Creating Hope

This morning I challenged myself to consider what I consider myself an expert at, so I could write about it for you all. I was recently excited to see that Wikipedia kept the changes I made to information about Wisconsin that I wrote in. It gave me happy feelings to see that I know something many people don't know at all, even if it is just how many gas stations are in my hometown.

I read once that if one reads three books on any given subject, one probably knows more about that subject than 90% of the population. I've read a great many books, but not enough of them were informative. I know a lot about fictional characters, fantasy tropes, what constitutes poor or disappointing literature, and the emotions that a typical writer feels, but I can't say I know much about how to do anything special.

Most of what I do in life, I've never read a book on or taken a class in. Things like waking up in the morning, listening to music, going for walks, or giving hugs don't come with instruction manuals. Nearly everyone does them differently. I imagine instruction manuals exist somewhere for these things, but I can't imagine reading a book about how to correctly go for a walk. It sounds rather boring. I'd rather just go for a walk.

I have reason to believe that I'm good at knitting, cooking, organizing, and teaching. I see evidence that I have skills in these and other areas that many people do not have. I wish I could explain how to do these things. So much of it is simply, do what seems best and think of a way to fix it if you make a mistake. I suppose that's not very instructional.

I don't know if I'm good at being creative. I see some people who never exercise their creativity in a meaningful way, and I see some who exude ideas like carbon monoxide and are constantly building some craft or another. All I do is play at something that feels right and set it aside when it doesn't come out quite how I wanted it to. Maybe that's all anyone ever does. Maybe people love those things anyway, even when they don't turn out as expected.

I don't know if I'm good at being hopeful. I want to be. I try to be. But I can't say I'm an expert, even though I've certainly read more than 3 books on the subject. I suppose there's a difference between knowing how to be hopeful and actually being hopeful. Hope is a fleeting creature.

I hope I won't be depressed.

I hope I become healthy.

I hope today is a good day.

I hope things work out.

I hope we can be friends.

In so many cases, there's something that can be done: I can be less depressed by doing things I enjoy every day, taking care of myself and my body, and going to the doctor. I can become healthier by eating well, sleeping, and exercising. I can work to make the day good, help things work out, and put in effort to be a good friend. Yet no matter how I try, not every day is good, not every night is restful, and not every friend stays for good.

Dare we continue to hope?

Hope is fragile, but no matter how many times it is crushed, the fractured pieces come back alive at the slightest provocation. No matter how many years pass without anyone remembering my birthday, every year a flutter of hope pulls in my chest at the thought that I might finally receive that surprise birthday party I used to dream of as a kid. No matter how many times I am rejected, I still find myself poking in to see if there's any cake left after the children have finished snack time. No matter how dark the nights get, I know I can wait expectantly for the sunrise to come and make everything not quite so bad.

I've begun knitting mittens for the homeless shelter in town. It's rather a hopeless process because I know that no matter what I do, I cannot cure homelessness in my city. Yet there is a flutter of hope in me that even if just one life can be made better...