Hope Lake

Sometimes the writing flows easily, but mostly it's a struggle.

Yet, we do it anyway.

I am not the only one to be frightened and overwhelmed by the blank page, uncertain how best to fill it, whether or not I should dare to disturb the universe as Eliot would say. Having taught writing for over 20 years, I know that these fears persist in us all no matter our age or experience and that they don't lessen over time. Finding our authentic and genuine voice is an act of hope - hope that our words will be heard, considered, and respected. And hope is not always easy to muster.

This serene photo was taken at the shores of the Great Lake of Ontario during the height of the pandemic. When I scroll through my photos and encounter this picture, it is easy to forget the fears beyond the frame. It's the kind of photo I would commission a friend to paint on canvas, title Hope Lake, and hang on my living room wall. But I wasn't feeling particular hopeful a few moments before I snapped the photo. Sometimes we need to find one point of inspiration, narrow our vision, and take a snapshot. This is what hope looks like.

Recently I brought the author Angie Cruz to meet with over 100 Community College students. In one of the most inspirational book talks I have ever encountered, she invited students to create the world they want to live in. At the book signing portion, scores of students lined up to get her autograph and to share that her book, How Not To Drown In A Glass of Water, was the first book they had read in its entirety and they were eager for recommendations on what to read next. This is what hope looks like.

If you know me, you know I am not a Pollyanna. As the great Maggie Smith (the American poet, not the Dowager Countess) writes, "For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird/ For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake" and yet, we hold fast to the belief that we can "make this place beautiful." Knowing the terrible uncertain things and choosing to keep going is an act of hope.

For 30 days straight I worked on the second draft of my writing sample, overwhelmingly uncertain where the path would lead. I'm on the other side now and where I don't know if what I have created is saleable, I know it's the start of the book I want to write, the world I want to create. It is a work built on hope.

Lurking and Hope

Lurking, believe it or not, can also be an act of hope. When you find yourself scrolling through your phone, focus your attention on the stories, videos, and images that present the world you want to live in. Your lurk data (the reading, hovering, impressioning) that you do while logged in to social media is a huge source of revenue for the social media platform. Reading has never been a neutral act, but in the age of social media, its consequences compound.

Invest time with the stories that bring you hope while logged on to TikTok, the Meta Apps, X, etc, because part of virality depends on your attention, not just the publicity metrics (likes, shares, comments, etc). What you read becomes what others see.

In my research for my book, the folks who found the greatest gratification from their lurking were the ones who took what they read online, turned off their device, and then connected with others about it face to face, or over the phone, etc. The online world inspired their real world offline connections. This is what hope looks like.

Let's Talk About the Pantyhose

For those who follow me on LinkedIn, I left a teaser up two weeks ago:

Here's the story:

In my late teens and early twenties I had prestigious internships in New York City- the United Nations Association, Nickelodeon- all of which required business appropriate attire. I didn’t necessarily have to wear skirts or dresses, but even dress pants, which often have a loose fitting pant leg, opened up a cripplingly breezy exposure. Even if I layered pantyhose or long underwear beneath my pants, I could never really get the temperature right. As someone with EKV Ichthyosis, a rare hereditary skin condition, choosing clothes is never about style: it's about survival.

My fashion choices were complicated by office HVAC systems that often veered too cool, even for my colleagues without skin conditions or mobility issues.
My internships were during summer months, so I didn’t have to negotiate snowy or frigid temperatures across my commute but the daily corporeal pain from just the summer signaled to me that committing to a long term office career would mean accepting a certain level of daily pain and discomfort.

Teaching, on the other hand, allowed me the ability to dress down. And for better or worse, most public schools did not have air conditioning. 

Now there are many other more wonderful things that pulled me toward the field of education and I am proud of what I have accomplished and the relationships I have built with students and colleagues over 20 years.

But it is also true that chronic pain kept me from seriously considering other more lucrative paths. I couldn't have imagined then that a world of hybrid and remote work might one day exist. I had yet to cultivate a mindset of hope.

Keep doing the work to keep hope alive. Thanks for walking beside me.

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