hope is a thing with feathers
I have been disappointed all day. The saint and I are feeling the crunch of time as it threatens to smoooosh us. We have to move by October 1, but as yet, we have not solidified a residence for ourselves. On Sunday, he and I went into Seattle and found the most perfect home. Location was stellar, the place was gorgeous and spacious, the backyard brimming with tomatoes, and the aesthetic was just completely suited to our taste. Unfortunately, we didn't get to it fast enough. If we had only arrived 1 hour earlier, we would currently be toasting to our fortuitous find.
But I've learned something about how I grieve...how it's changed in the last few years (along with everything else in my head). Before, I would have completely guarded myself with cynicism towards "getting my hopes up." I think the general idea behind this theory is that if you don't want it too much, then when it doesn't work out, the disappointment is less. Only it never worked. I was always disappointed whether or not I pinned my hopes on the outcome.
So these last few years, I've decided to hope. Hope against all ration and reason (withing reality, of course. I am still ME after all...analytical, rational etc)...hope despite the hidden pain it might bring to do so.
Am I so very disappointed today because I hoped so much? I don't think so. I am so very sad because I didn't get what I wanted. I will grieve it (banana splits help. limoncello cocktails help.) I will allow myself to be very blue; I will refuse to kick myself in the backside for hoping too much. What's so great about guarding oneself from disappointment anyway? It can, like every other emotion (shadowy or brilliant) bring incredible depth of soul, richness of thought, awareness of self.
In the end, I hope.
For a flipping wondiferous house.
[ title taken from this poem ]