“Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.” ~
Shortly before Christmas, on the raw, drizzly night when my son Henry and I bought the last fraser fir left at our local Agway, I also purchased a tangled bundle of bare branches adorned with shriveled red berries. Their austere beauty suited my mood, more so than the tiny bottlebrush trees and angel figurines I usually unpack right after Thanksgiving.
The last few months have been challenging. One of the reasons I’ve been quiet here is that struggles are hard to write about, especially during the holidays, when the world is bent on uplift and good cheer. Having failed to summon much advance holiday spirit myself, I put off decorating for so long that the local farm where we’d planned to cut down a tree had already sold out their crop for the year by the time we got there. At the eleventh hour, though, we lucked out. The tree that happened to be the very last tree left at Agway also happened to be perfect, not too tall and beautifully proportioned. I wandered around the yard the next day, clippers in hand, and cut boughs of pine and hemlock and rhododendron to mix in with the berries and put them in pitchers around the house. At the grocery store, white roses were on sale for five dollars; I bought some of those, too. Most of the rest of our decorations, collected over decades, remained in the basement. I don’t think anyone really missed them.
For a week in December, everyone was home. As the house filled with family and as Christmas Day arrived, so did joy. Meals were made and cleaned up after, walks were taken, fires were lit, loads of laundry and dishes were done. No one was tempted to talk about politics (we all needed a break). There were no peak moments, just a string of small, good ones. And no one took anything for granted, not the presence of grown children arriving from Cincinnati, Asheville, and Atlanta, nor the presence of my parents who, in their eighties, continue to meet the challenges of aging with good humor and grace. One of my favorite Christmas gifts came from Henry: an hour of piano music, which I cashed in on the night before New Year’s Eve. My mom came over that evening, we had a fire, and Welsh rarebit for dinner, and we all sat in the living room listening to a lovely, eclectic concert – from Rachmaninoff to Keith Jarrett — offered with love and played from the heart. Melted cheese and live music are an excellent combination. “I don’t want this to ever end,” my mom said in the moment of stillness after the first song. I felt the same.
Recently I read a quote on a friend’s blog, words from soul-centered business coach Hiro Boga that so aptly summed up my experience lately that I’ve been turning the words over in my head like a mantra ever since:
“Sorrow in one hand, joy in the other. Being human is a prayer.”
Somehow this simple reminder that life is never either /or, but always both, has brought me some needed reassurance throughout these first weeks of 2019. If I can let go of my desire to change or fix things, my own prayer becomes not a plea for life to be different but rather a bow to life as it is – at once dark and light, beautiful and hard, precious and messy, full of goodness and, too, ineluctably tinged with sadness, change, and loss.
It didn’t take long to pack Christmas away last month. By the time Henry and I got to the last tune on the “This Is Us” Spotify playlist, we had the tree stripped and he’d dragged it out to the burn pile in the field. The boxes of ornaments were back in the cellar and the floor was vacuumed. Empty and clean, the rooms seemed to exhale into spaciousness. Much as I love having a house full of people, I was also relieved it was all over.
That night, as I went to grab the greens from the pitcher in the dining room, I stopped in surprise. There, amid the desiccated berries, were tender green leaves sprouting forth. Expecting to toss out something dry and dead, what I found instead was the insistent wonder of new beginnings. The white roses, slumped amid the evergreens, struck me as equally beautiful. Gone by, yes, but aged now to ivory, soft and subtle as vintage silk. A couple of random petals, fallen from their blooms, were nestled among the pine needles as if placed by a decorator’s hand. Without my even noticing, the hasty arrangement I’d cobbled together before Christmas had transformed itself in the new year into an altogether different composition – a subtle revelry of releasing and renewing.
Those small, unasked for leaves are not much in the grand scheme of things. Stick a bare branch in water, and it will have a go at life. And yet the sight of them now, still thriving during these final days of January, lifts my spirits immeasurably. This is what hope looks like.
And hope is what I’m choosing to carry forth into 2019.
I’ve always resisted the notion of adopting a word for the year and I didn’t expect to give in this year. But it seems my word has chosen me, and now that I have it, I’m not letting go.
