call that reminds me that hope is still out there. Maybe a red cardinal will appear, maybe an elusive bluebird, maybe a mighty eagle. Maybe just another common sparrow, who is also a thing with feathers, also somebody’s hope.
I love the idea that hope, like the feathery birds, comes in many sizes, shapes and forms. Our feathered friends speak in different voices; they move at different speeds. If we look, we can find them everywhere. I can sit on my back steps and listen to birds, but lately I’ve been thinking that I want to do that at Centering Space, a place that also allows for different voices, speeds and shapes. Centering Space has long been a place of refuge and hope. It’s a good place for me to practice the kind of hope I want: more open hand and open heart, more seeing beauty nearby and hearing the song far off. Recent renovation of the Centering Space gardens makes them even more welcoming. Porch chairs and sturdy steps, winding paths and even a sky-blue Tea House! Birds have long used the Centering Space grounds for shelter, food and rest. Lots of new native plants adds to the appeal. The peace and beauty of the garden draws me in. A spot to rest, to contemplate hope, maybe even to sing. The gardens at Centering Space are a place to perch awhile; for birds, for you and for me. A place to watch and listen for hope. And a place to share what we find.
