Poem

Grey again grey
day again day
sun gone away
sleep come my way
out of the fray

No Name

Truth is myth

myth is truth

so it is, so it has been

alone or together in our illusions

certain of things unknown, unseen

We weave dark and light--

a tangle of tassels at the end

seductive and golden 

entwining the spaces 

between myth and truth 

BLESSING FOR BABY LILLY

May you open to the world--

all that is--all that is possible

Too tiny

Too pure

Too new

To bear all hopes for you

To know all that rests in you

To feel infinite love around you, above you, within you

Yet--

you do, it does, you will

May you grow into that knowledge

imagine, dream, seek, risk, become, be

in your own time, in your own way

And know too—

It is you who are the blessing

Baby Lilly

so tiny, so pure, so new

PEOPLE TELL ME THINGS

People tell me things.

I listen, I see, I remember,

not lost to me—

a casual thought, a memory, a mood

a moment shared—

spoken, in gaze or gesture.

I fill in the blanks with imperfect truths

from shards of stories

that “never finish what they have to say.”

I create composite effigies-- 

patterns, themes, tales

of grief and gallantry,

magical thinking and illusions,

doubt and faith, beauty and despair,

kindness and grace

love and loss.

Do I betray a trust 

   elevate to myth

     redeem a transgression?

People tell me things and I write.

WABI-SABI II - SIMPLICITY

Early in May

In a wood along a stream

Lily of the Valley

tiny white bells 

silent with simplicity

slender stalks

hidden within

broad green leaves

most fragrant flower

to lull one to sleep

Fading away—

Come again next May

WABI SABI III - PURPOSE

A flowered handkerchief

blue, red and yellow

once a common companion

carried in pocket or purse

in case of a sneeze

or to wipe an ice dream drip

from a child’s cheek

Its most noble service?

wiping tears of grief 

for a life so brief

  

What purpose now?  

In a shop--there

lovely, lacey, flowered hankerchiefs

piled in a basket

purchased on a whim—because

"they are pretty"

I have one in my drawer 

twenty years since placed there--

crumpled, mostly unnoticed 

among a picture, a trinket, a note

an oddity to be found

perhaps when my brief candle burns out

A handkerchief of dried tears--

a memory to one
of service to none--

Then who will remember her?

MORNING PRAYER

Black branches feathery leaves 

edging against pale blue sky

bright opening among the tangles

where the sun—Oh Sun!—

will rise and color the light

To live in its grandeur this day

sun and soul-blessed 

rising above dark sorrow

May it be so

To the Lighthouse

Poem created from my essay "To the Lighthouse?" based on a line

from Virginia Woolf's novel of the same name.

Yesterday, burgeoning in the meadow

white blossoms on greening branches

birdsong at daybreak

Earth spinning in its orbit

all distractions from pain and passing time,

regrets and remembrance of loss.

Today, reading under grey skies

I saw the lines

“Bowed down she was with weariness”

I heard a distant train whistle

a church bell chiming five

lobster boats setting out to raise up the traps

all arrows piercing through

my small morning pleasures.

By the sea I am but it's raining.

“drizzle” I calls it.

I like the sound of “drizzle,” 

“plaintive, “mournful.”

Once I believed “there would be time enough"

“tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.”

Was it all for naught?

 

It must be the pain.

If not for its darkness--

the brighter light of reason

But the window of perception is clear.

I see through—

The arrows hit their mark.

It was all for naught.

Bowed down I am with weariness.

Prometheus chained, and I too--

bound to a rock of my own making

blossoms, falling rain

church bells and lobster traps

mournful memories

Tide rushing in 

caught in the torrent

deluge to drown in

Then, from the bell tower—seven chimes

The rain has stopped

No birds sing

Earth still spinning in its orbit

Where will I lay my head? 

Where will I leave my heart? 

What will I leave behind?

Where will I row my little boat lost in the darkness?

THE IMPERFECT

A question, quest, inquisition?

The Word in Books

memorized, recited, 

ready-made answers

carved into stone
cold hearts

one size fits all--it’s easy that way--

perfect answers for imperfect beings.

I love the quest of questions

the labyrinths of them

reflected in mirrors and moon

winding paths through soul, body, mind

into world wide spaces

Hold questions

in your ponder heart

the mystery of truth

and imperfect meaning.