To be an informed, engaged citizen of the world at this time is to live with a level of sadness, helplessness, and anxiety unlike anything I’ve known in my own lifetime. There are no quick fixes or easy answers, not for the small cares and concerns that darken my own thoughts, nor for the crises we face as a country, nor for the suffering in the world or the relentless human assaults upon our planet.
Yet something in my heart seems to have shifted. If there’s joy in one hand and sorrow in the other, then hope is the prayer that bridges the distance. Hope doesn’t mean the facts have changed. But the difference between hope and despair may turn on the story one creates with those facts. Hope is a kind of reframing. It has nothing to do with wishing and everything to do with seeing the truth through fresh eyes. Hope is a tilt of the head, a different perspective, a glass half full, a pair of spectacles with rose-colored lenses. Hope depends on a kind of stubborn willingness to recognize the possibilities and challenges buried within the present moment, no matter how dire it may seem, and to welcome those tiny scraps of potential goodness with faith and an open heart.
And so, I’m inviting hope to guide me forward. And I’m tuning my eye to see reasons for hope, no matter how small or random or unlikely they might be.
Look well to the growing edge! All around us worlds are dying and new worlds are being born. All around us life is dying and life is being born. The fruit ripens on the tree; the roots are silently at work in the darkness of the earth against a time when there shall be new leaves, fresh blossoms, green fruit. Such is the growing edge! … This is the basis of hope in moments of despair, the incentive to carry on when times are out of joint and people have lost their reason, the source of confidence when worlds crash and dreams whiten into ash. . . . Look well to the growing edge!
— Howard Thurman
This amaryllis, sent by a dear friend three years ago as I prepared for hip surgery, is blooming once again, magnificently, after spending the summer dormant and ignored in a dark outside corner and a few autumn months stashed in a chilly closet. Water and sunlight was all it took for green shoots and spectacular blossoms to return. The mystery of life is reason to hope.
Such is the growing edge.
A brilliant book and an inspiring weekend workshop on yoga for osteoporosis have given me reason to hope that this dreaded diagnosis, so unexpected and scary, is also an opportunity for me to stretch and learn. I’m improving my diet, becoming a student of bones, transforming my yoga practice, and choosing a whole-body approach to healing. Here’s to fish oil and calcium supplements, prunes and dandelion greens. Here’s to a commitment to get strong and to share the fruits of this path with others. Reaching out my arms in warrior pose, it occurs to me that growing older can also mean growing smarter.
Such is the growing edge.
Eight months after a trauma to his ears left him with acute, often debilitating tinnitus, my son Henry struggles daily to hold on to hope. Only someone who has lost the possibility of silence can fully appreciate just how precious that silence is. For a musician, for someone who values the empty spaces between the notes as much as the notes themselves, this loss is devastating. Henry can attempt to quiet the despairing voice in his mind, but there is nothing to still the incessant ringing in his left ear.
To say that every step of this journey has been hard doesn’t begin to convey just how hard it is, day in and day out. At times it is unbearable. And yet, even though there is no cure, there is still reason to hope. My own hopes for his future with this condition won’t be realized in any dramatic fashion, but perhaps they will manifest invisibly, slowly, over time. We can hope for resilience and equanimity, for courage and determination, for peace of mind. Meanwhile, I see hope right now in my son’s redoubled commitment to conducting and to playing the piano, despite how much more difficult this work he loves has become. There is reason for hope in his new meditation practice, in his reading and writing, in his dedication to yoga and exercise, to self-care and self-acceptance. I see hope, too, in his willingness to ask for help and to share the truth of his feelings. And in his will to move forward, even when forward feels all uphill. Yesterday, he began taking private jazz piano lessons, after quite a few years of focusing on the musical theatre repertoire. “How was it?” I texted last night. “It was good!” he typed back. “He threw a lot of stuff at me that’ll help me get my jazz chops back up again. It’s all still there, but it’s been dormant for a while.” For a worried mother, the quiet excitement behind those words is reason to hope.
Such is the growing edge.
