{HOPE} is my word of the year, 2013. So far, so good, I suppose, in that I haven’t lost all hope. I realize though, as we’ve now entered September, I have four months to continue {hoping}. Hopefully, that won’t be a huge chore.
Today is the other January 1.
The above was posted by Gretchen Rubin today via Twitter. And I suppose it’s true, especially for those who don’t start school until after Labor Day. My kids both did, so today’s not exactly a new beginning. But, it was cooler outside this morning, making me believe autumn is on its way. Thus, a new season will soon be upon us.
This year I accidentally picked up a Spanish language version of my daughter’s school calendar. I utilize it at work, so according to it [which is technically correct, simply in another language] today is Martes, Septiembre 3. My hope is the calendar will help me brush up on my espanol, which is waning.
I am stepping hesitantly into the next four months. Quite frankly, they scare me a bit. Soccer games, a university family weekend, choir concerts and jazz ensembles… all the while trying to encourage my daughter she truly can handle four AP classes this school year and the paperwork necessary to get into the Rotary Exchange program.
I have two of my biggest job responsibilities looming just over the horizon in October. There’s end of the grant year reporting and our organization’s annual fundraising banquet, in which I coordinate our silent auction.
I realize my plate is no more full than the average wife and mother’s. I am, of course, happy to have children who are successful citizens and I’m thankful I have an occupation.
Yet I find hope hard to muster. I struggle to not yell at cars during my morning commute. Actually, I’m yelling at their drivers, the ill equipped, nonsensicals who drive carelessly down the road. I am tempted to sarcastically ask my daughter why she continues to rack up library fines, when simply checking her email account for hold arrivals will greatly solve the overdue issue. She obviously is familiar with how to operate technology and has a smart phone within two feet of her every moment of the day except during soccer practices and while she bathes.
Men come into our office. Sometimes men who were just, in the last few hours, released from jail. They want to meet with a counselor, they want a promised incentive. Yet, more often than not, I find them sitting in a chair in our waiting area, not far from my desk. Despite their perhaps only pure intentions, I do not desire to be the first woman they have contact with after an extended time incarcerated. While I am a compassionate person, sometimes I wish to ask them to please, do not take all the candy out of my dish and kindly don’t look at me too much. It’s truly not that I think I’m an ex con’s dream or {all that} …..just ask most females who consider themselves at least a bit classy. This can be an uncomfortable scenario.
What I suppose I’m saying is, I need some hope in the patience area. When anxious, when stressed and frustrated, I can easily resort to the snotty girl act. The, leave me alone, get your act together, I don’t have time for your nonsense person that’s not so nice. As I finish out the last four months of the year, I certainly don’t want to be this way. Even when people disappoint. Even when people get away with what I deem unfair and not exactly what the female chair of my college’s business department [a female, thank you] suggested my career path might take the last time I spoke to her. Granted, that was 1991.
Holding onto hope is not easy, I’m finding. Especially when related to things I can personally improve on. I want to change. I want to be kind and loving and patient. And often I am. But sometimes I’m not and I hope to become a better me. I cannot see tomorrow and I think that’s what makes hope such a difficult concept. It’s unseen. Who the he*@ really knows what’s coming? No one. But I suppose we can still hope.
Upon a Sunny Day 