via Of all the things that have saved my life, my sanity, or at least brought survival into the realm of possibility when none existed before, acceptance reigns. And whether I was surviving a moment, a month, or a catastrophe, as in a really big lifetime blow, acceptance did the job of life preserver while it sat there right there next to hope. Holding hands. Heads on each other’s shoulders. For they are kin, hope and acceptance. Besties. BFFs. They are utmost disastrous failures, actually, without the life support they provide to each other.
You can hope all you want, hope for better, hope for the most minimal improvement, and whether it be safety or health, success or reconciliation, if you do not accept what has or could go wrong, then your hope is a sad wet t-shirt on a rainy day clothesline. Dripping. Drenched. For hope is wobbly without the foundation, the ground, the certainty of acceptance.
Likewise, reaching that point, that ah ha!, that large breath and sigh of Yes! Knowing, finally, fully realizing inside and outside your body that it is what it is. That is all it is. It is. Death, divorce, or dumbstruck by another one of life’s big or little raw deals, once you know it, if you don’t know it with hope in hand, then the freedom that the knowledge affords you is, unfortunately, fleeting. Clothespin lost. Shirts in the wind. For acceptance needs hope to latch onto, then it can carry you to the next moment. And the next. Otherwise, it’s dead weight. Gone. Quickly forgotten.
Be accepting, be hopeful. It is the hardest love we carry.
The Hardest Love We Carry
It is not as soft as a prayer.
We share those, letting others
assume responsibility for the answer.
It is not as easy as compassion,
we are mammals, after all,
even dogs and elephants grieve.
But dogs and elephants
neither pray nor hope.
Hope is ours alone, landing
everywhere like dander.
There in the creases behind an ear
the tendon at the back of the ankle
the stretch of skin between the thumb
and the index finger
like a hammock
ready for love to take a gentle swing.
It can settle beside each piece of hair
nestle into the follicles
like an old friend
and your scalp feels warm
cupped in a caring hand
airy and alive.
Then it grows heavy
hope is hard, downcast
eventually reticent
so easy to leave behind
like an old wool sock
darned to oblivion.
Hopeless arrives.
We are never prayer-less.
Some angel. Or saint.
But hope leaves us less.
It is the hardest love.
The hardest love we carry.
And we mustn’t.
Give it up.
pocket poet 
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