The truth is, it’s taken me the whole, long, frozen month of January to really embrace my word. At first, I wasn’t sure I had it in me. To declare hope as a way of life during difficult times sounds a bit dramatic and foolishly romantic, I know. Yet to see only the worst in any given moment denies my own capacity to make things better. If the tapestry of human history is woven through with threads of cruelty, thoughtlessness, and tragedy, it is also a long, astonishing story of compassion and courage, acts of kindness, and works of goodness large and small. Not to mention the occasional miracle. To embrace hope isn’t to deny reality but rather to acknowledge it and, at the same time, to shift focus from what is wrong to what is possible. What we choose to emphasize, right here, right now, is what determines the shape of our experience, the tenor of our days, the direction of our lives. If hope is a muscle, surely I should be able to strengthen mine.
I was sitting in my kitchen Thursday morning, trying to put these thoughts into words, when a text from my husband arrived with the news that Mary Oliver had died. Suddenly the gray sky beyond my window seemed a little darker, my own world emptier, as if a dear friend had left the room. If ever there was a writer who knew how and where to look for hope, it was she. To escape her abusive father and neglectful mother, she turned as a young child to the solace of nature, and to the possibility of creating her own inner landscape of wonder and beauty as a bulwark against the bleak and dangerous reality of her home life. Hope for Mary Oliver was infused with gratitude, with wonder, with a deep appreciation for the outdoors, for dogs and birds and wild animals, for sunsets and sunrises and all kinds of weather, for romantic love and spiritual ecstasy, and perhaps most of all, for the beauty and the potential of the moment at hand. “My work,” she said, “is loving the world.”
That is my work, too. And yours. And ours. May hope become not just a word, then, but a calling; not just a choice but a practice. To love the world is to do our own small part to honor and protect it. Joy in one hand, sorrow in the other, and hope as the energy that allows us to move more gracefully and purposefully through life as it is, not as we wish it to be.
Look around. What gives you reason to hope, right now?
Katrina, your words touched me even more than usual. Thank you, Maureen Durkin O’Connell (Smith ‘80)
Beautiful as always……. thinking of you, I am going for the test for osteoporosis next month, and my son had tinnitus for a few years after a loud concert, praying Henry’s gets better with time……….. wishing you strong bones in 2019!
I was very glad to hear from you—I’ve missed your wisdom. Your words really help. Thank you for being willing to share your life with us. I wish you were my next door neighbor, and we were good friends! Thank you!!
Thank you for every thoughtful word. I’m grateful for your insights and the reminder to tilt my head.
Hope is also the word I chose for this year. My oldest son is struggling to find his way after failing out of college. I am trying ever so hard to have hope for him and his future.
I’m sorry to hear about Henry getting tinnitus. I’ll say a prayer for healing.
Thank you for your lovely post💟
It is so hard to find reasons for hope these days. This beautiful post felt as if you were taking my hand and saying, “let’s go in search of it together.” As my mind churns with worry for our world and for the troubles of my own little family, I needed this reminder today.
And osteoporosis… I was diagnosed three years ago. At age 59 it is frightening to hear your doctor say “You have the spine of a woman in her 70’s!” I have shrunk 2 inches in 2 years, and was only 5’2 to start with. Like you I exercise
wisely, eat superfoods, take calcium and have succumbed to prescription medication which yielded a slight improvement. Sending thoughts for strong bone building your way!
Thank you for this beautiful article, Katrina. It’s quite special. Henry has been lucky to have you as his mother. I also want to thank you for the beautiful book you wrote, which he gave me as a parting gift when he left New York and his lessons with me. I send heartfelt good wishes to you and your family.
I too have struggles this year. I lost my beloved husband in April and I am left with a void in my life beyond words. Everyday is a challenge and I really struggle to find Hope in anything. But just reading your blog reminded me that I am not alone and I am not the only one dealing with hardship, grief, suffering. Thank you for your words. They do really help……
Thank you for your beautiful thoughts and words. You are always thought-provoking and spirit-raising.
I enjoyed reading this, if only, to realize how much I have missed you.
Blessed be!
Hope is a tilt of the head…stunning. Thank you. So good to hear from you and absorb your thoughtful wisdom, written ever so beautifully.
Everyone has something that isn’t fair. It pains us to see our loved ones suffer. A divorce, an illness or estrangement, all of it can strengthen us and make us more tender at the same time. Tinnitus can be ignored I have found, but the people in your life should be nurtured. As we get older, we know our loved ones will soon die, and we miss them already. So savor it all, and keep hoping.
