From time to time, my mother will remind me out of the blue that I should write, that she thinks I'm good at it. It's usually a good idea for me to do what she says. But how can I write when I have nothing to say? She suggested that I write about bicycling (I got a bike; it changed my life), weaving (that's a cool thing that I do sometimes), or wedding planning (ummm... no). Of those options, I figured bicycling would be easiest to write about, so I sat down to try to do that. I wrote three sentences, and they were all ridiculous.
Let's start over.
Four years ago, I was struggling with letting go of a relationship I thought I really wanted but deep down knew I couldn't have right then because there was a good chance it would be harmful to the other person, and possibly to myself, in turn. I had come to terms with the fact that it wasn't the right time then, but was clinging to the hope that maybe there would be a time in the future when the relationship would be possible. A very good friend of mine told me at the time that in order to really be free, I had to give up hope of ever getting what I wanted. I fought it, trying to bargain by saying I'd be willing to give up the expectation if I could keep the hope. He told me "Hope is a placebo for action." I don't think I understood that at the time - either I was too upset about being told things I didn't want to hear, or I still had some growth to do before I'd really be ready to internalize what he meant. Plus I just felt like that was kind of a dick thing to say, or at least a dick way to say it. I mean, come on. (He's actually not a dick; he's actually very wise and clever, has always had my best interest at heart, and would do anything for the people he cares about, even if it means telling them what they need to hear but can't stand to listen to. Those are just some of the reasons I'm marrying him in 110 days! Love you, Mike!)
Anyway, yesterday afternoon, a friend and I were chatting about hope and expectations. Our conversation reminded me of what Mike told me four years ago, which had worked its way into a box on a dusty shelf somewhere in the warehouse of my brain, and stayed there, untouched, until the universe decided, yesterday, that I was ready to open it again. When I opened the box, the contents looked different than when I'd packed it up four years ago. It was an odd feeling, looking at the words and seeing them differently, knowing they hadn't changed a bit. That disconnect made me realize that the many edits and revisions, some minor, some major, to my perspective on life over the past few years have added up to the point where I'm legitimately a different version of myself now. Ship of Theseus and all that. Hmm.
I brought the box out onto the balcony of our apartment, where Mike and I like to sit in the evenings and relax when it's not too hot out. He helped me unpack it. We had a wonderful, soul-nourishing conversation about hope, expectations, worry, and acceptance. The kinds of hope it's fair to have, and why. The kinds of hope we can't afford to hang onto, and what the consequences are if we don't let go. The fact that some statements of hope are actually excuses for inaction. The different meanings "hope" can have depending on part of speech.
Sitting down by myself now, to write, it feels like a tangled mess of ideas, there are so many things I want to try to say, and I don't know where to start. So I'll start with nouns. Because... grammar.
One sense of the word "hope" as a noun is something like optimism, confidence, or even faith. If I'm being Biblical about it, I might say that "hope" entails a sure confidence that the will of God will come to pass; a firm assurance in an unclear future. But since I'm not, I might say that "hope" in this sense is the certain knowledge of the fact that, no matter how things turn out, even if (especially if?) they don't go my way, everything is ultimately as it should be (this holds true at all times, for all time), and I am taken care of, no matter what. This is the kind of hope that is always okay to have. I have this hope now, and it's the opposite of the hopelessness I used to live in, and try to die in.
Using hope as a verb, I say things like "I hope the weather is nice next weekend". When I say that, I'm expressing a preference for a particular future outcome over which I have no control. There's no action I can take that will change the weather. Maybe there's a way in which my hoping for sunshine gives me the illusion of agency; the false idea that I have any say in the matter. But I don't, and yet I've tied my feelings to the outcome - if it rains next weekend, I'll be disappointed, I might have to change my plans, I'll probably be grouchy and not so fun to be around, I might take it out on someone I care about and say something I'll have to apologize for later.
