Hi there. I’m sorry I’ve been gone. I’ve been here, but I haven’t been able to find words. I’ve had so much trouble with everything that’s happening in this world. I’ve felt so hopeless. I should have written anyway. I should have tried. I should have sent you this:
The Hope Stone
I found this in the woods as I tried to walk Teddy a couple days ago. Remember Teddy? But walking was hard because I had fallen, strained my ankle, and split open my knee. Walking was hard because people weren’t wearing masks and I was afraid they would come too close. Walking upright was hard because I’d watched a police officer kill a black man, George Floyd, on video. Everything was hard, except this fist-full of hope some little kid had left for me in a knothole of a Douglas fir that had stood for at least a couple hundred years before this awful era.
Did you see in The Hope Stone the way the blue dominated, and the yellow, the hope, couldn’t be the center of the flower any more. I understood the message, that hope was still there, but it had been pushed aside for a bit. I somehow felt the softness of the little fists that had painted The Hope Stone and used it to fill a hole at eye level where I could find it.
I don’t get to hold small hands these days, but I remember how soft the backs of their palms are. I remember how the knuckles haven’t yet outgrown their dimples. I could imagine pink transparent nails with just a crescent of white where they grew as the creator of The Hope Stone reached up and placed it in the spot most likely to do its job.
I almost took it. I would have. My house could have used some hope. I could have tucked it into the pot that grew the Chinese evergreen that my mother-in-law had given me. I could have placed hope in the little pile, the cairn, of rocks on the end table next to my pile of books. I could have put hope in my pocket for the moment when I needed to quietly reach in to feel its reassurance.
I could have, but I remembered that viruses can live on stones, even hope stones, for… How long can viruses exist on hope?
So I left the hope in its little knothole for someone else to find, someone who wasn’t afraid to reach out and take it in. And I began to limp away with Teddy leading the way. Remember Teddy?
Then, I stopped, hobbled back, and pulled out my iPhone to fiddle with its camera. There is more than one way to pick up hope.
I left The Hope Stone in its knothole for some other recipient to find but as I walked away, I tucked a little bit of hope into my pocket inside my iPhone, something I could pull out later, as I watched the burning, the shouting, and the looting, something I could cling to.
I’m grateful for the kid who shoved a painted rock into the knothole of an old tree. We can all use a little bit of hope.
Thank you for listening, jules