Everyday coffeeshop hope… in a hospital coffeeshop

During the next two months I am committed to writing about hope. What hope have I seen, what hope do I have? What is a story of hope?

My default is asking questions, my comfort zone is the zone of the unknown. Answers, knowing… these are more difficult for me. And perhaps this is why hope is so important to me… and maybe it is the risk of hope, that hope allows me an outlet for ignoring what is, by dwelling on what can be. I just love what can be so much, that I’m not too bothered with what is. But what is, is. And by being the now, it is the most important.

Alas, I am stuck at alas. I don’t know what is or how to be in what is.

I’m sitting in a hospital of all places, and I’m at a loss for what to write about hope! Why is this? What is it about hope that paralyses me so?

Is there not hope in the anticipation of the nurse who looks like she might be in the middle of a long shift, ordering a “large” tea?

Is there not hope in the woman talking on her phone, with one hand against her forehead and both her elbows slumped on the table? I haven’t a clue what she’s talking about but she doesn’t look happy. But she keeps talking – is there not hope in that?

Surely there must be hope in the young man feeding bits of cake to a baby while he sips a hot drink.

Even the older gentleman with bent back, slow movements, hands purple from veins and wrinkles, thick wire-rimmed glasses and receding white hair must have some hope as he chews on a bun and gazes at the other customers in the hospital café.

The older man has now been joined by a younger man – the younger man may himself be a grandfather but he is clearly a generation younger than his companion. Probably his son. He is preparing tea for his father and has a larger cup of something hot for himself. His movements are chipper and energetic, hopeful enough.

And the young gentleman who made my hot chocolate for me? What hope does he have in his menial job which brings him into such an array of people everyday?

There was definitely some hope in the middle of a circle of people who were just chatting in the hallway – it looked like a family discussing something serious with a doctor.

As for me, I’m just chock full of hope. I despair to think of my friends in Syria and those who have fled, to think of the future that lies before them. I dread finding out how many people accessed my blog or downloaded my book because I’m pretty sure it wasn’t many. But I hope. I call my friends to check on them, hoping they are ok. I check my blog and book stats, hoping they are not a source of shame.

Yes, this is what hope is to me. This doesn’t make for a very good blog post, but it is hope, it’s the best hope I can come up with.

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