This sort of hope can be problematic. When I choose to attach myself to an outcome I have no control over (it's always a choice, but I usually forget that), I close myself off to all other possible outcomes. If the outcome I'm hoping for is overwhelmingly more probable than the other possible outcomes, and I have some idea of what the probability distribution looks like, it's probably not a problem. It can be fair to have hope when we can reasonably foresee the outcome. But if there's a 50% chance of rain in the forecast on my wedding day and "I hope it doesn't rain", I am setting myself up for possible disappointment, resentment, and anger. If it rains when I was hoping it wouldn't, my expectation has tethered me to one place, and reality is 500 miles away. In order to be truly happy, I have to fully accept whatever reality is. Which, if it's raining, means traveling 500 miles (in the rain, no less) before I can even get to acceptance of reality. Traveling 500 miles takes time and energy. Time I could have spent enjoying the moment; energy I could have spent in useful, constructive ways. Then there's also the risk of getting into a car accident on the long drive, causing damage that I have to repair before I can get where I'm going. (Sick of this metaphor yet?) These are the kinds of consequences I can have if I hang onto this sort of hope. Not that I need to be thrilled if it rains at my wedding, but I can go into it with the attitude of "No matter what the weather is like, I can enjoy this day." I'll actually enjoy more of it if I don't go into it hoping for sunshine!
Then there's "hope" in circumstances where we do have some agency, some impact on the outcome. Like "I hope my job interview goes well." There are some actions that I can take in order to increase the probability of my job interview being successful. I can do research and educate myself about the company and its core values. I can make sure that I get a good night's sleep before and eat a healthy breakfast that morning. I can "dress for success", etc, etc. Then there are parts that are out of my control. I don't know what questions I'll be asked, I don't know what the qualifications of the other candidates are, I don't know what kind of mood the interviewer will be in on that particular day. But if I've taken all the actions I can take in order to maximize the likelihood of having a successful interview, what is the use of "hoping" that it goes well? All that does is make me nervous and put me at risk of having to drive 500 miles back to reality in a rainstorm. However, if I don't take the actions to set myself up for success, and I sit around idly hoping it goes well, then I'm using hope as a placebo for action. Being in the state of hoping for success makes me "feel" like I'm doing something to increase the chances of obtaining my desired outcome, when it's really doing me no good, and possibly indirectly causing harm (cf. the part about acceptance). (Random tangential thing - there is something to be said for visualizing success, but I think that's a different thing.) The flip side of this is worry. "I'm worried that the interview will go poorly". Same story - if I've done everything I can to prepare, why worry?
Sometimes expressions of hope can serve a social purpose, which gives them meaning over and above their content. I might tell a friend "I hope your grandmother's surgery goes smoothly". I suppose I'm still expressing that my preferred outcome is for my friend's grandmother to avoid complications and regain health, but, assuming I don't know the grandmother, my personal preference isn't what matters here--what matters is that the reason I'm making the statement is to communicate to my friend that I care about her happiness, that I empathize with her pain, that she matters to me. Expressions of hope of this kind are, I think, valuable parts of human relationships. Because you just don't casually tell someone "Your grandma might die on the operating table. Just so you know. You probably shouldn't hold onto hope that she'll survive." Unless you're an asshole, or a really good friend. Or maybe a doctor with shitty bedside manner.
Even when I hope for outcomes that seem somehow good or noble or right (grandmas surviving surgeries, criminals being brought to justice, world peace, or whatever else), that still implies that I think I know how things ought to turn out. The whole point is that I don't know what's supposed to happen, I don't know what's best for anyone (even myself), but I do know that whatever is going to happen will happen, and if I roll with the punches, I can be peaceful and serene no matter what. Because I know everything is going to be okay, no matter what. Because I have the kind of hope that it's okay to have, no matter what.
Since I started out by structuring this mess using parts of speech, I should probably include the part about my intuitions on "hopeful" as a predicate adjective. But I'm too tired of writing to think more about that right now. Maybe another day, and maybe not.