All things are possible.

PROBABILITY AND POSSIBILITY

In my current state of mind, well, really for most of my adult life, I have wavered between Probability and Possibility.

I speak not of mathematical probability, but reference to experience about what seems probable in general and not with regardt specific happenings or events.  And, while I also look at factors that may predict what seems possible, ultimately, my faith in the human spirit tells me that all things are possible—if not always probable. My consideration of the probable and the possible helps me avoid thinking in and acting out of extremes—that "either-or" mentality, which seems to be the mode and mood of the day and always has been I suppose.

Thinking and acting in extremes ignores both probability and possibility and tends to involve preconceptions with consideration only of that which fits into and affirms them rather than challenges them. When we look at the world picture, we see clearly-drawn opposite perspectives, often without consideration of multi-layered contexts, historical, sociological, psychological, cultural factors. To avoid extremes we must look not only at the big picture, but also focus in on the subtleties, the nuances and the realities of various perspectives.
      I believe there has always been little tolerance for looking deeper, and now, even more so with our nano-second communications of news and social media (within which each extreme finds a niche.) I have been told many times, “You are deep,” which always feels more critique than compliment, to which I inwardly affirm for myself: better to be deep than shallow, remaing on the surface, where I cannot see what lies below it all.

What often lies below it all is the powers that be, seeking to direct and control the narrative in their favor to remain in power and keep us in the dark, off track, apathetic or confused. It is easy to submit to these powers or forces--we need do nothing, especially not think! Then the world can be defined in simple, black and white terms: them and us, good and evil—a zero sum game in which if someone else benefits, we lose. It’s easy to craft that kind of thinking into sound bites where "Perceptions are real and the truth is not" (Imelda Marcos). This is the kind of thinking that engenders team-like loyalty and translates readily into catch phrases to fire up the masses, conjure up worst case scenarios, conspiracies born of fears, reinforcing already held beliefs and opinions, which are often far from the real probabilities or possibilities, but may be self-fulling "prophesies." 
     Nevertheless, this approach speaks to an enormous number of people for whom equivocation and polarization are easier to understand than seeing the larger picture and sorting through the subtleties and nuances that a clearer reality demands--critcal thinking is not a dirty word.

What am I trying to say here? I suppose it is that I am weary just now of attempting to be true to my ideal of equipoise——a balancing act to hold true to my values of freedom, harmony, equality and justice, as it seems more of a struggle to maintain patience, civility, kindness and compassion, when I do not often see those qualities reflected in the wider world around me. Currently, the language and agresson of politicians, commenttors and ideologues seem to live by, not the values I hold deer, but in an ends-justifies-the means approach. And means are getting meaner, louder, more vulgar and unhingled. Is it both probable and possible that the nature of these sources and resources have changed and will continue to change the way we relate to one another? Yes, I think so, but I also believe that while the arc of the moral universe is long and bends toward justice. I want to believe that and do see it from time to time, but it does not seem possible that it will bend quickly enough prevent a further deteriortion of the common good, common sense. I try to look even deeper to see those various perspectives and always remind myself to exepect the unexpected at any moment.

     Anne Frank was able to believe in possibility, even at such a young age and in a dire situation.  She wrote in her diary:

It's difficult in times like these: ideals, dreams and cherished hopes rise us, only to be crushed by grim reality…I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness. I hear the approaching thunder….It’s a wonder I haven't abandoned all my ideals; they seem so absurd and impractical. Yet, I cling to them because I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart….I must hold on to my ideals. Perhaps the day will come when I'll be able to realize them.

I read Anne's diary when I was about the same age at she was when she wrote it. I was moved--then and now by her insight and wisdom. It has become a touchstone for me when I am feeling discouraged,  falling into the the "not probable," instead of the "always possible." Anne  believed in the Possible—even if she herself would never realize it in her given place and time. There is a power in her words that can create the courage to light the way, to move and shape lives and the world toward the good, however slowly that arc bends.

     Yes, just now I am worn down by some details of the world picture: chaos, starvation brutality, corruption, malice, perversion and vulgarity and war--always war. Then there is the smaller frame of my own life of a series of illnesses and family situations--with no energy to spare, and seemingly diminished inner resources to cope, so the possible does not seem probable now or at any tiime soon.
     Yet, my core belief in the possible still inevitably rises up and compels me to look even more deeply to also remember the work and efforts of individuals and groups, currenlty and throughout history have come together—again and again—to aspire toward the moral and the true. 

