Harnessing Hope

Every morning I wake up around 9 or 10 a.m., just for a minute or two, and I turn my face to the windows. If I can see the blue sky behind the trees, it’s going to be a glorious day, and I fall back into a deep and happy sleep, dreaming of the sun’s rays warming my face. If it’s a gray and cloudy sky, I turn my back to the windows and try to sleep away the negativity that has already crept in.

Then when I actually wake up around noon, I go outside and sit on my patio for a few minutes. Drinking OJ and reading the mail, I look up to the sky to ask of it what my day will bring. After a few weeks of this routine, I began thinking: Why does the color of the sky control my ability to think positively? Why do I feel it takes a clear and sunny sky to feel hopeful about my future? Or more generally: Where do hope and optimism come from? It sure as fuck as doesn’t come from the sky.

In high school, I was given the nickname Negative Nancy. I didn’t think I was any more negative than anyone else, but even today people tell me I complain too much. Screw ‘em. I think I’ve undergone many changes since high school, namely I learned that even though hope for the future is a seemingly ethereal concept, slipping through my fingers like sand, positivity in the present is possible.

I used to feel like (and still, after drinking, feel like) nothing in my world could ever change for the better. My present conditions would continue on, carved in stone, until the day I die. I’d convince myself that I’ll never feel the truest, deepest kind of love that happens when you manage to stay with one person more than a few months. I’ll never realize my artistic dreams and build a future for myself based on writing. My future looked like a stormy winter ocean, all deep grays and dark blues, and not a hint of sunshine.

I think it comes down to control issues. No matter how much time and preparation we put into our lives, we are unable to control our futures. And this causes anxiety and depression. An illness can strike. An accident can happen. A love can end. And we’re left picking up the pieces and wondering how things can ever improve.

So maybe we have to relinquish control to the forces of the universe and trust that we’ll be taken care of when our time comes. Maybe our job is just to enjoy each moment as it happens. When the early evening sunlight gives every tree a gold glow, when we see our friends for the first time in a few days, when we hear a new song that stirs something inside of us, we have to actively enjoy the gifts we’re given. Recognizing that life can be even the slightest bit enjoyable is a learned skill. So time must be taken to build this skill set, moment by golden moment. These little moments build up, and eventually from them we can build a sense of hope, a sense of trust that everything will turn out alright. Because what’s the use in fervently believing things won’t be alright?