I went to DC for work this week, and luckily enough, my oldest daughter is also in DC right now, completing a public policy internship. Our DC office is still a good hour’s Uber from where she is in downtown, but obviously I snapped up the chance to see her, and it was, of course, the highlight of the trip – no offense to work.
On my way back to my hotel, my Uber driver was the talkative kind, which was kind of funny, since I had just told Samantha how my driver on my way to meet her had been noted by the app as deaf/hard of hearing, and not chatty, more to my general public transport tastes. The return guy, though, told me all about everything we were passing. He had the whole history of Union Station. He pointed out museums. As we passed the Kennedy Center, he said, That’s where your president tried to put his name up on the building. And I responded something along the lines of, Ugh. That frickin’ guy. And the dam burst. The driver began talking about how terrible everything was, and how terrible it was always going to be. I countered with the midterms, but he said it was too late. I agreed that it could take 50 years to rebuild, and he said that, No. There is no way to rebuild trust with the rest of the world. Finally, I said, “You’ve got to have hope, though. Otherwise, why would we even get out of bed each morning?” And something about that – maybe realizing that his tip was in general jeopardy, or maybe some kernel of truth, or maybe just being done with his mental catharsis – made him pivot to talking about his kids and their schools and sports and appointments and how driving for Uber let him be there for them on their schedules and he could still work around their lives.
It honestly was a super uncomfortable ride. I have a dim view of where the country has descended to, but coming up against someone who has – it would seem – really given into the despair made me realize that despite every headline gut punching me every day, the video footage, and the terrible screeds posted from our official government accounts, I am still living for the hope of it all.
Hope is such a gotcha, really. It’s putting our eggs in a basket that is backordered indefinitely. It’s the sense of an elephant sitting on your chest while you breathe shallowly, and count. In, in, in, in, in, in, in and out out out out out. But more literally, it’s also planning a vacation for next summer, and choosing new exterior paint for the house. It’s worrying your plants didn’t survive your move very well and looking up pruning techniques and trying to find good light in new places. Hope is a dangerous little thing, per the lyrics of a band I love. But more to the point,
Hope is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul / And sings with tune without the words /And never stops, at all.
My high school AP English teacher really disliked Emily Dickinson. She considered her a recluse whose experience with the world was too stunted to write about life. As a result, it was years before I learned what Emily thought about hope. And whether she visited all 7 continents, or just her backyard, I think she understood how absolutely tenuous and how adamantly steely hope is. That poem has sat on my hearth for years, and maybe that’s why it waits as safe harbor at the back of my mind. It’s what I breathe in, and hold, while exhaling some of the doubt, the fear, the anger.
My camera roll is absolutely full of trees with funny knotholes or big roots. Flowers with fat bumble bees, and literally a thousand photos of my dog (who – it should be noted – hates photos). There is a song called The Hymn of Promise that is (or was, when I was young) a modern inclusion into the United Methodist hymnal. It starts out, In the bulb there is a flower; in the seed an apple tree… it reminds me that tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow are still waiting.
Similarly, my ballot is waiting on our kitchen counter. It is a thick one. There are a lot of measures that we are voting on that make me incredibly angry to see on a ballot in what you might hope – so many years after civil rights were enshrined as Constitutional amendments – would be a more enlightened age. There are measures that are asking us, as voters, to devalue humans around us, and to value greed and power. I’m going to very firmly mark my choices this weekend and submit my votes with the conviction that the majority of my fellow Americans are as horrified by the headlines as I am and are as tired as I am of watching this country align with autocrats and billionaires and put crypto schemes over the American dream.
I understand why my Uber driver is so angry – although also wish he would perhaps journal or take up running to help channel it away from those traveling with him. I am angry and disgusted and have passed from disbelief into the acknowledged reality of what we are fighting. Acknowledging it is important, I think. But also, when I walked the dog this morning, there was a small, still tight bud of an orange rose on a bush where most of the other blossoms have already flowered. I couldn’t help but think that sometimes, hope can be as simple as stubbornly existing even through a few good frosts. This week, it’s supposed to be 70 degrees again for a few days and I’m betting that if I go back, that rose will have burst from bud to flower. I will probably take another photo of it. Proof of life.
Hope is a dangerous little thing, but also – I think it’s what we’re all here for.
(Go vote!)