What a beautiful woman you are, inside and out, sowing the world with your incredible gift of hope and sharing your ability to see beauty in the world all around you…in family, your home, nature, the world! I am so moved by your words and each piece of this essay touched me personally. Hope in the face of adversity or tragedy is often lost and difficult to find. I appreciate your words, your gifts, and your caring. Thank you. Sending hopeful wishes to you in gratitude, which is my word of this year.
Dear Katrina,
Your writing always touches my heart. My reply today is hopefully one I can offer help for Henry. Tinnitus can sometimes be helped by a very specific gentle form of chiropractic called NUCCA http://www.nucca.org. I don’t remember where he is living but there are NUCCA chiropractors and both Atlanta and Asheville and most bigger cities. It may be worth looking into.
I see one here for other issues and he has been wonderful. NUCCA is very different from traditional chiropractic. There is no cracking or twisting. I wish both of you and all your family a healthy, happy, and hopeful year. Here in Parkland, FL, we need it very much as well. Hugs.
I thought:
maybe death
isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us–
~Mary Oliver, (1935 – 2019)
Dear Katrina,
Your words are my ivory rose petals.
I am deeply grateful.
Maeve
Oh, Katrina, you are a Mary Oliver to me: a reminder to look, listen, and love. I’m so sorry about Henry’s tinnitus and for the difficult months and so grateful for your steadfast ability to turn to hope even on the heels of those challenges. Sending much love.
Thank you for these words. Your words have the ability to create a little nest inside of my soul somewhere, where they are safe and warm and flutter about when necessary. A few more words aSnd feelings nestled in there tonight. You truly have a gift.
Thank-you. 💕
Reading your words fills me with hope too. Reading all the comments, even more so. There are still good, thoughtful people out there concerned about not only their own struggles, but with the worlds’. Thank you for checking in with us.
Thank you for sharing your struggles with us. I am a kindred spirit. 2018 brought many challenges, but there was also moments of immense joy. My word this year is joy- as in no one can steal my joy. I think that is what you convey in your reflection here. There is always a yin-yang of joy and sorrow, especially as we grow older.
May 2019 bring you hope and joy.
Thank you for this. There’s too much in it to intelligently sum it up right now, but the call to hope as a practice speaks to my soul. I’m glad this word chose you and that you have chosen to share it with us. As you’ve expressed so beautifully, life is full of contrast and contradiction… always. In every moment. And no one story defines the entirety of our life, though often it feels like it does.
I also appreciate the reminder of the growing edge. I’ve been loving Parker Palmer and Carrie Newcomer’s podcast and work around this idea.
This is a lovely tribute to read this morning. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and words, they are a comfort.
Beautiful essay. And, if you’re comfortable sharing, don’t be afraid to share your struggles. It makes your readers feel less alone in ours.
Dear Katrina,
Thank you for the gift of your heartfelt words~
There is a healer called Anthony Williams, otherwise known as the Medical Medium. He has written various books on health and he is responsible for the recent “Clelery Juice Movement” which helps to clean the liver etc.. His work is a little “out there”, but it might be of interest for your son’s issues. There is anecdotal evidence that his methods do indeed help to heal all sorts of issues. I follow him on Instagram and am amazed by his work and by those he helps to heal. Here is a link to his thoughts on Tinnitus:
http://www.medicalmedium.com/thyroid-healing-medical-medium/tinnitus-ringing-or-buzzing-in-the-ears
I hope it will help~
Kindest regards,
Teresa F.
I loved drinking my coffee and reading your blog this morning, and as always, it gave me much to think about. Your words have a way of illuminating what so many feel, even if their journeys are different. Thank you, Katrina, for this reminder about hope, and so much more.
“To embrace hope isn’t to deny reality but rather to acknowledge it and, at the same time, to shift focus from what is wrong to what is possible. What we choose to emphasize, right here, right now, is what determines the shape of our experience, the tenor of our days, the direction of our lives.”
Your gentle words are balm to my spirit, Katrina… I look with you to the growing edge. Sending all my love, always. xoxo
Thank you thank you. I’ve missed hearing from you.
Hmmm – what is my hope? I will add the word to my year and now I have two – hope & abundance. I will ponder, meditate and dream of these.
