Hope in the New Year

 

I’ve been thinking a lot about my “Word for the Year.”

I’d love to encourage you, my five faithful friends and best readers, to pick words, too, or to share your words if you already have them. There’s space down below in the comments section if you want to do that. Someday,  I will figure out how to let comments post on the site without having to be approved by me first. I know it’s annoying to wait for approval.  There must be a way to fix that, but I haven’t managed to do it yet.

Anyway.

I think that a “Word for the Year” should be special somehow. I’d shy away from utilitarian, goal-oriented words, like “discipline” or “success.” Also, I’d avoid words that would hang over you in a glowering, threatening way.  Think “willpower,” “fitness,” or “budget.”  Your “Word for the Year” should shimmer and shine. It should make you happy.  And in some magical way, trust that it’s not entirely up to you. Some people believe that the Word actually picks them.

Also, ignore any voices that tell you it’s too late to pick a “Word for the Year.” That you should have picked your word by January 1, 2018 like everyone else.  The truth is that it’s never too late.  Also, it’s OK to change your word mid-year if that helps you. If your first word stops working, if it feels like it’s moved on and left you, and it’s August 1, that’s OK. Go ahead and grab another one.  Who says you can’t have different words for different months or different seasons?

This year, my word came quickly.  Even now, when I say it to myself, I feel better about everything. About my Mom’s death. About the struggle to clean out her house. About my new haircut that may be a little shorter than I wanted. I don’t have any tattoos, but I might consider having this word etched on my wrist or ankle. That’s how much I love it.

My word for 2018?

Hope.

Just hope.

How I love hope.

Last year, there were days when my hope had run out.  We knew my Mom was sick, and barring a miracle, there was no way she was getting better.  All we could do was walk with her through her final months.  The hope that I had then was hope for the next life, the life to come. This is all well and good, but it didn’t take away my deep sadness.  It was hope, but it was  brutal.

This year, I am realizing on a deeper level that my Mom is gone and that we will never be together in this world again. So it seems strange that hope would be the word that would come to me. But it did. I saw it, and loved it, and felt so much better, just sitting with it. I had no choice; it picked me.

Hope is a bright light: shining and comforting. Hope is a cup of Trader Joe’s Winter Wake Up Tea in the morning.  It is Panang Curry from the Thai Garden restaurant.  It is water with lemon. It is a walk with a friend. It is going for a five minute run. Even five minutes. Hope says that five minutes is a great start and that it is enough.  It is planking for a minute and doing 20 push ups a day. It is writing 500 words and not worrying about whether they are good.

Hope is the people who have shown up these past few months and who keep showing up. Hope sits on the couch with me and reads a book. It doesn’t say, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” Hope walks into the room, puts on an apron, and gets to work, even if I’ve told it that I’m fine, that I don’t need any help.  Sometimes, hope is quiet. Sometimes, it sings a song. I need to move toward people who give me hope, toward people who light me up and who are lit up themselves.   If you have read this far, you probably are one of those people for me.

This year, I want to run after hope. Wherever it is I want to be. I want to watch for it.  Sit with it.  Follow it. Listen to it. Risk for it. Wrap it around me like a soft fleece blanket. I want to live into the hope that things can change. That I don’t have to fall into the same ruts this year.  Hope starts small. It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t disappoint . And in the end, along with faith and love, hope is what remains.