The Hand I’ve Been Dealt
Seeing God In The Joker’s Smile
Hi Everyone!
I woke up this morning and wrote this little poem. You are the first to read it. Words like “hope” and “love” are enormous, and tend to be different for every single one of us. I always enjoy exploring how they change for me from year to year, day to day. If you’d like to share your definition of hope I’d be thrilled to read it. Thank you so much for being here, everyone. You make my world more beautiful.
WHAT I MEAN BY HOPE
Since my diagnosis my friends have not stopped
assuring me I can tell them the truth.
You don’t have to hold yourself together.
You can fall apart. You can scream your throat red.
You can hate and hate and hate the hand you’ve been dealt.
My friends believe I’ve been dealt a bad hand.
Am I the only one who sees god
in the joker’s smile? People pity me, I said
to Meg last night while walking the dogs
through the bluegrass near the lake.
Can you believe I just realized that today,
eleven months after my diagnosis?
There were two giant eagles circling the water.
Cottonwood dancing through the air
like summer snow. I was up to my waist
in wildflowers. Our dogs, racing in
and out of the water, the whole lake
dripping from their furry smiles. I had
no idea anyone would think me anything but lucky.
I took Meg’s hand in mine and heard
my friend say it again, You can hate
the hand you’ve been dealt. Meg’s hand
is as soft as an orchid. I know
because I touched the petal of one
last night, resting it on the table
at the end of our bed so the moonlight
could kiss it. Meg wears three rings.
All gifts from me. There is still one more
I hope to give. Maybe I haven’t told
my friends what I mean by hope.
When was I ever someone who needed
permission to grieve? Falling apart has been
my life’s anthem. Pain is not out of my
wheelhouse. For a long time it was the only
wheel I had. I’m not spinning a story
when I say I’m happy, but my friends are
convinced my grief is in the closet.
Come out, they say. We’ll throw a pride parade
for your nervous breakdown. No need to wear this
straight jacket of joy everywhere you go. They don’t
understand I didn’t push grief away.
I welcomed it so wholly it ran right
through me and out the other side. Left
this trail of bliss in its wake. If I have
anything to grieve it’s the life I had before.
I’ll get to that someday, maybe, but probably
not. Right now I’ve got my eye on a patch of light
on the living room floor. Our three dogs sleeping
in a sunray that traveled 94 million miles
in this exact direction. I refuse to go back
to believing I am owed the warmth.
Owed the wildflowers. Owed the summer
air dancing through my fresh grown hair.
No matter how much time I have left
I’m not about to spend that time dying.
My hope isn’t a hope that I’ll live forever,
or even another day. My hope is a hope
that I’ll never again close my eyes
to the gift of this beautiful world.
. . . .
📚 Andrea's bestselling book 'You Better Be Lightning'
📣 Add to the conversation: What is your definition of hope and how has it changed through the years? Share your thoughts in the comments
Damn amazing