Claudia Osmond ~ Reader, Writer, and Ruminator

Posts Tagged ‘hope’

Were it Not for the Darkness

In ruminating, writing on December 6, 2015 at 6:47 pm

I’m not pretending to know what refugees go through, not even a little bit. But as I’ve been reading personal stories of those who have been displaced I can’t help but imagine myself in their shoes. And I wonder if it is possible for them to find shards of hope within the wide chasm of their hopelessness… 

 

Once celebrated for its fragrant, luscious olives, our province is now well known as an exporter of shattered, devastated people.

 

Run-aways.

 

Overnight outlaws.

 

Refugees.

 

We who fled on foot. And then drifted on water.

 

Oh, the immense darkness of the sea:

All encompassing. Suffocating. Black as pitch.

 

But were it not for the darkness, we would not know the existence of stars.

 

A distant spark.

A light.

A promise.

 

A glimmer of hope

For that which is not yet visible

But a reality all the same

Just as breath must pass through the cold to be seen,

And the day which rises from the east must first endure the night

So, too, hope comes to life only in the midst of despair.

 

A glimmer of hope;

Can you see it?

Among the millions that have been displaced and forgotten for so long, individual names are being remembered and spoken and are becoming known.

 

A glimmer of hope;

Can you hear it?

Above the rattle of tanks and gunfire and the hammer of running feet, erupts the sharp, impulsive cry of a newborn babe.

 

A glimmer of hope;

Can you smell it?

Through the stench of tear gas and gun smoke and death, cuts a fresh glorious rainfall that stirs and revives the sun-parched earth.

 

A glimmer of hope;

Can you taste it?

From within the smack of dust and stale air and the metallic tang of blood, emerge memories of warm falafel, savoury olives, and sweet honey in the comb.

 

Will there be falafel and olives and honey in the new land?

Will the rain and the earth smell the same?

Will all lives matter?

Will someone know and speak my name?

 

Of these things I cannot be certain. But when glimmers such as these appear, I must grasp them.

Hold on tightly to that which presents to me a future.

Any future.

For surely that which comes after is better than that which has come before.

 

I must hold on tightly.

 

Were it not for the cold, I may not be reminded I still have breath.

Were it not for the night, I may not be reminded of the dawn that is to come.

 

Were it not for the darkness, I would not know the existence of stars.

 

 

 

Wall or Canvas?

In a peek inside my head, It's all perspective on June 12, 2010 at 7:27 pm

I hate staring at walls. Do you know what I mean? Those walls that seem to pop up and plunk themselves right in front of you, implying there’s no chance of you ever walking around, climbing over, or digging under them. Those walls that have no footholds, cracks, or loose bricks in them; not allowing you the slightest peek or even hint of what lies on the other side. You know those walls? Has one ever plunked its heavy, imposing, perfectly opaque bulk in front of you?

There’s been one in front of me for quite some time. And I’m tired of staring at its soul-sucking nothingness.

Time to get the paints out and make it a canvas.

Dreams

In a peek inside my head on April 21, 2010 at 9:44 am

Today’s post isn’t about reading. It isn’t about writing. It’s about ruminating. Ruminating over the past 18 years.

My oldest son is now officially an adult. He turned 18 yesterday. I can’t believe it. I still remember lying in the hospital bed when my dad came into the room carrying a tiny pair of blue rubber boots and a mini fishing rod. “We’re going to be fishing buddies,” he said.

Well, they were fishing buddies at least for a few years, until Matthew became a vegetarian ’cause he loves animals too much to eat them. (That’s what he told me when he was 12, when he decided to become a herbivore)

And now my animal-loving, non-fishing, plant-eating, 18-year-old adult son is old enough to sign himself out of school whenever he wants to. (That’s what he told me last night, when the realization struck him. My 13-year-old daughter piped up then and said, “Yeah, and you can discipline yourself, too, for missing all those classes.”)

So today is my day for ruminating. My first child has hit a major milestone in his life. The last 18 years have been packed full of SO much it’s worth it to reflect on all of it. But what’s more important to me is to dream about the future: Just like I did when my now-semi-bearded son was born. But to be honest, not a whole lot of what I’d dreamed about back then has actually come true. 

But that’s the beauty of life, if we can learn to appreciate it: Not all our dreams come true. Not everything is in our control. And sometimes that’s a good thing. I didn’t say it’s an easy thing. I mean, I’m just like the next person; if I believe in something I’ll work my can off to see it happen and I’ll be devasted if it doesn’t. But, for example, if my dreams for Matthew, 18 years ago, all came true, I wouldn’t have the exact son I have today. And I’d be missing out big time. Sure there are things I still wish he’d do, or become, but there is so much I love about that kid that I could never have dreamed up myself. Because even though dreams are amazing things, they are incomplete because they are limited to our own understanding. And anyone who is aware knows there is so much that lies outside of our own understanding.

But I keep on dreaming, even though my dreams may be limited. Even though my dreams may not come true exactly like I want them to. Even though my dreams may not come true AT ALL. I keep on dreaming. Why? Because even the most limited and incomplete dreams have hope for the future.