Breathe in hope and abundance and breathe out fear and despair. Thank you for the seeds of hope and now off to yoga – Namaste
Thank you Katrina. Your words have a way of seeping into the soul in an extremely soothing way. I too have been quiet this past year. A sense of anxiety and confusion of the mind has prevented me from finding time to write all my emotions down even though I know that it would be the best therapy for me. Worries about the world, about my daughters’ future, about all the decisions to take. This morning, before seeing your post, I read something in the newspaper (here in Italy where I live) that drew me towards this word, “hope” (speranza in Italian). The words came from Fania, the daughter of Amos Oz (who as you probably know, passed away last December):
“There are men and women, he told me, that grow in goodness and wisdom in the most remote corners of the country, and they will sooner or later take hold of the problems of Israel. They will be the most unexpected people, perhaps the latest arrivals – they won’t be the famous ones, nor those thirsty for glory – who will come forward and get to drive.They will come from unknown lands, where the great hopes of tomorrow already sprout in secret. Not optimism, but hope. Optimism is the color of predictions; hope,, on the other hand, is the awareness of a profound value, the daughter of imagination. Hope is the opposite of fanaticism and its cousin, despair, and that other relative, cynicism”. Fania spoke about her father’s desire to cause the least pain possibile. And, although he did not succeed at times, he would get up every day at four in the morning and do everything to cause less pain. Cause less pain and write about hope.
I am glad that you have found your voice once again. Thank you for reminding me that I have what it takes to do the same.
All my love and best wishes,
Ango or Danni (www.freefamilyontheroad.wordpress.com)
As I have always done before I read every post you write I made myself a cup of tea and settled in to a quiet space so I can “hear” and digest your words. The beauty with which you paint your thoughts and feelings about all of the things that make you ponder and then put to words always give me hope. I love that you embody all of us somehow and that you share the ups and downs, the sorrows and the joys with us. It makes me love even more. I am sorry that your Henry is living with tinnitus. It sounds terrible, Katrina. I hope beyond hope that it gets better for him. After all, it is so true that when our kids are happy, we are happy too. Please keep sharing your words, your beliefs, your loves, and your hopes. XO
Thank you for your words today. I am struggling this January with many things…change in my world and family. It goes beyond my normal winter blues struggle but I decided in early January to focus on a word also. It has become my mantra to get through these winter days. I love your word of hope….mine is connect. Not just to people but to my body, (arthritis is doing its number on me), nature….positive forces in the world. I am inspired by you and thank you.
I am standing in front of my stove, cooking dinner, reading this. My soul resonates with your words. Hope chose me as my One Little Word for 2019 as well. I am going to wrote your descriptions in my journal. I lifted a prayer for your son. T have mild tinnitus too and I hate it. But Hope…
Thank you for sharing your struggles and your hope. I love the way you described both joy and sorrow in tandem.
Blessings and more blossoms
Paula
I have been a fan of yours since I saw your book, The Gift of An Ordinary Day in the local bookstore. It became my
go to, my confidant, whenever I needed a friend. That book, and all of the others you have written, have become my friends. I eagerly look forward to all your essays and share them with others. I had a shoulder replacement this past
April. It went well but I just found out that the other shoulder will need to be replaced soon. I have not expressed to
anyone my feelings of depression because of this. You see, I have, over the past eighteen years, had both my hips
and knees replaced as well. Each was done separately. Unfortunately, my diagnosis was degenerative arthritis.
I am glad there is such an operation, that I can walk and move without pain, and do the ordinary things that most
people take for granted. I am grateful to just be. There are so many others that have worse to deal with. I read your
article with hope for the future. Best wishes to Henry. I have a son who had a promising career as a classical oboist,
but had an injury to his throat, and had to change careers. He is doing well. When life hands you adversity, sometimes
you must find a new path. Have a happy and healthy New Year.
Thank you, Katrina. I needed this right here and now in this moment.
Beautiful words. Thank you!
Thank you, dear Katrina. I’m so grateful for you in this challenging time. Sending love.
Thank you Katrina for reminding me of the simple joys in life and I’m sorry for your loss. The holidays can be a sad time for many! Many of us have already lost our parents and husbands, and are losing friends! You remind us how important self care Is as well as finding joy in ordinary things, as you would say…an ordinary day.
