There is Still Hope

Sometimes I feel like a broken record, that I continuously repeat myself, that each of these musings always return to the same concluding thought, each woven with the same thread, tying them together in what I aspire is a complete tapestry of my thoughts, my desires.

Although, I think I’m really like a dragon who is just obsessed with one jewel, and thus my musings are my observations of beholding different facets of my fascination, my muse.

Unfortunately, if I am repeating myself, if I am a broken record, stuck in a loop, it could mean I am boring, uninteresting, and irrelevant.

So be it.

When I first began this blog, I know I said this would be a place to capture my musings, but I only said such things because I had no idea what I was doing. At all. I was making it up as I went. However, now after doing this for…what has it been? Nine months? Already?! That long! Wow…

Anyway, now that I’ve been doing this for nine months, I’ve realised there is a purpose to these “endless musings of a hopeful idealist”. They aren’t just random collected thoughts. (I mean, in mathematical theory, randomness is an illusion. Everything is connected by patterns and repetition, but I’m digressing again.)

What is that purpose? Let me draw your attention to the only adjective in the phrase: hopeful.

I write because I have Hope, and I want to share it.

Remember how recently I was raving about how I’m growing bored and somewhat disgusted with teen literature, asking where are the stories of hope? Where are the stories to encourage our children there is good in this world, in themselves, and it’s worth fighting for? Stories like The Chronicles of Narnia or The Hobbit or Cinderella?

Maybe I’m too far removed from society to know what’s actually going on, what’s actually influencing it, changing it, driving it, etc. Then again, maybe if I am this removed, perhaps whatever perspective I’ve gained is from a third-party position.

What I see influencing the world are three things. The first two are easy: pain and anger.

The world is in pain, and it’s lashing out in anger, demanding justice. One example of this is the Me Too movement and everything else which is a result, directly or indirectly.

The third, and most depressing, is abandonment.

Back when the Parkland, Florida school shooting occurred, this horrific tragedy which seemingly shook our nation, our teens took their rage to the streets, marching, protesting, demonstrating against the lack of action our legislators and executives were taking.

Has there been an answer to the pleas for help?

During this time, I spoke with the daughter of a dear friend, who is a freshman in high school. I asked her how the shooting made her feel, what actions her teachers were taking, her school administration, what the general sense of her classmates and school was – she said nothing.

No; she actually said, “Nothing.” Not “nothing” as though she did not respond. In fact, she wasn’t silent.

This bright, beautiful fourteen-year-old whom I’ve watched blossom from childhood into womanhood sat there voicing her disappointment, her discouragement, her dejection at the lack of responsibility the adults were taking in her life.

It was I who had nothing to say. Or rather, I had plenty to say, which I did. Only, that’s all I had were words. I had nothing to do.

Sometimes I think you have to be mad to want to become a writer. It can be such an anonymous, seemingly meaningless job. Perhaps Shakespeare, the great master himself, in writing one of the most brilliant characters that is the eponymous Hamlet, walked a fine line of sanity and madness himself. As he says, “Words, words, words…” What if that was a vignette into his own psyche?

I wanted to hold this young woman, I wanted to tell her how sorry I was for her generation, how I know her pain for I have felt it too, but I wanted more – I wanted to be able to do something.

And yet all I had to offer were words.

Maybe they stuck, maybe they lingered, maybe they encouraged her. Maybe she listened, maybe she didn’t. I don’t know. My only care is that I could do the something for all the broken out there; the despairing, the hopeless, the lost; those drowning so deep in their pain, they can’t seem to breathe.

Even if feels empty, meaningless, I’ll keep giving my words away like scattering seeds across a field hoping one day they’ll grow into something beautiful.

This is why I write, why I keep writing, because I’ve been there – lost, alone, abandoned, drowning, suffocating, despairing – and it was stories which kept my hope alive.

As Kate DiCamillo wrote in her The Tale of Despereaux:

Stories are light. Light is precious in a world so dark.

It was in stories I found my hope, stories which told me about One who could save me. Only they were more than just mere stories. They were real, and so was He.

He found me, saw me in my helplessness and pain. He saw me lying in my blood, dying, and whispered to me, “Live.” He scooped me into his arms, clothed me, and set my feet upon a rock.

And now I live, I have this hope, this treasure hidden in me as though I were a jar of clay.

But it’s not hidden anymore. I can’t let it. I won’t let it. Or maybe it won’t let me. Maybe it’s taken this long for me to remove my self-inflicted inhibitors because like a plant growing in a pot becomes too large and will die if it remains in confinement, maybe I’ve grown and realised it’s time to let go and break away.

Although, it’s not purely altruistic. If I’m honest, I write to help myself. Though I may have hope, I do live in a world which tries to take it from me. Daily. I write to remind myself of what I am fighting for, of who I am, and why I must do what I do.

I write to keep my hope alive.

I want to be like Arwen in The Lord of the Rings, who, besides Galadriel, is unashamedly my favourite character.

She is a strong, proud, fearless elf-woman who fights for whom and what she loves, and most importantly: she never gives up hope.

When everyone else fears the end of the world, it is she who clings to the hope Frodo will succeed, which is why her life becomes knit to the fate of the Ring of Power. Her belief, her hope are so powerful, they determine her continued existence. And her hope inspires the others.

I may not be some elf-maiden (though I like to pretend to be), but I do have hope, and I will fight with everything within me to keep it alive and strong. If I can share it with others, who too become strengthened and encouraged, then that’s an even greater reward.

We need Hope. Desperately. “We have nothing if not belief.” Without it, what are we fighting for?

And my hope is this: I believe one day the wrongs will be made right. We are not alone nor forgotten. We just have to know where to look.