     In doing so, I also see my own life in concentric circles reaching deeper from the world to my inner world where the values I hold dear and strive toward are also all around me at every moment—in my family, my friends and my community—here and now--possible and probable.

FABRIC OF LIFE ~ GOOD AND EVIL

Expressions and analysis of good and evil are as old as humanity itself—evident in history, mythology, literature, philosophy, theology and the arts, yet the relationship and nature of these opposites remain a mystery. My consideration of that relationship is subjective, based on nothing other than imagining "what it is like," and a life-long wish to understand how and why the terror and horror of evil continues to exist in the world with such frequency, severity and magnitude.
    While good and evil are usually thought of as opposites, I have come to feel they are fundamentally and forever woven together into the fabric of life. Thinking about evil and good in that way, it was a natural progression to picture a loom as a foundation for the relationship of good and evil. Warp and weft are the components used in weaving to turn thread or yarn into a fabric. The lengthwise or longitudinal warp threads are held stationary in tension on the loom, while the transverse weft threads are drawn through over and under the warp, creating a pattern by filling in the gaps as they intertwine.
    The warp threads are stable strands held in place by the loom. I imagine them representing the good: understanding, empathy, peace, compassion, kindness, charity, generosity, love—in short, any and all qualities and actions fostering and supporting humanity and life. The weft threads represent evil in this analogy--all that is deceptive, unjust, opportunistic, insidious, violent, destructive, exploitive, perverse, vengeful, hateful, obscene--all that threatens humanity and life. The pattern created, for our purposes, should be thought of as structural, rather than visual. The weave itself represents the fabric of life wherein good and evil are inseparable.
    Of course, life and living often require compromise to mitigate harm and/or bring about the "best of all possible worlds." Still, whether or not we individually experience the severity of evil I have described as terror and horror, we know that it (as well as good) exists at every moment somewhere in the world, both near and far.
    For me, the Holocaust stands as a pure evil, staining and straining the fabric of life, affirming both the effects and the depth and scope of humanity's capacity for evil. The fact that it is denied by many is an evil in itself. That it and other genocides have, still do and will happen can never be comprehended (or forgotten). All evil or harm is woven in and around what perpetrators see as some kind of threat or benefit to themselves, or, inexplicably for the perverse pleasure of it!      From time immemorial and ongoingly, we know of barbarian invasions in the early centuries (currently Russia's attack on soverign Ukraine), the Cusades, the Inquisition, the pograms, slavery, sex trafficking, lynchings, gang and mob violence, school and other mass shootings. Also, currently America is enduring the corruption of a powerful few to deceieve the many, to incite violence, encourage belief in conspiracies, discrimination and demonizaiton of "the other." It is sad to hear some in our own government perpetrate the what such and refuse to stand for truth, justice and human rights for all Americans.

    The motivations for good or evil, and the ways they are expressed are many, sometimes unintentional and/or mysterious, but each has the ability to affect our lives positively or negatively. All instances mentioned have been forever with us-- and there is war--always war. Still, the fabric of life also contains the good, the beautiful and the true--those ideals and values to be cherished and lived. We can strive for such through adherence to a spirutal practice, the rule of law, and by supporting the work of individuals, organizations, agencies, etc. (some well-known, others not so) who have, do and will risk life and limb to protest injustice, heal, advocate for freedom and human rights in large and small deeds of service, sacrifice, kindness for betterment of our country, communities or in our own  families and friendships.
    We, as human beings are the only entities on Earth, possibly in the entire cosmos that are able to develop a higher consciousness and conscience through reflection and to seek self-and world-knowledge which may help us idenetify and determine higher values to live by. Through our intentions, creativity and work we are able to communicate and serve those values for the common good. It is not likely that evil will ever be eliminated, but we can can aspire help diminish it by our own thoughts words and actions. There are those who dream of a Utopia, or at least a more perfect world, as well as those who are determined to create and live in a Dystopian one.
     It is interesting to consider, aside from the loom analgoy, the often what we intend or perceive as good may result, if not in pure evil, than in negative effects on ourselves and others. Conversely, our missteps, bad decisions and judgements may result in positive effects for others and ourselves. For example, remorse for our transgressions may lead to a better understanding of ourselves and others with forgiveness and reconciliation.
    Though there are and have been attempts at reconciliation and compensation from individual to individual, and on a global scale, such as the Nuremberg Trials and the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission, the lessons have not been well-learned, as the cycle of evil continues on the world loom.
    My rather simple, imaginative picture here focuses on the inter-connectedness of good and evil, but does not attempt to address the many reasons for the "why" of evil, but my sense is that it has to do with what we value (or not), and how freedom is thought about for ourselves, but it is often pursued at the expense and rights of others--therein lies the rub! So we live in this fabric of life, and must endure evils, or if we are able, to do whatever is possible to address and/or mitigate its harm to ourselves and others.
    The value of the weaving analogy in imagining the relationship of good and evil, the reader can judge, and not too harshly I would hope.