Currently I’m sandwiched between cozy sheets here La Canada on this quiet Sunday morning about to begin my
morning ritual, which today includes turmeric ginger almond milk green tea-made up recipe-great for inflammation ladies. Next reading the Sunday LA Times and hanging with my two dogs. Later they will be walked and tonight time with friends. It’s a beautiful day here in these hills after all the rain. Thank you for your words!
Thank you for your wonderful words. They give me comfort and hope in these uneasy times.
The wisdom of aging! It brings unimaginable peace! Thank you!
Thank you. Hope. It is exactly what I have been trying to cultivate since my breast cancer diagnosis a week after my osteopenia diagnosis – unfortunately, the hormones that could help with bone density need to be blocked so as not to feed the cancer.
So much hope in the warmth and love of friends, family and community. Today, I found it in the bird that flew after I rescued it to warm and rest from the storm after hitting our window. And Mary Oliver’s beautiful words are a legacy left to the world.
For your son – a low -histamine diet has dramatically improved both my son’s and my life (for migraines, GI issues) – not much is known about it outside of Europe – but it seems it is linked to tinnitus too – see https://healinghistamine.com/stressing-tinnitus-in-histamine-intolerance/https://healinghistamine.com/stressing-tinnitus-in-histamine-intolerance/
What a beautiful paean to the mind life of many of us who look with numbing disbelief at the world outside and have begun to feel the losses piling inside, wondering where to put them. I am so very sorry for the news about your bones and the worry you must feel. And also for your dear son’s struggle with unwanted sounds. May he find a growing peace amidst the noise. As may we all! 🙏. HOPE IS the WORD!
A dear friend recommended your blog to me. After the most challenging year of my life, my words for this year are Glorify and Resurrect (as a Libra, I choose two!). In the hymn, Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise, I was struck by the phrase “silent as light”. May light continue to flow through your Henry and may your bones be strengthened. Peace.
Thank you, Katrina. I was worried about you when you hadn’t written in a while. As always, your words resonate with me. You are a kindred spirit. I too have been struggling with the darkness this January. Hope is a good word. Gratitude is too, Just think, in the eastern US the sun will set at 5:00pm and later as the days ahead grow brighter.
This is so beautifully written, and your thoughts echo many of the things swirling around my mind and heart at times. I turned 60 in 2017. Is it when we are in our sixties life brings us to contemplation and sadness? Hope is the thing I now cling to, despite all the sad and awful things around us, and despite our bodies betraying us and becoming weaker and older. And in my case my heart becoming ill and troubled. A heart attack six years ago and another cardiac stent last month; and again life has reminded me of the amazing yet terrifying miracle that is life, and the beauty of the everyday moment and the healing power of nature. Thank you for publishing this, it is so good to hear your words and perspective again. Hope, ….what a precious thought…. Linda, Victoria, Australia.
I send good wishes and a healing heart to you as you undergo and recover from the surgery. And to Henry, too. I so understand his plight (I once leaned over to Rick at the theatre and said, “Can you hear the noises in my head?”). It’s of little consolation to say he will get used to it, sometimes even not hear it unless he tries, but that’s a bit of hope. I’m working on hope, too, for our world, our country, and so many I love. It is indeed a wonderful world.
Sometimes we have to cave in and do what we can, as we can — and not be like last year or the year before or next year, either. I discovered that on my European trip, having to accept my physical limitations. It does a number on the head, doesn’t it? But it doesn’t stop us. Yours won’t stop you, nor — as you’ve already indicated — will Henry’s. We move on. In hope.
Dear Katrina,
Your words are, as always, a blessing to me. A friend’s husband also developed tinnitus, and he found relief from an essential oil blend that she sent me for my files. My friend says that just sniffing the blend when it was first mixed brought her husband relief. I’m hoping (thank you for this great good gift!) that this will help your son Henry.
In gratitude,
Laurie Haight Keenan
Tinnitus Silencing Blend
Four drops cypress essential oil
Four drops helichrysum essential oil
Four drops lavender essential oil
Four drops of rosemary essential oil
Transfer cypress, helichrysum, lavender, and rosemary essential oils into small dark colored glass bottle; shake well to blend
After allowing the oil blend to stand for 24 hours add 1 ounce of coconut carrier oil to the essential oils and shake well to blend
Put five drops of this blend into your palm.
