Hope without expectation conjures up images of birds without wings or ships without sails. How can hope be made more than abstract without hoping for something. Hope without the thought of an object—a goal, is vain indeed. Empty wind, buoying . . . nothing.
But then, where is the hope of hope, when the reality of disappointed expectation thwarts its bright trajectory? Is hope merely the belief in that which is good, surviving against all odds? Or is it of the fourth dimension—a suffused but indirect light scattered over the nebulous, ever-receding future?
Or, is it simply the taking of joy in each step: the bursting juice of berries, warm feathery breezes, sunshine smiles? Is hope merely the belief that the world will continue to be there, when we wake up in the morning, and that there will still be loveliness in it to enjoy?
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