The Siren

It has been quite some time since these fingers have ticked their taps on the white squares of the keyboard that sits in front of me. Life, as it so often does, has derailed the deeds of intended action with its surprises and necessities. We sit idly by and watch as the promises of yesterday become the memories of tomorrow, obstacles pile their plight while our backs get heavier. We slough our lives away bit by bit as more and more is required of us; even that which brings us joy – our writing or cooking or golfing or thinking – falls to the ground like leaves quickly forgetting the summer from whence they grew.

Forgive the poetic wax, but my candle burns a little dim these days. Harsh realities have collided with hopeful expectations, beating wishes, peppering them with bruises so colorful they change the body underneath. I hoped to write everyday. I hoped to be surprised by kindness and I hoped that good people should only receive good treatment. But hope can be the most elusive of sirens, calling us to sail towards the sweet song of peace and ease, before disappearing behind more untrodden paths and choices. She slips yet lingers, faintly smelling like perfection and something unrecognizable.

I could have been naive about such expectations. I could have been wrong for having hope. But that’s the thing about hope. It’s admirable. It stands true forever, urging us towards overcoming that which stops us from perfection, pushing just a little bit further, a little bit further. It encourages us remove the training wheels or take a leap or have a painful conversation. It molds us, turning us malleable and amorphous, into something we could only previously imagine. It teaches, instructing us from ahead but never leaving, if we’re lucky.

We must be sure not to abandon hope. It may be fickle and empty and it might lead us down a path of foolishness and irresponsibility, tainting the lens that covers the perspectives that cage our thoughts, leaving a puddle of doubt on the carpet of our considerations. It might misbehave. In fact, it will.

But to live with no hope – to see the world in an endless gray of disappointment and eternally met lowered expectations – is a fate worth no more than the material weight of hope itself. To face the onslaught of years without hope is to live a half-life, where happiness and unadulterated glee are the luggage forgotten on the side of the road. Nothing can lie ahead without hope, so cling to it and hold steadfastly through the turbulence of these trials and tribulations. Hold strong and tighten your grip; faith and hope remain. Sometimes, it’s all there is.

Until the end. the Mended Blend.