A goddamn bee

I lined my balc’ny with flowers,

hoping to see

a goddamn bee

Friends trekked from across the city,

they must have thought

they were for them

I read the paper this morning,

hoping to see

a goddamn bee

The Min’ster of Defense, page one,

a suit and tie:

“a war takes time”

I went off to work regardless

hoping to see

a goddamn bee

I walked through the trees, gazing up

at canopies

in awe

‘Copter crossing,

buzzing over trees

the Min’ster in sight,

but not a bee

My winter coat,

wrapped up in pollen

Spring had sent for me

I brushed it off

but what a fool,

what a fool I can be

Had I kept it there,

I could have seen

a goddamn bee

Perhaps this is the art of hoping:

To understand that I am not the source of hope. To remember that hope is not something I individually cultivate. Hope is some form of energy we inherit, carry, tend to, and pass forward.

I am a vessel for it. We are a vessel for it.

A living thread in a much older structure.

Someone before me had carried something of hope forward without knowing my name.

Someone before me endured.

Someone prayed, someone sang songs, someone danced

Someone planted.

Someone crossed a threshold.

Someone hoped and imagined a life they would never see.

And somehow, their imagining, their hope reached me, reached us.

I began to wonder

What hope did my ancestors carry when they could not yet see me?

What prayers were folded into their choices?

What courage traveled from heart to heart

generation to generation, until it arrived for us.

What will I leave behind for someone whose name I may never know?

Now, hope feels like relationship and collective care.

Relational threads streaming backward and forward.

A living thread within a much older weaving.

I am now one pair of hands holding the threads for a little while. Holding the responsibility for the hope we inherit.…