Evidence of Hope

+ a poem, a poll, and a writing prompt for you to use

Here in my part of North Carolina, we’ve entered the brief stretch of spring that fools us every year—that glorious time between warm weather’s blissful arrival and the dreaded onset of pollen. It’s mostly a joy to be outside, even when it’s raining. The buds on the bushes are returning. The trees are “greening up” as our children used to say. Even the wildflowers—sprouting where they shouldn’t—promise new life.

As the weather turns warmer, and we inch toward Easter, my internal calendar of grief turns a page too. We enter the period of time I spent on bed rest with our twins 25 years ago. Ten weeks in bed, only to deliver ten weeks early. When I finally got back on my feet, I carried home one baby and buried another. His ashes are near a garden that—this springtime of year—boasts a swath of tulips that take your breath away. They burst out of their moldy bulbs with a proclamation of defiant joy.

I carried tulips in my wedding bouquet, thirty years ago this week. I didn’t know then that tulips would teach me more. How to carry joy and sorrow both on the brick paths of the garden, and beyond. How to watch and wait for the promise of new life. How to thank gardeners I don’t know for patiently tending bulbs. How to thank God for the sudden thrill of delight when something green unexpectedly appears. How to hope, even years later.

The poet Rosemerry Whatola Trommer, whose son and father both died in 2021, writes gorgeously about grief, life, and hope.

Evidence

After almost two years
of growing only leaves,
the orchid that sat
on the back windowsill,
the one I have dutifully
watered and whispered to,
the one I had finally
resolved to throw away,
sent up a single spiraling stem,
shiny and darksome green,
and I who have needed
years to hide, to heal,
felt such joy rise in me
at the site of tight buds,
the kind of irrational joy
one feels when something
thought dead is found alive,
not only alive, but on the edge
of exploding into beauty,
and now it doesn’t seem
so foolish after all, does it,
this insistent bent toward hope.

—Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

a writing prompt

Write about something green and growing—something in your yard, or in your memory.

Or just take the poem or any images from this post as a starting point, and see what emerges and blooms on the page.

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There should be little icons below where you can like, comment or share this post. Let me know what you think about the prompt, or come back and add some of what you write in the comments. Know someone who might enjoy this prompt or others? Please share!

a poll about grief and writing prompts for you

I know some readers arrived here because you are writing through grief. That’s how I started this kind of reflective writing work as a participant myself. You can read more about that here. Other readers are not wrestling with active grief right now, apart from the grief we all feel as humans living in a complicated world. I know from my own writing over the years that prompts can take us where we need to go, whether we think we are grieving or not, and whether they seem to be about grief or not. Our writing can surprise us that way. I’m interested in whether you would like more intentionally grief-specific prompts, or if the current mix feels right to you. Substack also has a way to subscribe to different sections in a newsletter, and that’s a possibility too—to have a section of prompts dedicated to those who are writing through their grief.

Most of my prompts come out of what I’m feeling in the moment, and that won’t change, but I’d like to know your thoughts. If you have an opinion, let’s hear it.

You can also leave a comment. Thanks for reading and writing!

Photo by Fidel Fernando on Unsplash