I rarely turn to poetry for comfort or catharsis, but there's something about Emily Dickinson that's always just spoken to me. Her words tend to wash over me, rhythmically communicating easily understood feelings of darkness and isolation and coming to me at times when I struggle with my own emotions.
"'Hope' is the thing with feathers" comes to me frequently enough. It's one of her most famous works and that it's my favorite is maybe cliché... but I can't say I care when it brings me so much calm. Hope is the thing that comforts me, calms me, and promises me better days ahead. Hope is a little flat in Lausanne or Neuchâtel or Fribourg, full of warmth and cuddles and lots of good food. Hope is a little office with stacks of often-read books and baby toys and coffee cups. Hope is the force that guides me and keeps me from sinking back into darkness and despair.
"Hope" is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –