hope lives here

If you're anything like I am tonight, you're nervous, anxious, afraid. A little nauseous. Exhausted from too little sleep. Frantic, trying to prepare for the wide swath of unknowns. Distracted, unable to focus. Maybe determined, too. And angry.⁠

And also: hopeful. So cautiously hopeful that I've been afraid to even admit it, as if that hope might suddenly vanish like a wisp of smoke if I say it out loud or dare to even acknowledge it. After what happened four years ago, it's no wonder that I don't dare to hope.⁠

But I spent a solid hour on my front porch today, basking in the warm sun, eyes closed, listening to sounds of birds and people and car and _life_. A hummingbird hovered just a couple of feet from me on my porch swing. The very last rose on the bush by our porch stairs unfurled today, paying no nevermind to what the seasons say. Two of the squirrels that live in our trees bickered over a nut, then chased each other into the neighbor's plum tree. And the colors! Purple, brown, burgundy. Bright green, grass green, dark green, intense sky blue, luminous yellow gold. Blazing orange and brilliant red and rich red and soft pinkish peach.⁠

For that little respite, I was able to just be. And without even thinking about it, hope came right on in before I could stop it. It felt good, and it felt good to feel good.

So tonight, I'm going to dare to hope, now that I've let it in the door. No matter what comes, I want hope to feel welcome here.⁠