I can hold hope for other people and external things. But holding hope for myself is much more difficult.
I feel hope in some ways and through some things, usually in nature and in movement; but, bouncing off of last week, it feels so much safer to not hold on to hope at all than to feel it and have to let it go.
Thank you for the idea of breaking it down into smaller steps, that is very helpful.
Thank you so much for this - it moved me to tears. I haven't figured out why, but I've always been a 'hopeful person' - against all odds - and it's kept me here on this side of living for this long. I love your framing hope as a practice!
A wonderful reflection Lisa. I love the point you made about one small thing. The small things hold a lot of importance. A moment of laughter during the day can really allow us to feel and see a different side of things. I also love that oracle deck; the website you linked has such cute paper goods. Thank you for creating this space.
You had me at the definition of hope :) How freeing to remember that hope is simply being able to envision what we desire rather than needing to believe wholeheartedly that it will happen! Like you said about the practice of possibility, all that is required of us is to be curious, to imagine. I appreciate the idea of hope as a collective practice--one that we can trust others to carry when we are unable. Lastly, this line is beautiful: “I remember I’m an embodied version of hope as a person.”
Thank you for sharing these practices. I have been finding so much support in framing what I want to do or be or feel as a practice, rather than a goal or a state of being or an identity.
Thank you so much for sharing this. Last year I was in a deep depression. One of the things that helped was conversations with a dear friend that helped me understand that hope is a practice. Shifting the concept to something actionable made a big difference for me. It's not simply a state of being. It's much more. The understanding that little things matter and cumulate to hope. This understanding made a world of difference and helped me a lot.
Today I'm sitting on a balcony in Puerto Rico on a solo vacation that last year I would have never thought possible. I'm feeling grateful for your reflections because they helped me connect to my hope and healing journey. Thank you.
Woah... I meet with a group of women once a month over zoom and we choose a theme/topic/quote to mull over before we meet. This month is hope.
I've found it hard to hope and this ongoing pandemic season has made it all the more challenging. I wonder if it feels dangerous to hope sometimes, as the pendulum swings to the other side where hopium and denial bypass what refuses to be grieved and named and seen. I don't want to be that person, who doesn't have space to lament but in doing so it feels like I've left little room for hope. So, I love that you propose hope as a practice - to find the smallest thing and keep practicing. Thank you, Lisa.
Thank you for these insights and curations around hope. One of the most helpful things I learned in therapy was that uncertainty is not dangerous, it is neutral. As someone with wiring that has typically identified only the concerns, the worries, the worst case scenarios, and the potential for danger (physical, emotional, spiritual), it was so helpful to be reminded that when we don't know what happens next, we don't know what happens next. Uncertainty is neutral. I have found opening myself up to uncertainty with curiosity is absolutely a form of hope. While the worst may happen, so could the best, or the middlest, or the most fun, or the most terrifying, or the most peaceful. Challenging over and over the idea that uncertainty is dangerous is, for me, its own form of hope; daring each time to say: but it could be different than my nightmare imaginings. It could be different. That is hope to me. And it will always be on a spectrum- not fully hopeful or fully hopeless but somewhere in the grey-to-sunshine gradient in inbetween.
Hope feels so complex.
I can hold hope for other people and external things. But holding hope for myself is much more difficult.
I feel hope in some ways and through some things, usually in nature and in movement; but, bouncing off of last week, it feels so much safer to not hold on to hope at all than to feel it and have to let it go.
Thank you for the idea of breaking it down into smaller steps, that is very helpful.
Thank you so much for this - it moved me to tears. I haven't figured out why, but I've always been a 'hopeful person' - against all odds - and it's kept me here on this side of living for this long. I love your framing hope as a practice!
A wonderful reflection Lisa. I love the point you made about one small thing. The small things hold a lot of importance. A moment of laughter during the day can really allow us to feel and see a different side of things. I also love that oracle deck; the website you linked has such cute paper goods. Thank you for creating this space.
You had me at the definition of hope :) How freeing to remember that hope is simply being able to envision what we desire rather than needing to believe wholeheartedly that it will happen! Like you said about the practice of possibility, all that is required of us is to be curious, to imagine. I appreciate the idea of hope as a collective practice--one that we can trust others to carry when we are unable. Lastly, this line is beautiful: “I remember I’m an embodied version of hope as a person.”
Thank you for sharing these practices. I have been finding so much support in framing what I want to do or be or feel as a practice, rather than a goal or a state of being or an identity.
Another great reflection. You and I often seem to have similar thoughts and I’m so glad I discovered your newsletter.
I wrote about how hard it can be to hold on to hope these days and what I do to feel more hopeful in my newsletter too: https://wendigordon.substack.com/p/changing-lives-issue-8?r=qs4u1&s=w&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=email.
Thank you so much for sharing this. Last year I was in a deep depression. One of the things that helped was conversations with a dear friend that helped me understand that hope is a practice. Shifting the concept to something actionable made a big difference for me. It's not simply a state of being. It's much more. The understanding that little things matter and cumulate to hope. This understanding made a world of difference and helped me a lot.
Today I'm sitting on a balcony in Puerto Rico on a solo vacation that last year I would have never thought possible. I'm feeling grateful for your reflections because they helped me connect to my hope and healing journey. Thank you.
Woah... I meet with a group of women once a month over zoom and we choose a theme/topic/quote to mull over before we meet. This month is hope.
I've found it hard to hope and this ongoing pandemic season has made it all the more challenging. I wonder if it feels dangerous to hope sometimes, as the pendulum swings to the other side where hopium and denial bypass what refuses to be grieved and named and seen. I don't want to be that person, who doesn't have space to lament but in doing so it feels like I've left little room for hope. So, I love that you propose hope as a practice - to find the smallest thing and keep practicing. Thank you, Lisa.
Thank you for these insights and curations around hope. One of the most helpful things I learned in therapy was that uncertainty is not dangerous, it is neutral. As someone with wiring that has typically identified only the concerns, the worries, the worst case scenarios, and the potential for danger (physical, emotional, spiritual), it was so helpful to be reminded that when we don't know what happens next, we don't know what happens next. Uncertainty is neutral. I have found opening myself up to uncertainty with curiosity is absolutely a form of hope. While the worst may happen, so could the best, or the middlest, or the most fun, or the most terrifying, or the most peaceful. Challenging over and over the idea that uncertainty is dangerous is, for me, its own form of hope; daring each time to say: but it could be different than my nightmare imaginings. It could be different. That is hope to me. And it will always be on a spectrum- not fully hopeful or fully hopeless but somewhere in the grey-to-sunshine gradient in inbetween.