THE WAY

The Narrow Path

That moment

that point of no return

when there is no one to save you

at the end of the yellow brick road

only you

your beating heart

the pure white of your true self

The strange thing is

you knew it all along—

but everything said:

if only, all I have to do is,

what will people think if?

The Upanishads speak:

“The ancient narrow path that stretches far away—

it has been touched by me, has been found by me.”

Have compassion

forgive yourself

let go despair and

grief unimaginable

all obstacles imagined

that made you stay so long

kept your world dim

created a void

built a wall

separated your heart from love

Look

above--the silver moon is rising over frozen fields

geese gather at the river

ready to take flight

At the edges of earth

waves are rolling to shore

as they have for thousands of years

Turn with courage

feel it become Light

fill the void

burn the nothing

become everything

The wall is shatter

the distance closed

You are on the ancient, narrow path

SYCAMORE

I want to be a Lady of the Sycamore—a sycamore in winter bare and luminous

white trunk standing straight—

serene among dry brown fields

branches spreading tall against the sky

misshapen into beauteous forms

unshaken against the wind.

I want my ashes to rest 

between two sycamore

at the eastern gate of heaven

the first rays of morning sun

greeting my grey earthly remains

warming the dark dust

beneath opulent, tormented arm

white and luminous 

offering sustenance to the dead.

                                   

MYSTERY MEN

For two days, I saw a Unabomber look-alike in a baggy orange sweatshirt wandering around restlessly through the halls of the hospice center where we each had a friend who lay dying. When we would pass each other I tried to see the words printed below an image of planet Earth, but couldn’t quite make them out. My eyes were drawn to his red MAGA hat over his wild, shaggy hair—reminding me of those clown hats with a wig attached. Around his neck was a heavy silver chain with a figure dangling from it.

    On the third day, at the coffee cart, Still unable to make out the words on his shirt, I asked him,  “So, who’s  the little shiny fella there?” pointing to the dangling figure on the silver chain around his neck.

    I learned that the figure was “St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes.” That says it all, I thought, but still haven’t figured out what the “all” was. Did he believe that America needed to be “great again,” but didn’t have much hope that it would happen, or was the lost cause his friend who, like mine, had no options left, except to wait for the grim reaper to swing his scythe?

  I misunderstood and asked, “But Judas isn’t a saint, is he?” that much I knew, but I got the wrong saint, or in this case, sinner.

“No, no, no. It’s St. Jude,” he had said sarcastically suggesting I should have known,“not Judas Iscariot, the apostle who betrayed Jesus.

    “Oh, right that's who I was thinking of—for thirty pieces of silver, right?” I said.    

    “Exactly!"

     Exactly thirty pieces? I wondered. 

Just before I bit into my multi-grain muffin, I blurted out, "Well, they say no good deed goes unpunished.”

    “What do you mean, good deed? His was the greatest betrayal in the history of all the world.”

     "You mean the greatest catch 22” I corrected him this time, explaining, “if Judas hadn't turned his friend and teacher over to the Romans, Christ wouldn’t have 'died for our sins,' which was the intended plan all along, if I remember. So, they both ended up hanging from a tree, right?”

    “Yes,” he said, “but Jesus in victory and Judas in defeat.”

    “But…but...” Then I decided to put these mystery men, Jesus and Judas out of my mind. It was starting to feel like a sporting event.

    I poured the third mystery man a coffee, and passed him the cup. We stood eating our muffins in silence. Then, nodding to each other, we moved on into our respective friend’s rooms—to watch and wait at the foot of their beds.

