the thing with feathers
“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all. ”
She said that when she saw feathers, she paid careful attention. Each feather was an invitation into communion with the universe, she said. When she left this world, I began to give feathers more of my attention.
Some feathers hardly graze my awareness, especially when lost in thought. And some, serve as subtle signs from her, my beloved friend—to slow down, take a deep breath, and recognize this unique, sacred moment.
“Where do you think you’re going in such a hurry?” I hear her whisper. “Why not settle here just for a while?” she continues.
Before her, I wasn’t sure how I felt about hope. For so long hope was a thing I strived for but fell short of. An abstraction that was inherently mixed with a dose of doubt. Hope was—as I’d grown feel—little more than a down payment on a wish unlikely to come true.
The feathers she leaves along my path have rekindled my relationship with hope. I’m beginning to see that hope does not need to be the air or the magic; hope just needs to be the thing, in me, that takes flight by merely noticing that the air and the magic are dancing.