So here I am, taking my own advice. Who would have guessed?
The advice came in the form of a sermon I have given on multiple occasions, the first time in 2011 for my beloved Unitarian Universalist seminarians at Harvard Divinity School where I work. This nugget of counsel in the sermon came from my Dad in his work as a substance-abuse counselor at a V.A. in White River Jct, Vermont.
"As long as you're breathing, there's hope." he said.
He said it frequently, to remind both his patients who were struggling or who had relapsed, as well as to himself, that if they were alive, there was always possibility for change.
Because he knew that sometimes, it does come down to that: a day. An hour. A minute. Just hanging onto that hope. And for as many people as I have dutifully repeated it to over the years, it wasn't until the past few months that I became someone who needed it myself.
The curious piece is that for as many times as I offered it up, in my mind it was that word: hope that was the flag leading the parade.
HOPE, friends. I give you hope! Who doesn't want that? Go out there and hang your hat on that sweet, tantalizing possibility.
But these words, these words that I knew and repeated over and over ...weren't helping. They were great but they were just...words. Yeah, sure there was hope. Right.I didn't feel hope, didn't feel anything.
Any then, I stopped. I stopped myself and began to meditate.
Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat. Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat.
I found that what I had was breath. And another. And another. Hope was never about hope. Hope was about breath. And another.
If Dad was here now, we would have a discussion about this. And I would tell him that I love his mantra, but I need a new one.
As long as you're breathing, there's hope? Maybe.
As long as you're breathing, there's breath. ----------------------------------------------
If you are curious to see what I said in this sermon, here is a link. This was recorded at First Parish, Milton, MA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TdrjGOpZi6s
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