What I'm taking from all this for now is: When I catch myself using "hope" as a verb, I can take that as a cue to ask myself "Is there any action I can take to influence the outcome of this situation?" If so, maybe do it. If not, give up hoping--it's not serving me. And I hate driving in the rain!
But no matter what, don't give up hope.
Thanks for listening, y'all :)
Let's start over.
Four years ago, I was struggling with letting go of a relationship I thought I really wanted but deep down knew I couldn't have right then because there was a good chance it would be harmful to the other person, and possibly to myself, in turn. I had come to terms with the fact that it wasn't the right time then, but was clinging to the hope that maybe there would be a time in the future when the relationship would be possible. A very good friend of mine told me at the time that in order to really be free, I had to give up hope of ever getting what I wanted. I fought it, trying to bargain by saying I'd be willing to give up the expectation if I could keep the hope. He told me "Hope is a placebo for action." I don't think I understood that at the time - either I was too upset about being told things I didn't want to hear, or I still had some growth to do before I'd really be ready to internalize what he meant. Plus I just felt like that was kind of a dick thing to say, or at least a dick way to say it. I mean, come on. (He's actually not a dick; he's actually very wise and clever, has always had my best interest at heart, and would do anything for the people he cares about, even if it means telling them what they need to hear but can't stand to listen to. Those are just some of the reasons I'm marrying him in 110 days! Love you, Mike!)
Anyway, yesterday afternoon, a friend and I were chatting about hope and expectations. Our conversation reminded me of what Mike told me four years ago, which had worked its way into a box on a dusty shelf somewhere in the warehouse of my brain, and stayed there, untouched, until the universe decided, yesterday, that I was ready to open it again. When I opened the box, the contents looked different than when I'd packed it up four years ago. It was an odd feeling, looking at the words and seeing them differently, knowing they hadn't changed a bit. That disconnect made me realize that the many edits and revisions, some minor, some major, to my perspective on life over the past few years have added up to the point where I'm legitimately a different version of myself now. Ship of Theseus and all that. Hmm.
I brought the box out onto the balcony of our apartment, where Mike and I like to sit in the evenings and relax when it's not too hot out. He helped me unpack it. We had a wonderful, soul-nourishing conversation about hope, expectations, worry, and acceptance. The kinds of hope it's fair to have, and why. The kinds of hope we can't afford to hang onto, and what the consequences are if we don't let go. The fact that some statements of hope are actually excuses for inaction. The different meanings "hope" can have depending on part of speech.
Sitting down by myself now, to write, it feels like a tangled mess of ideas, there are so many things I want to try to say, and I don't know where to start. So I'll start with nouns. Because... grammar.
One sense of the word "hope" as a noun is something like optimism, confidence, or even faith. If I'm being Biblical about it, I might say that "hope" entails a sure confidence that the will of God will come to pass; a firm assurance in an unclear future. But since I'm not, I might say that "hope" in this sense is the certain knowledge of the fact that, no matter how things turn out, even if (especially if?) they don't go my way, everything is ultimately as it should be (this holds true at all times, for all time), and I am taken care of, no matter what. This is the kind of hope that is always okay to have. I have this hope now, and it's the opposite of the hopelessness I used to live in, and try to die in.
Using hope as a verb, I say things like "I hope the weather is nice next weekend". When I say that, I'm expressing a preference for a particular future outcome over which I have no control. There's no action I can take that will change the weather. Maybe there's a way in which my hoping for sunshine gives me the illusion of agency; the false idea that I have any say in the matter. But I don't, and yet I've tied my feelings to the outcome - if it rains next weekend, I'll be disappointed, I might have to change my plans, I'll probably be grouchy and not so fun to be around, I might take it out on someone I care about and say something I'll have to apologize for later.