My friend died that long evening, and I wept.

On my way out early that morning, I passed Mystery Man #3 coming down the hall. Our eyes met for a moment in a kind of farewell. As I looked one last time upon his orange sweatshirt, this time I was able to see the words below the image of our lonely, blue marble planet with an arrow pointing to the words: 

“YOU ARE HERE.”

MAY YOUR HEART BE LIGHT

There was to be a mandatory school Merry Christmas party after Sunday mass. Most mandatory events had never felt like a party or fun, held in the damp basement of the school, an old red brick building with a tall black iron fence around it and a paved over recess yard. I dreaded going, but knew I had to be there or there would be consequences. 

    School events were always mandatory, even Sunday mass which we had to attend with our class. Often we were called to "volunteer" for school events to collect coats, serve food, help set up or clean up. Fun? I don't think so. Sometimes parents were asked to donate food to be sold at a mandatory event and then families had to pay for the refreshments they themselves had provided.  

     On our way to our lessons in the morning we climbed the creaking wooden stairs and entered the high-ceilinged, spartan classrooms, white concrete block walls, desks anchored to the floor in straight rows, a cloakroom in the back and side and front blackboards. The  only color in the room was provided by the statues of the Blessed Mother or The Sacred Heart of Jesus. These were more sentinels than saints, part of whose purpose was for children to kneel before them to ask forgiveness for not knowing an answer, chewing gum, a sideways glance at another student, a fidget or a whisper. Such “penance” might come only after a swift, sharp whack of a ruler across the hands of the little offenders.

    All these associations, including that certain smell and a mood permeating the building were enough to make a child wonder if any activity at the school could be fun. Also, a child would wish to be at any event without fear, worry of accusations and/or humiliation, though I could not put all of this into words back then, but all of the above must have created a feeling of uneasiness and hesitation about attending another mandatory school event. 

    My idea of fun, if I could have thought in comparisoin/contrast mode, movement, color and light,  with games, music and a certain freedom to interact with one another, which might happen in the school yard before class, or at a brief recess after lunch. We might see a bright yellow dandelion growing up through a crack in the concrete and there were the blue sky and clouds above, under which we played, skipping, playing tag or jumping rope—until the nun standing watch rang the brass bell to call us into prayer before the afternoon lessons. All was regiment and requirement—including the mandatory Merry Christmas party.

    I cried on Friday afternoon when I got home when my mother told me I was to spend the weekend at my aunt’s house, which I also never thought of as a fun place, despite her fancy furniture and bottles of 7-up in the refrigerator. Not only would I be marked absent for the party, but also for Sunday mass. If I could have articulated it then, I would have said, "There will be blood!"

   "But, Mom, Mother Mary Canice said we have to go! please, please.”

    I don’t remember what my mother said in response to my plea, but it was also mandatory that I be left at my aunt’s musty smelling row house on Gratz Street in North Philadelphia. I cried all the way there, knowing there would be a reckoning on Monday in the third grade classroom. I cried again that night in the small spare room at the top of the stairs that doubled as a storage space of sorts. I was homesick and heartsick, surrounded by stacks of books and piles of clothes here and there. I stared at the tan wallpaper printed with red tennis rackets or at the ceiling, where strange shapes danced, illuminated by the streetlight shining in from the window facing the alley behind the house. 

    I don’t remember what else happened that weekend or the trip back home,  but I would never forget  what happened on Monday morning. 

    Seated at her desk our stern nun, who at some point had grown a cold stone in place of a heart, held in one hand a short list of the children who had not attended mass and/or the fun event. It was literally a “hit” list as it turned out, which became apparent when she began to call the names of children, who (for whatever reason) were "no shows."  In her other hand she wielded what she often referred to as her “buddy,” a metal ruler. One by one, my classmates were called to stand beside her. James went first, then Ann Marie, then Rosalie—all disappeared behind the desk as she turned them over her lap, and the whacks began. I knew I was last according to alphabetical order.

    As I walked up to the desk, I looked to the stature of Mary in the corner whose face shone down in kindness. I lay face down across a lap over the nun's black garments. She lifted my school uniform, pulled down my underwear to meet out my punishment for not attending and having fun at the Merry Christmas party.  