Using your fingertip apply the blend to the front of the ear and around the outside rim of the ear to the lobe and behind and below the ear continuing down to the jawline.
Repeat the application on the affected ear until you’ve used up the five drops in your palm.
Repeat this treatment two or three times a day until the ringing stops.
This might be my favorite essay of yours ever, Katrina, even more so because of its arriving shortly after the news that Mary Oliver had died. We really must hope, mustn’t we, most especially when we feel there is no room for hope? Thank you for inspiring with your thoughts, your words, and your wonderful photographs.
Thank you – your words always comfort me.
Beautiful, Katrina. It’s good to “read” from you again! And HOPE is a fabulous word for this year. I am HOPElessly optimistic, so I get it!
Oh I loved your post!
Beautiful, amazing, hope.
Melea
Thank you for your open heart, Katrina.
“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.” emily dickinson
with hope to all….
This was so so beautiful!
Katrina,
As always your wisdom, honesty, and reflection, resonate with me. I too chose a word for the year, which I’ve never done before. My word is listening. I feel that this post was to come in my inbox so I could listen to your words and then listen to what my heart is saying. I turned 60 in December, and I’m trying to adapt to my new aging body. I love your word of hope and how It connects the dark and light times in our lives. Your writings are powerful and make a difference to many. Wishing you a hope filled year. I plan to continue following your journey. Blessings!
Dear Katrina and all readers of this sacred space,
Reading “Mystical Hope” by Cynthia Bourgeault again, and again guides me to a place of “greater equilibrium, to find a deeper and steadier current.” I may not stay there, but the steadfast Spirit feeds my soul, replenishes me for the next breath, moment, day….. A deep read with mystical resonances.
“Mystical hope is not tied to a good outcome, to the future. It lives a life of its own, seemingly without reference to external circumstances and conditions.” Cynthia Bourgeault
With grace and gratitude,
Laury
So wonderful to find your email in my inbox, I have missed your words. I love your focus on Hope. My sister, her middle name is Hope: the youngest of eight, my Mom’s third daughter at the age of 39 in 1964. I know understand why my mother chose Hope. She needed hope to get thru each day, caring for eight children, as my dad traveled all the time, and also had challenges with alcoholism. Thank you for your beautiful words, your emphasis on seeing what can be possible even when life seems dark and sad. My focus for 2019 is to be kind, I ask myself before speaking: are you being kind. Life can be so tough, so being kind may bring some joy. Looking forward to your next email:)
This is dear to my heart: thank you for these reasons to hope.
I am a vestibular audiologist pioneering in healing vertigo or tinnitus with Neuroplasticity. There is hope. Not only ave I healed from tinnitus and vertigo myself, but I also collect and share the stories of others who have recovered too.
We can rewire our brains and bodies to rebuild new perceptions of normal. It is a process that we can learn.
I find it a great shame that so many people are told to ‘live with it’ or take medications for life.
Globally, I see clients who are told by health professionals that there is nothing they can do… from Australia, US, Europe and beyond. BUT it is a huge misunderstanding. Science has evolved and we now understand that we can change sensory perception and we can support the body to heal from tinnitus. There is a lot we can do using neuroplasticty to reset noise filters in the brain.
Please let Henry know he is welcome to explore the information on my website: seekingbalance.com.au
We have a wonderfully supportive community of folks healing and sharing their progress with each other.
Thank you for your reasons to hope.
X Joey Remenyi
Thank you for taking the time and having the ambition to keep writing. Like Clarissa Pinkola Estes said, “Struggling souls catch light from other souls who are fully lit and willing to show it.” Your soul throws sparks that catch fire in me and for that I am grateful.
Namaste,
Doug
I’m not one to chose a word for the year either. But towards the end of last year and into the beginning of this one, hope became a recurring theme in my reading. The word would show up in the oddest places, and the most obvious. It was so persistent I had to pay attention. So now I’m moving into 2019 considering what hope means to me. Your reflections are quite thought provoking.
Have you listened to the podcast The Growing Edge by Parker J. Palmer and Carrie Newcomer? Their first episode was about hope. Fitting that you used the quote that inspired the name of their podcast. https://www.newcomerpalmer.com/question/august-question-of-the-month-hope-in-hard-times/#respond