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How to Help a Small Hope Grow
Not too
far from the nearest, joy-filled group of people, there is a shadowy dell, or
perhaps the right word is depression. Looking at it from the outside it doesn’t
seem particularly deep nor its sides all that steep, but if one were to find
oneself at its bottom there would be a certain difficulty in escaping.
Perspective is a strange thing: from a slight distance outside one would think
it a pleasant enough spot in which to enjoy a few beers and some intelligent
chat with friends, even though it’s a tad removed from the beauty of full
sunshine or the excitement of the unrestricted gale. But if one takes the time
to peer in tentatively, we find ourselves looking down on a fetid quagmire that
traps the feet of the playful hopes that unwittingly built their nest on the
side of the depression, so near as to be almost unavoidable.
Hopes
are a strange and wonderful species of creature. They have soft coats of
varying hues; some are a clean white which might hurt the eyes, some are
deepest red, some blue, some green some black but all are pleasing to the eye
if seen if seen in the right light. Their eyes are large and darting, full of
unfocussed curiosity as they look for new meadows in which to frolic. Their
soft feet are unsure when young but as they mature grow into an agility that
lets them mount all but the sheerest of obstacles.
Look!
Timidly emerging from its nest is a newborn with fur like a blushing poppy. Its
long-lashed eyes shyly search its surrounds for another being with whom it
might forge a connection and then perhaps a friendship. It sees the grasping,
sodden bog and sags in resignation. It knows it is not strong enough to leap
that loathsome dell. It mews softly. It mews its cry of desperation, unable to
make the leap itself, needing another, an outsider, there to help it jump but it’s
afraid of being scorned by whomever hears and thrown off balance to into the depression
to feed it with its death.
A short
distance away, but close enough to be just visible over the lip of the
depression from the low, lowly vantage point of a young, helpless hope, there
was the top of a brown-haired head. The hair was just light enough so as not to
be black and in this light had two locks crossing at right angles in the wind
that verged on red. That red cross was aid and salvation to the poor hope, and
it mewed slightly louder and longer than before: a salutation, a call to
parlay.
The
newborn immediately regretted its rash action. The owner of that hair would not
want to be bothered by a thing as weak and pathetic as itself, there were far
better things to do with one’s time than help a pink weasel out of a puddle.
The hair probably hadn’t even heard the tiny wretched cry. It was probably
better this way. Everyone know proper young hopes should be able to solve their
own problems, and if this struggling, scared little one couldn’t then it
probably wasn’t trying hard enough; bigger problems than a dell get overcome
every minute of the day. The hope sagged again.
But
wait! The head has stopped! And now it is moving closer, revealing eyes, a
nose, and a concerned but caring frown. It is the head of a young woman in navy
blue. The little hope’s heart soared at the thought of someone else taking time
out of their day to engage with it. Light sometimes plays tricks with your
eyes, but if you had seen this moment of uplift you would have thought the
fuzz-covered hope had grown a little larger. The young woman reached the edge
of the depression, saw the tiny hope on the far side of it and her concern
changed to determination. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a seed. You
might think this seed to be a little thing, not worth anything to anyone, but
you’d be wrong. It contained the hope’s salvation.
She
stuck the seed into the ground with a decisive thrust of a finger. The hope,
definitely bigger now, looked on in anxiety and anticipation. There was a
pause. The simple gesture had no discernible effect at first. But then a lone
shoot emerged from the soil. It swayed, its tip barely an inch from the loam
that had bore it. It swayed, its tip barely three inches from the loam that had
bore it, then six, then a foot, then more. Much thicker than it had been, the
shoot’s weight bent it down towards the depression and the hope waiting for an
escape within it. The hope, itself larger and more sure-footed, stepped onto
the vine the moment it touched the earth near the nest. Though shaky, the plant
proved a perfectly adequate path for the hope’s egress. A fond, quick lick of
the hand was all the thanks the hope knew how to give, but it was accepted by
she who watched it with a warm grin as it scampered off to find food and grow
into a full-fledged reality.
The
young woman, or others of a similarly caring disposition, regularly comes to
the plant to check it’s still there to serve as a highway for hopes. They tend
it with genuine concern and chase away the sharp-toothed doubts – vicious,
buzzing creatures that seek to gnaw through the plant and leave the hopes once
again stranded in the depression. This is a continual task, and not always
properly rewarded, but it is thanks to considerate people like this that the
hopes which emerge, unsure and barely-formed, can have a chance at growing up
and loving life.
I for
one would like to thank them.
One hopes you're well,
Yrs,
ADWoodward
This genuinely made me cry. Sorry if that's a bit pathetic, but it's the truth. Phoebe would have loved it.
ReplyDeleteTreacle