This sort of hope can be problematic. When I choose to attach myself to an outcome I have no control over (it's always a choice, but I usually forget that), I close myself off to all other possible outcomes. If the outcome I'm hoping for is overwhelmingly more probable than the other possible outcomes, and I have some idea of what the probability distribution looks like, it's probably not a problem. It can be fair to have hope when we can reasonably foresee the outcome. But if there's a 50% chance of rain in the forecast on my wedding day and "I hope it doesn't rain", I am setting myself up for possible disappointment, resentment, and anger. If it rains when I was hoping it wouldn't, my expectation has tethered me to one place, and reality is 500 miles away. In order to be truly happy, I have to fully accept whatever reality is. Which, if it's raining, means traveling 500 miles (in the rain, no less) before I can even get to acceptance of reality. Traveling 500 miles takes time and energy. Time I could have spent enjoying the moment; energy I could have spent in useful, constructive ways. Then there's also the risk of getting into a car accident on the long drive, causing damage that I have to repair before I can get where I'm going. (Sick of this metaphor yet?) These are the kinds of consequences I can have if I hang onto this sort of hope. Not that I need to be thrilled if it rains at my wedding, but I can go into it with the attitude of "No matter what the weather is like, I can enjoy this day." I'll actually enjoy more of it if I don't go into it hoping for sunshine!
Then there's "hope" in circumstances where we do have some agency, some impact on the outcome. Like "I hope my job interview goes well." There are some actions that I can take in order to increase the probability of my job interview being successful. I can do research and educate myself about the company and its core values. I can make sure that I get a good night's sleep before and eat a healthy breakfast that morning. I can "dress for success", etc, etc. Then there are parts that are out of my control. I don't know what questions I'll be asked, I don't know what the qualifications of the other candidates are, I don't know what kind of mood the interviewer will be in on that particular day. But if I've taken all the actions I can take in order to maximize the likelihood of having a successful interview, what is the use of "hoping" that it goes well? All that does is make me nervous and put me at risk of having to drive 500 miles back to reality in a rainstorm. However, if I don't take the actions to set myself up for success, and I sit around idly hoping it goes well, then I'm using hope as a placebo for action. Being in the state of hoping for success makes me "feel" like I'm doing something to increase the chances of obtaining my desired outcome, when it's really doing me no good, and possibly indirectly causing harm (cf. the part about acceptance). (Random tangential thing - there is something to be said for visualizing success, but I think that's a different thing.) The flip side of this is worry. "I'm worried that the interview will go poorly". Same story - if I've done everything I can to prepare, why worry?
Sometimes expressions of hope can serve a social purpose, which gives them meaning over and above their content. I might tell a friend "I hope your grandmother's surgery goes smoothly". I suppose I'm still expressing that my preferred outcome is for my friend's grandmother to avoid complications and regain health, but, assuming I don't know the grandmother, my personal preference isn't what matters here--what matters is that the reason I'm making the statement is to communicate to my friend that I care about her happiness, that I empathize with her pain, that she matters to me. Expressions of hope of this kind are, I think, valuable parts of human relationships. Because you just don't casually tell someone "Your grandma might die on the operating table. Just so you know. You probably shouldn't hold onto hope that she'll survive." Unless you're an asshole, or a really good friend. Or maybe a doctor with shitty bedside manner.
Even when I hope for outcomes that seem somehow good or noble or right (grandmas surviving surgeries, criminals being brought to justice, world peace, or whatever else), that still implies that I think I know how things ought to turn out. The whole point is that I don't know what's supposed to happen, I don't know what's best for anyone (even myself), but I do know that whatever is going to happen will happen, and if I roll with the punches, I can be peaceful and serene no matter what. Because I know everything is going to be okay, no matter what. Because I have the kind of hope that it's okay to have, no matter what.
Since I started out by structuring this mess using parts of speech, I should probably include the part about my intuitions on "hopeful" as a predicate adjective. But I'm too tired of writing to think more about that right now. Maybe another day, and maybe not.
What I'm taking from all this for now is: When I catch myself using "hope" as a verb, I can take that as a cue to ask myself "Is there any action I can take to influence the outcome of this situation?" If so, maybe do it. If not, give up hoping--it's not serving me. And I hate driving in the rain!
But no matter what, don't give up hope.
Thanks for listening, y'all :)
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