Hey there.
Welcome to A Hit of Hope.
I often walk in the dark at home.
My feet and my dog know our morning route so well that I don't even really have to pay attention.
This often means I'm thinking about what I want to write or all I have to do or,
Let's be honest,
The fresh banana chocolate chip muffin waiting for me at my local coffee shop.
When I was in Arizona recently,
I hiked desert trails in the morning dark.
A completely different experience.
As I followed the person I was walking with along the path,
It was no longer tar under my feet but often scree,
That slippery stuff that shifts and moves.
It matters when the trail isn't a stroll through a cornfield but one that teeters on the edge of a cliff.
Not to mention,
I could often hear things,
Rustling things right beside us.
On my last morning there,
We both startled as a silent owl swooped across the path in front of us.
I felt more awake and alive than I had in a very long time.
And I realized something.
That the uncertainty charged me.
I was no longer walking along with numb familiarity.
I was being reacquainted with mystery.
The one that is always there at the edges of our lives.
Inviting us to choose the relentless luminosity.
The kind of mystery that invites us to stop seeking dull security.
And yet at the same time,
The mystery that gives us full permission to seek out safety if and when we need it.
To quiet and rest.
And when we feel ready to get back on that long path,
To walk it with a big heart.
As things stirred beside me on my way,
I knew I could let the fear grow louder.
Stronger.
Or I could choose to stay in my unshakable center.
To trust that change doesn't necessarily come to hurt me.
That one feels so important I want to say it again.
To trust that change doesn't necessarily come to hurt us.
Rather it usually arrives to wake us up.
So we do not need to panic.
Even though the truth doesn't always bump into us gently,
It might come crashing in like some fierce unwanted guest.
But as the poet Rumi says,
It's best to welcome all guests in whatever form they arrive.
Otherwise they're just going to keep showing up again and again.
So best be prepared to meet what is on your way.
And best be prepared to live in longing.
To move,
To rest,
To speak,
To be silent.
It's kind of like a poem.
We get to decide what stays,
What electrifies us most completely,
And what gets squeezed out because we don't need it.
Because a life like a poem has its own rules,
Its own demands.
Don't put this on me,
A poem will often cry out.
And as I navigated the dark of those wild paths,
I said no,
I'm not going to shoulder any more fear.
I said yes,
This,
Just so.
Absolutely present,
Absolutely ready to hold whatever needed to be held.
Whether that be light,
Or love,
Or mystery,
Because I wanted to let fear disappear.
To let it fly away as silently as a hungry owl.
Because it could tell.
There is no weak or cowering thing here.
Only something awake,
Alive,
Ready to live light and shine.
