By Crystal Hurd
I have been writing lately about hope. In honor of our exploration of the tanka this month, I play on Emily Dickenson’s famous poem and change the metaphor to what it often feels like for me – an expectant seed awaiting the moment of great awakening. It is so small, so fragile, and yet it is capable of so much with nurturing and promise. My grandmother had a large garden full of vegetables. I had no idea how much care was required for these miniscule little ovals resting in the palm of my hand. Yet, when harvest arrived, the garden was blossoming with colorful ruby tomatoes, green and slender cucumbers, and sunflowers which towered majestically over me.
All this from those tiny seeds.
Hope is often like that. The odds may be stacked high against us, but hope is that small yet relentless promise that all will be okay. That way, when the droughts of life come or the torrential floods fall and erode away the soil, we remind ourselves that there will come a day when we return optimistically to the intimidating rows of infertility with a renewed sense of hope. We can gently part the dirt with our aching fingers and place those seeds in the ground again. Giving up was never an option. One of my dear friends always encourages me with this quote: “Tomorrow we begin again”.
It has been said that
Hope is a thing with feathers;
Or more resembles
A sacred seed aspiring
T’escape soil, stretch glorious
Dr. Crystal Hurd is a writer, reader, public school educator, and adjunct professor. She is happily married with three beautiful Terriers (adopted from local shelters). She is a certified book nerd who loves to read and research works involving faith, literature, art, and leadership. You can visit her webpage www.crystalhurd.com , friend her on Facebook, (Crystal Sullivan Hurd) and follow her on Twitter: @DoctorHurd and @hurdofficial.