I use to love fall but this year it just seems to be a bit tougher. We had major problems with our heating system at the end of last season and so far, while work has been done we still don’t have heat and the Vermont chill is settling in. This in turn has caused me to tense up, so I feel the aches and pains more. So much for my complaining, because in the scope of things it’s not a big deal as we should be nice and toasty shortly.
This week I happened to come
across an article by Anne Lamott in the October 2018 National Geographic and it improved my outlook on things
considerable. So instead of my trying to expound on why it’s important to be
hopeful, I’ll just post Lamott’s article
Show Up With Hope’: Anne
Lamott’s Plan for Facing Adversity
With Earth beset by conflict,
climate change, pollution, and other ills, the best-selling author asks: What
better time to be hopeful?
You would almost have to be
nuts to be filled with hope in a world so rife with hunger,
hatred,
climate
change, pollution,
and pestilence,
let alone the self-destructive or severely annoying behavior of certain people,
both famous and just down the hall, none of whom we will name by name.
Yet I have boundless hope,
most of the time. Hope is a sometimes cranky optimism, trust, and confidence
that those I love will be OK—that they will come through, whatever life holds
in store. Hope is the belief that no matter how dire things look or how long
rescue or healing takes, modern science in tandem with people’s goodness and
caring will boggle our minds, in the best way.
Hope is (for me) not usually
the religious-looking fingers of light slanting through the clouds, or the
lurid sunrise. It’s more a sturdy garment, like an old chamois shirt: a
reminder that I’ve been here before, in circumstances just as frightening, and
I came through, and will again. All I have to do is stay grounded in the truth.
Oh, that’s very nice, you may
well respond. And what does that even mean, the truth?
I don’t presume to say what
capital-T Truth is. But I do know my truth, and it’s this: Everyone I know,
including me, has lived through devastating times at least twice, through
seemingly unsurvivable loss. And yet we have come through because of the love
of our closest people, the weird healing properties of time, random benevolence,
and, of course, our dogs
At regular intervals, life
gets a little too real for my taste. The wider world seems full of bombers,
polluters, threats of all kinds. My own small world suffers ruptures—a couple
of deaths, a couple of breakups, a young adult who had me scared out of my wits
for a couple of years—that leave me struggling to stay on my feet.
In these situations I usually
have one of two responses: either that I am doomed or that I need to figure out
whom to blame (and then correct their behavior). But neither of these is true.
The truth is that—through the workings of love, science, community, time, and
what I dare to call grace—some elemental shift will occur and we will find we
are semi-OK again. And even semi-OK can be a miracle.
“Sometimes I have to believe
that heaven is just a new pair of glasses.” That was said by a priest who
helped establish Alcoholics Anonymous roughly 80 years ago—and when I remember
to put on such glasses, I spy reasons for hope on every street. You can’t walk
a block without seeing recycling bins. Nations are pledging serious action on
climate change. My young friend Olivia, who has cystic fibrosis, got into a
clinical trial two years ago for a newfangled drug—and it’s working, meaning
she will live a great deal longer than we ever dared to hope.
I like these days in spite of
our collective fears and grief. I love antibiotics. I’m crazy about
electricity. I get to fly on jet airplanes! And in the face of increased
climate-related catastrophes—after I pass through the conviction that we are
doomed, that these are End Times—I remember what Mister Rogers’s mother said:
In times of disaster we look to the helpers.
Look to the volunteers and
aid organizations clearing away the rubble, giving children vaccines; to planes
and trains and ships bringing food to the starving. Look at Desmond Tutu and Malala
Yousafzai, Bill Gates and the student
activists of Parkland, Florida; anyone committed to public health,
teachers, and all those aging-hippie folk singer types who galvanized the early
work of decontaminating the Hudson River.
You could say that river
cleanup was child’s play compared with the melting of the ice caps—and I would
thank you for sharing and get back to doing what is possible. Those who say it
can’t be done should get out of the way of those who are doing it.
We take the action—soup
kitchens, creek restoration, mentoring—and then the insight follows: that by
showing up with hope to help others, I’m guaranteed that hope is present. Then
my own hope increases. By creating hope for others, I end up awash in the
stuff.
We create goodness in the
world, and that gives us hope. We plant bulbs in the cold, stony dirt of winter
and our aging arthritic fingers get nicked, but we just do it, and a couple of
months later life blooms—as daffodils, paperwhites, tulips.
Hope is sometimes a decision
that we won’t bog down in analysis paralysis. We show up in waders or with
checkbooks. We send money to India, and the Sierra Club, the Union of Concerned
Scientists, and to Uncle Ed’s GoFundMe account for his surgery.
You want hope? In India you
see families waking up on hard, dusty streets and the poorest moms combing
their kids’ hair for school. School is hope. Closer to home you see a teenager
recover from a massive brain bleed and head off to a college for kids with
special needs—not only alive but carrying a backpack full of books and
supplies, and lunch. (Lunch gives me hope.)
You saw someone, maybe
yourself or your child, get and stay sober. You read that the number of
mountain gorillas in central Africa has risen consistently over the past few
years. One had barely dared to hope, and yet? If this keeps up, we’ll be up to
our necks in mountain gorillas.
We might hope that this or
that will happen, and be disappointed—but when we instead have hope in the
resilience and power of the human spirit, in innovation, laughter, and nature,
we won’t be.
I wish I had a magic wand and
could make people in power believe in climate science, but I don’t. I do,
however, have good shoes in which to march for science and sanity. (Sanity: Is
that so much to hope for? Never!) I see people rising up to their highest, most
generous potential in every direction in which I remember to look, when I
remember to look up and around and not at my aching feet.
My friend Olivia hates having
cystic fibrosis, and every moment of life is a little harder than it is for
people without the disease. But most of the time she’s the happiest person I’m
going to see on any given day. She is either in gratitude or in the recording
studio, where she is recording her second album of songs she wrote and plays on
guitar. The engineer hits the mute button when she needs to cough, which is
fairly frequently. She got a terrifying diagnosis 23 years ago, but with her
community’s support, she and her parents kept hoping that she would somehow be
OK or at least OK-ish—and then voilà, the successful clinical trial of a
miracle drug.
Children pour out of school
labs equipped with the science and passion to help restore estuaries and
watersheds. Church groups pitch in to build water wells to nourish
developing-world villages. As John Lennon said, “Everything will be OK in the
end. If it’s not OK, it’s not the end.” This has always been true before; we
can decide to hope that it will be again.
Sometimes hope is a radical
act, sometimes a quietly merciful response, sometimes a second wind, or just an
increased awareness of goodness and beauty. Maybe you didn’t get what you
prayed for, but what you got instead was waking to the momentousness of life,
the power of loving hearts. You hope to wake up in time to see the dawn, the
first light, a Technicolor sunrise, but the early morning instead is cloudy
with mist. Still, as you linger, the ridge stands majestically black against a
milky sky. And if you pay attention, you’ll see the setting of the moon that
illumined us all as we slept. And you see a new day dawn.