YOU CAN’T STOP HOPE
A Widow Bit – Jan. 9, 2011
By Mary Koch

            With the dawning of this new year, I’ve been making a mental list of the small things in life that give me hope. Every day it seems there’s at least one event that buoys my little boat and puts enough wind in my sails to keep me on course.

            Then yesterday I turned on the radio and got the news from Arizona. Suddenly this new year feels very, very old. Those of us who are in our 60s and beyond have been through too many tragedies like this, assassinations either attempted or achieved. We have a sense of what’s ahead. In fact, it’s already begun – the public prayers and mourning, the orations and speculations, the collective breast-beating and soul searching.

            Amid all the commentary that issued forth in the first hours after the shootings in Tucson, one anonymous statement spoke truth to me: “You can’t stop hope with a bullet.” Try shooting at a feather that is dipping and soaring with a gust of wind, its course steered by the invisible air. At times like this, it feels as if that feather is buried beneath a heavy rock. But the rock will budge, and the feather will float free.

            What gives me hope?

            A friend who is battling leukemia calls to say her “numbers” are good. “I have chemo at ten, so let’s meet for lunch at 11:30,” she says, and I have hope.

            Grandsons who are home from college during the holiday break drop by to visit. I assume it’s an obligatory call, made at the prodding of their parents, but the young men stay and stay, happily talking, exploring a wide range of topics, revealing excitement about their future. And I have hope.

            My dog, now two-and-a-half, has finally learned the joy of walking with me on an invisible leash. She has learned that she can run and jump freely, cavort and explore, as long as she stays within a certain distance, returning immediately when called. I had no hope that would ever happen, and now I have more than hope. I have confidence.

            The bitter cold and overcast skies of recent days have been offset by the life that teems on and around the river. Golden and bald eagles follow regular flight patterns overhead, swooping low in their rigorous hunts, while two great blue heron hunker down at the edge of the ice to fish. Ducks – mallards and buffleheads – float where the river’s slow current moves just enough to keep the water from freezing. Canada geese come in for their usual raucous landing. Among the water fowl, in lone splendor, floats a whistling swan. I read in my bird book that swans mate for life, or if they do lose a mate at a young age, they’ll wait a long time before acquiring another. And I have hope for this swan.

            At the core of grief and mourning is hope. Otherwise we wouldn’t care. We would be numb to pain, and that would be hopeless.