Hope is Not the Thing with Feathers
There is a painting by George Fredrick Watts entitled “Hope” in which a woman sits, blindfolded, beaten down by the weight of her own Hope, clinging to a harp that has only one string remaining.
This differs from the way I grew up believing in Hope. It has none of the golden warmth or strength or poise that I used to believe it felt like.
And yet, this painting, to me, is the most accurate representation of Hope I’ve ever seen. And honestly? The other stuff that isn’t nearly as despondent (see that’s ironic because that means devoid of hope) and masquerades as Hope is dangerous. Because Hope isn’t supposed to feel good.
There have been two instances in my life where I thought that I felt hopeless. Both were moments of intense grief where the utter loss made me feel as though moving forward was pointless. And in those moments people told me to have hope, faith. Things would get better.
God, I hated that.
My world was crumbling (well, is crumbling. Rebuilding is a slow process.) and I was convinced that people were asking me to try and find some light to cling to until I found my way out into the sun. But I couldn’t do that. I was at the bottom of the ocean, there was no light. No sign that something would get better. No glimmer of positivity. Just layer upon layer of darkness and the faint memory of warmth where the sun used to be. Hope, or at least what I thought it to be, felt like the furthest thing from me.
Get Izzy Fandl’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
Except looking back, Hope is the only reason I got through it. Because Hope is not warm. Or sunny. Or empowering. It is having no proof whatsoever that things will get better — because if you had proof, it’d be perseverance, not Hope — and still choosing to wake up every day because maybe, just maybe, the next day will be different.
Hope is being alone. It is not faith. With it there is no mass of people alongside you, helping you believe that you see something in the nothing. In fact, it is the complete opposite. It is everyone telling you to move on, to give up, to accept the way things are, and still believing they might change.
Perhaps what I am describing is delusion (my therapist can attest to me being a frequent offender). Some unhealthy coping mechanism where you stay stuck in one place because leaving means accepting that things have changed.
But I’ve accepted it. I’ve accepted that some things are simply gone. That things will never be the same.
And yet I still have Hope. That they will find me again. That things will somehow work out. That tomorrow, despite today having been disappointing, will be better. Because some things are worth staying for. Some people are worth waiting for. Some dreams are worth hanging on to.
Hope is a sacrifice. An ultimate decision that you feel deep down in your core when you decide that something is worth carrying the burden of Hope. I mean, I love Emily Dickinson, but hope is not the thing with feathers. It does not perch nicely on your shoulder, asking for nothing. It is sitting in darkness so black it rips the air out of your lungs, and being asked to keep breathing. It is freezing. And aching. And empty. Telling yourself you feel warm. Until you do. Or die.
Personally, I’d rather die blindfolded, believing in the possibility of light, than sighted, shrouded in darkness.
Khalas.
