Ever wondered what fuels hope? Why does it even exist? Do animals have it? Or plants? Or is it solely a human characteristic? And what is hope?
Here’s one wikipedia definition: Hope is the ‘feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best’.
Ever had a week (day, month or year) that’s so shite that at the end of it one tiny thing can set you off on a path of destruction, anger or temporary insanity? I have. And we shall call it Black Sunday – when a simple question from my husband set me down a path of peri-menopausal psychosis.
And the poor guy had just done a sweet thing too – made me green tea, my best. In my favourite 400ml stripy cup, with a piece of ginger in it. And honey. And I was just settling down to read the Sunday paper, happily scoffing a handful of chocolate-covered peanuts. Heaven.
Until The Question from my husband (and don’t ask me what it was, that’s not the point).
That giant stripy cup of tea didn’t know what hit it. Actually, the kitchen sink hit it. And I didn’t throw like a Bok, choking against the All Blacks. I threw it across the kitchen like a peed-off polar bear that’d been prodded smack bang up the ass with an electric eel.
The cup hit the sink with such drama – like that terrible scene in Narcos where Escobar beats that drug underling to death (ok, it wasn’t that gross, just loud) – but then lay there defiantly unscathed, right side up. With that proud piece of ginger in it and most of the tea down the kitchen wall. If it had a finger it would’ve shown me a zap sign.
That wasn’t my first or last fight with another human but let’s just say from now on whenever I drink out of this mug – a gift from a workmate many years ago – I know that whatever life throws at me I WILL TAKE IT. And I won’t break. If an old china cup can take that much shite and remain whole, then by gad, so can I.
Whatever you’re going through, however petty or inconsequential (or manageable) it may seem to an outsider, please never lose hope. Once that’s gone, there’s no telling what might ensue. Find your own inanimate object, person, animal, beauty in nature, scar, photograph, piece of music, writing or seemingly obscure thing that keeps you going. Your very own lucky talisman and symbol of survival. Because giving up is not what you were born to do, you crazy diamond.
Disclaimer: Even though I will no doubt continue to show hectically antisocial, crabby behaviour, I’m counting on general society and my husband and child to continue to understand. Because. I. Still. Have. Hope.