Hope Is the Thing with Feathers

I’ve been told all of my life that happiness is a choice. Today I think I finally understand what that really means because I’ve been striving all day to be happy. It was hard work, but do you know what? I had a pretty good day.

During these happy moments that I have, my mind is full of lovely things like ballet slippers, charcoal drawings, and snippets of poetry. I’ve been seeking out beautiful things all day. That is why I was so wonderfully surprised when I stumbled upon this:

He told her he was moving on

 But he had nothing better to gain

 She felt broken, joy all but gone

 But her tears were drying in the rain

My friend Kirk wrote this. He said these words had been circling around in his head all day, so he had to write them down. I’m so glad that he did. He didn’t intend it for me, but I claimed it for myself anyway, because they are beautiful, and I can feel them.

 

In the same vein, a year or so ago, I auditioned for a play in which my audition was to simply read aloud the poem “Hope” by Emily Dickinson. The first stanza says:

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune--without the words,

And never stops at all,

I didn’t understand it then, but I think that I do now. Hope is this feathered, living thing that resides in all of us. And even when we feel like things are at their worst, when there is nothing left in this life to live for, Hope sings out a wordless song to remind us to hold on. On my bad days, I mean on my really dark days, I can still hear this feathered little imp singing softly within me. It peeps ever so slightly, with notes that are barely audible, but it is still there. It still sings. I still sing.

I have chosen to be happy.