The Significance of Hope in the Post-Pandemic World
The belief something positive will happen can help you cope
Hope means little until you need something positive to happen. Before the pandemic and the war in Ukraine, many people were lucky enough not to require a fortifying mantel of optimism. But even the new world post-pandemic is unstable, and life can feel shaky when the ground shifts beneath your feet. Hope, though, can lift your spirits and take you through difficult times.
Early in the day, a few mornings ago, sunlight filtered through the winter dust on my windows, and something warm stirred in the atmosphere.
Malaise thawed as spring reached the room with gentle beams, and sun-speckled tendrils stroked the white walls. They cast a spell to break dark despondency, replacing it with a glow of good-naturedness.
This hope-filled moment prompted me to rise from my chair and fling open the window. On a branch sang a feathered messenger. Her song lilted through the breeze, sending notes to swirl amid the treetops and across the valley. The chirps and whistles spoke of newness, life, and plenty: a far cry from the gloom-scented winter.
Later, I met several people during a meadow walk with my dog. We stopped like voyagers on a rarely used highway to discuss the odds of traveling on the same road.
The wayfarer’s presence shone through their body language. Looks of relief, as though strain fled to the morning sky, gave them an ethereal glow. Their light steps, straight backs, and relaxed shoulders signaled the palliative touch of nature, and her season of spirited buoyancy injected them with hope.
At least two walkers sighed aloud with satisfaction as we exchanged pleasantries about the emergence of spring flowers. An overheated woman in a winter mac listed every variety of hedgerow bloom. Congenial banter cascaded between us as we vied for the top flower-spotting position, and our voices sped into a shower of giggles.
Later, drinking coffee on the sun terrace, I noted the sound of villagers scurrying about like mice on ears of golden corn pipe into the air. Lawnmowers buzzed, excited conversations flowed, and motorbikes hurtled along winding country lanes.
There was a time when I enjoyed the quietness, albeit stemming from a lack of freedom to roam. Now, roaring engines, laughter, and squeals of carefree kids on bicycles comfort.
Last spring offered sun-soaked days. The flowers bloomed as usual, and gardeners tended flowerbeds and vegetable plots. But uncertainty peppered the atmosphere. It lingers still, yet sunshine penetrates once cold nooks and ushers winter out to dry like laundry.
Of course, for some people, the days and nights, especially the nights, remain crammed with fear and dread. I spare a thought or twenty for them each passing hour.
Without hope, striving forward is hard. In tough times life asks us to take hopeful steps into the unknown. Far from our comfort zones, we embark on unwanted adventures. Leaning on hope provides comfort and solace, despite the boom of cannons on the battlefield.
Through the pandemic and beyond, I’ve been an observer. A witness recording events spewed by the media, preserving it as a memory from which to learn.
Between bouts of negative news, life continued for me, at least.
The sensation of pervasive distress arose when washing the dishes or peeling potatoes, though. I worried about people suffering loss or losing themselves to covid. I put myself in their shoes and plodded.
Sometimes, I contemplated the cause of events, philosophically putting them down to errors of judgment. One wrong foot here and another there — bad choices following others — can lead to disasters. Yet life lessons about conflict rarely stick.
So often, history repeats itself, but to each new generation, events look unique. People who forget or never knew about atrocities and wars fought in far-off places suffer from disbelief. Their quiet inner worlds shatter when the realization chaos can overshadow morality lands.
Yet, positivity also often triumphs over gloom, goodness outshines wickedness, and, now and then, people change for the better. Turning to the belief auspicious days lay ahead and tuning into joy eases stress. It helps us seek the sun when we fall into the tight grip of winter.
Today, hope matters, whether bombs blast or hospitals pile with body bags in places where the pandemic regains its grasp. Spring and sunshine are not so trivial that you can ignore them. They show us how to begin again after a long, cold winter.
You might find hope in the daffodils that grow at the side of the road. Or in a bird’s flight across an azure sky. Hope lives under every seaside rock uncovered by a child’s hands and in each sunbeam casting light in the shadows.
Hope also exists in each kind gesture toward people needing help and every thoughtful word spoken with love. I find it in spring shoots that rise from the winter-barren earth and the red fox guarding her young in a secret hiding place.
I also see it in the way neighbors care and communities strive to improve local hardship caused by the pandemic. It spills through our valley and traumatized villages, towns, and cities.
Hope can land as a seed in your garden and take root. All it needs to make it grow is nature, and nature is full of life-affirming joy. The natural world revolves. Nature recycles the dead as the seasons shift. Life’s wheel turns, transforming old to new, and the circle of life continues with certainty.
This evening, I’ll stroll along the dirt path and into the woods. There, star-shaped flowers will close their petals as the sun dips. The woodpecker will shut up shop for the night. He will continue to drum his call of the wild for a mate in the morning.
The pheasants can settle into deep furrows made from bronze ferns, and the spring lambs are bound to cuddle into their mother’s flanks. I’ll watch birds of prey stop circling and listen to the cacophony of birdsong bounce from tree to tree.
My dog will run, tail and fur streaming, enjoying the freedom of being outdoors, and I’ll breathe in the evening air and admire the sunset. I know it’s bound to happen. It always does, and the inevitability of all this stops the earth from trembling.
The last stroll before I hit the hay will involve sky-watching. I’ll check the stars gleam, scan the heavens for unusual craft, and listen for owl’s hooting. When I lay down to sleep, I’ll drift while reminding myself the woodland flowers will open tomorrow, the sun will rise, and hope will pull us through another day.
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