Hope is not the thing with feathers, y'all

Here's an excerpt from my newest Single Mom at Work:  


I told my therapist today that I can no longer in good faith believe in hope, because HOPE is NOT the thing with feathers, not for me. Sorry, Emily Dickinson. I could handle a plucked THING and probably even would, knowing my weakness for small to large, feathered, furred, generally stinky creatures. But I can't keep waiting around for the traditional definition of hope to kick in: a quiet serenity and faith that all will be okay. I haven't felt that way in several years. That anything will be okay. Not just for months. Haven't felt it for years. I wish it weren't the case. But as one groovy Chinese philosopher put it, "The wise man lets go of that, and chooses this." Even if my this isn't the stuff that fab holiday greeting cards are made of. The fact is, it's still my this. My true this. Ma, I know you wish I didn't hurt so much. I know you wish a lot of things, like I kept my kitchen spotless, and I believed in the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or if I even still believed in rainbows. I wish those things too. But I'm tired of feeling around desperately in the dark for this elusive "hope" thing when I simply don't feel it...  


***** Head on over to Single Mom at Work to read the rest and leave some yummy comment lovin'. If you get me discovered, all famouslike? I can get a shack on Cape Cod and paint HOPE LIVES on the roof and you can come and visit and sign your names on the shingles and we can whoop it up and Ellen and Portia will DJ. But I need your help, yo.