While at the Recovery Cafe last Thursday, I couldn't think of much I wanted to do for my latest journal page. I doodles some fruits and veggies, some Christmas colored designs... I chatted with the few people in class and tried to come up with something "inspirational." Some days, that just doesn't happen. I was the only "teacher" that day, as the other teacher was gone, and I was feeling a little bit vulnerable, under qualified, etc. While someone would speak here and there, it was just a quiet art class day. Around the room are paper mache sculptures of the words "dream," "love," "inspire..." While I think those things are great, I can't help but feel like I really want to tell these people about the hope that I know. I don't even understand all of it, but somehow I KNOW that I KNOW that it is the truth.
While contemplating, I drew this... and I don't know Emily Dickinson's work really, or hold it in high esteem, but "the thing with feathers" is just what came to mind once I drew the "hope" part.
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.