a sanguine disposition

We belong to a people who have it easy.

We would rather live in our single-family homes–miles from anything original, surrounded by monotony, sameness, and patterns/repeats rather than be challenged to step outside our front door into something busy, sightly chaotic, and always changing.

We prefer to surround ourselves with people who are the same as us–think the same, dress the same, drive the same, talk the same, look the same, believe the same…rather than working through relationships expanding our networks to involve people that are completely different from us–we are scared of diversity; because it is challenging, and we’re not really sure how to do it.

We live in a place where it is customary–almost a necessity–to spend $3.89 on a coffee…while others across the ocean live on $2.00 a week to feed themselves…and their families.

We do not know where our food comes from, other than the produce isle in the store.

We do not know where our food goes when we throw it out. Besides a plastic trash bag.

Things appear magically to us.

And are magically removed.

We spend dollars, hours, and energy on modern medicine, machines, technology, games, science, books, entertainment, gadgets…things, stuff, toys, me/my/mine/want/

We are the richest.

And yet we are the ones with no hope. We are plagued by our own guilt, shame, remorse, sympathy, and embarrassment–but we are so covered up by these things that we cannot be moved with compassion. We are stuck. Paralyzed. Afraid. We are very scared.
What if we fail? What if once we finally get an idea about what to do or how to help; what if it isn’t enough? What if nothing changes? What if I don’t change?

We are the ones with the resources. And yet, we are the ones with no hope.

How, how can this be?

Emily Dickinson:
Hope     

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Perhaps we have had our wings clipped. We are left to live in the cages of the pet store. We do not know how to hope, to dream, to imagine something better. We are given the pleasantries of life; we are safe and comfortable. Maybe in these circumstances we do not need hope.

What if hope asked something of us, asked us to describe to another what it is, what it means, what it tastes and smells and looks like. Would we know?

Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all…

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