    I kept my eyes Mary's countenance, and, with each strike, I quietly said one of her beautiful names chanted at the church alter in the litany of saints in honor of the loving Holy Mary Mother of God, to which the children responded, "Pray for us."

    Tower of Ivory

    Joy of the Just

    Comforter of the Afflicted

    Mirror of Justice

    Mother of Sorrows

    Cause of Our Joy

AMEN

ME TOO

From across the room Sarah recognized the young woman sitting with him at a table in a dimly-it corner of the restaurant. She knew she would find him here, but didn’t expect to see the girl whom she had often wondered about during her absence—wondered if she or others, known and unknown, were being exploited, controlled, and abused, as she had been. Two years had passed since she had seen either one of them. He was the reason she had left town, and now, the reason she had returned, with a capacity she did not have as a child of seven years old when it all began--courage.

She sat calmly at first, strengthened by the knowledge that something was to be done, something she had set into motion that would expose him. So many thoughts, feelings and fears filled her mind and heart. But anger was the motivator that would transform into courage to take action. The fire of anger building over years of humiliation, shame, confusion and despair was now now the burning courage to confront him, and to save her friend if she could. 

Now she stood fueled with that courage and walked over to the corner table. She wanted to scream, to rage, but being in a public place, part of her strategy, and having prepared for so long for this moment, she knew that she must act and speak out of that center of courage, of certainty to stand her ground. The calm of utter certainty expressed in her whole being was what was needed  to free finally free herself, and her friend and maybe others. She took a deep breath, determined to moderate at least her voice, though her eyes belied the calm when she looked upon the face of the predetor, the thief who stole her childhood.

"I remember you."  He was startled at the interuption and did not recognize her at first.  “Doing the same thing to her that you did to me?” Then to her young friend, whose face was inscrutibly blank, and not quite present--almost in a trance-like state. “Come, let' go for a walk now, and you will be safe, I promise.” 

“Who are you?” You have no business...." he spoke, as if she were a stranger, but his eyes and his nervous gestures also revealed that he knew exactly who she was and that he would, for the first time in his life be accountable.

“Sarah, what are you doing here? Where have you been?” the younger woman seemed to awaken in that moment to her friend who had disappeared without a word of why or a goodbye.

“You’d better leave right now, or I’ll call the police,” he demanded, but already the young woman had gotten up to stand beside her long-lost friend who put an arm around her shoulder. It was the first time in her life she had felt someone saw, knew and would protect and defend her. 

"Oh, they have already been called." and the case is in the works, so go home alone, and wait for all the others to come forward who also remember who and what you are and have done to them."

The two women looked at each other deep and long in silence, with the knowledge of what the other had experienced. They felt an unfamiliar strength in the invisible bond now forged between them—and a bridge formed to somewhere else that they would cross together. 

“You too?” the young woman asked, now in tears.

“Me too.” But no more! We are free now."

“Sit back down,” he commanded the young woman, but already his power had shattered the illusion that her fate was sealed. Never again would he be able to control either of the women he had manipulated and abused, but, nevertheless would endure the life-long effects of what what they had experienced. Still, now there was a way toward healing, recovey--and  most of all no longer captives.

“We are in a public place now, not like when we were kids and you could get away with it.” Sarah, reeling and feeling faint to think of the past and of how many others, and for how many years. 

“You have a great imagination it seems, or maybe your fantasies? I don’t even know who you are.” 

“Well, we know who and what you are.  "No, not my imagination or fantasy, but yours--now exposed. Now it is out in the light of day and there will be a reckoning. It's over."

Sarah gently pulled the young woman closer to her, guiding her away from the table, and wondered how many others would come forward with the investigation that was well underway, but she couldn’t think about that now. It was time to turn away from the past and cross that long bridge--one step at a time.

The younger woman began to cry, at first softly, then as if gasping for breath. When they emerged into the clear night air, her whole body convulsed in waves of cold pain and dark shame. Walking along the tree-lined street. Sarah, also in tears looked to the stars peeking through the black branches silhouetted against the sky, clouds at the horizon luminous as the full moon bared its face behind them--silver linings against the dark heavens.

The sobs subsided into quiet breathing. Together the woman felt the promise of calm after a storm--and a feeling of light and warmth that might slowly, if never fully, eclipse the dark and cold and now--something completely new—something never before known or even imagined: HOPE.