That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me."
- Emily Dickinson
I had a glimmer of hope today, after a long time in the darkness--"many sink down, but few return, to the sunlit lands above." (The Underearthmen, The Silver Chair, C.S. Lewis) It can be difficult to remember hope in such moments, to know if that little bird still roosts, to admire its pluck amid the tempests, to wonder, even sometimes, if it is not foolhardy to persist in singing for a sunrise which may never come. If the sunrise were not coming, would it not be silly to persist in singing our song? But how can we know that it is not coming? How can we ever know that dawn is not just ahead? We can't. There is only to sing. To sing and to hope.
2014 was a year of great tribulation for many of my friends and family--the loss of a dear aunt, family members who are fighting illness, friends who have lost and lost and lost until it didn't seem like they could lose anymore, tragedies at home and abroad, and yet we are still here. And hope still sings in us.
Keep a weather eye out for the sunrise. Cuddle into your nest when you need to. May your flights of hope be unbounded. Sing for yourself. Sing for anyone who can hear you. And I am always on the lookout for correspondents! Send songs, and I'll try to do a better job of singing to you in 2015! -- The Huntress and Hearth Mistress