January 31, 2025: Watering the Seeds of Hope 

I meditated upon the phrase “Remembering is no less than reincarnation.” I asked myself, when a memory emerges from the deep recesses of our being, and then crystalizes into focus, what in the world is happening? Nothing short of a miracle, the past and the present come momentarily face to face. I imagine memory as a golden thread that runs through time, stitching together disparate parts of ourselves. Consequently, our bodies are sacred sites, as they carry the evidence of who we have been in this life, in this world. 

The conclusion of the calendar year is a natural time for reflection. We celebrate various holidays with the people who have known us for ages. We visit with those that named us, or perhaps those that we ourselves named. We return to familiar places, stumbling across old photos or sentimental belongings from which we dare not part. 

And while the  holidays can refresh our cups with merriment and a sense of belonging, that is not always the case. Memories, while they are miraculous, are not without weight. Is it any wonder that with every passing year, our bodies bow under the gravity of it all? 

Yet the beginning of the calendar year is one of my favorite seasons, like an about-face from the past toward the future. The longest night is behind us, and every evening grows a little lighter, buoying our belief in all that lays ahead. A mysterious landscape stretches out wherein possibilities abound. 

While I desperately want to be hopeful for the coming year, there is frankly no shortage of events to dread in the coming weeks and months. What will become of our nation during this fraught transition? As we grapple with our country’s values, and inequality soars, who will demand justice? Who will stand up against leaders that promote hatred and exploitation? What will become of our ailing ecosystems and the environments we rely upon to meet our most essential needs? 

In some ways, hope feels delusional. Or worse, like a distraction from a grim reality. But I cannot think of anything more necessary than hope as I struggle to make meaning from apparent chaos. Viktor Frankl (1905-1997), a renowned psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, wrote extensively on the power of the mind and meaning-making under unimaginably dire circumstances as he was held captive in a concentration camp. In his book Man’s Search for Meaning, Frankl wrote,

“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way."

In the year 2025, I am taking Frankl’s advice, choosing to remain hopeful about humanity and our future. Like a muscle, I am training my hopeful disposition with deliberate repetition, and occasionally introducing some resistance. Ironically, in my pursuit to fortify my faith in the future, I find myself turning toward the past. I comb through my memories in search of evidence that love has been and will continue to be abundant. Love is abundant, and that gives me hope, because love drives out fear. 

One powerful source of hopefulness among my memories are the countless individuals that have impacted me, in both big and small ways. I conjure their faces in my mind’s eye, and like reincarnation, I feel the force of their presence. I recall remarks they made, offhand musings they probably were not thinking deeply about at the time, and yet their words have become lasting landmarks in my own thinking. 

Most of these folks I have lost touch with over time, as circumstance and distance invariably erode lines of communication that once flowed freely. But the love I feel for these people, and the hopefulness they inspire inside me, feels as near as my own heartbeat. Whether they know it or not, I carry them with me. 

Another source from which my hope springs are the ways in which Life, capital L, is so much bigger than me, or us, and our comprehension! I am hopeful because the sun continues to rise and set, as it has for time immemorial. I am heartened by the seasons and their inevitable changes. I am inspired by the greening of the grass as winter storms water the parched California countryside, and the first flowers of spring which I know will rise from their wintry rest no matter what anyone does or thinks about it. 

I find a great comfort in the “going on of things” that lay beyond the control of any man, because it reminds me that the story doesn’t end with me, even when my story reaches its conclusion. 

May we all water the seeds of hope in our midst as this year unfolds, and may we be sources of hope to others. I leave with you a poem from Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) titled, “Hope” is the thing with feathers. 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers

By Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers -

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.

-Isabella

Isabella Hall is a member of the Board of Directors and Publication Committee at Starcross.