There was a minor scuffle in the Tie Room today. When I went up to calm things down amongst the neckwear, I found the entire group of my made-from-feathers Bow Ties o’ the Day gathered in protest. They were there with their tiny microphones and signs—their cell phones pointed and filming in every direction in case something juicy happened. It seems they were upset because I haven’t worn them often enough for their liking. I realized they were right. They haven’t been in the TIE O’ THE DAY rotation regularly. I haven’t paid much attention to them for a very long time. During our public negotiations, I promised them I would change: I need to re-examine how often I wear them. I also promised them reparations in the form of agreeing to wear each of them during the next week. Peace now fills the Tie Room again. I was wrong. I admit it. And now we can all get back to business. I wish more people would admit when they are wrong, then move on.
An Emily Dickinson poem declares to us that “Hope is the thing with feathers—/That perches in the soul—.” It’s that invincible slice of fire in us that makes us go forth when we would really rather be stagnant—whether out of fear of what’s next, doubt about how to continue, or an apparent lack of energy to sally forth. The smallest hope in each of us can kick our metaphorical and literal butts off the couch and out into the world of living a life—if we let it. Hope keeps us ticking when our situation is looking dire. Sadly, some of us are currently in such a state that we have nary a spark of hope left inside at all. In all reality, it’s more than likely every one of us has run out of hope at least once in their lives. Personally, in those times of a hope-drought in my life, that’s when I was fed by other people’s hope. Sometimes people shared their hope with me, and I tried with all my heart to take it in. I fed off seeing those people moving—with their kind hope—through tough times and into their more hopeful futures. Sometimes I flat-out stole the hope I saw and heard in others. I stole their tidy inspirational quotes and attitudes. I stole acts of service I had watched them perform for others, and then I performed those same acts of service for others when I could see the need. I want to repeat this and make it clear: I didn’t just borrow a cup of hope—I stole all the hope I could. Me—I’m the Hope Burglar. I had to trust what I stole and use it to kindle my own feathery hope into being again. It is because of needing to replenish my own hope that I learned an important lesson about it. Stealing hope is not against any law of the universes. Nobody loses anything in the transaction. Everybody gains. True hope, in fact, encourages a kind of promiscuity. It likes to get around. True hope wants to abide within every one of us. Hope, by its very nature, wants to invite everyone to its party.