Pieter Bruegel, the Elder: Hope (c. 1559)

" … an obscure, long-neglected corner of the garden."

Difficult times seem to demand some definitive response, but I often feel stymied in those contexts. If I felt more empowered, I might respond more immediately, but difficult times seem especially designed to take away my authority to act. They seem to leave me with few options beyond humiliating acquiescence. I stumbled upon two unlikely superpowers, though, that, when combined, seemed to give back much of my authority to act, however unlikely these separately seem capable of reversing humiliation: Hoping and Coping. I combined these into another one of my words that annoy the spell checker: CHope. I might have better employed the gerund form, though, because these require activity to make any difference. I have been actively practicing CHoping rather than merely embodying CHope over these past nearly three months.

It doesn't matter whether I start by hoping or by coping, though starting with hoping seems the more logical departure point. I can certainly engage some coping mechanism without seasoning it with any aspiration, and even mindless coping can blunt a budding trauma. Hoping can flood a bout of helplessness with some sweet promise. It might not matter whether a hope ever manifests. It's often plenty and enough to have merely imagined some alluring something. I can revel even in the most unlikely possibility. Its initial value always comes before its requited, anyway. The anticipation of smelling a rose might well seem sweeter than the actual aroma, imagination not needing to be grounded to anything tangible. If I feel free to dream, I am absolutely liberated for the time my fancy takes me. They cannot actually get me as long as I retain such possibility.

My coping activities might appear as nothing more than mere distractions. In incredible frustration, near my wits’ end, I might slip into my yard clothes and set about weeding some neglected corner of the garden. This effort accomplishes many ends. It gives my otherwise idle hands something to do besides doomscrolling through reports on the latest calamities. I can dispatch a lingering procrastination. This, in itself, delivers a refreshing sense of liberation. So much the better that I deliver this through my own actions, I sense that I somehow managed to save my world. Whatever the focus in those moments of extremis, the change itself refreshes. The sudden absence of a festering distraction heals. Even when I know my coping does nothing to deflect the danger I sense impending, it still feels liberating.

Between bouts of hoping and coping, the world grinds away seemingly unaffected by whatever I might be injecting into it. I do not attempt to "solve THE problem," for I've found that these difficulties rarely qualify as problems. I prefer to characterize them as difficulties, plot twists, the ends of which I cannot see from here. However awful they might appear, I sometimes remain painfully aware that they likely have no solution, so I try to avoid proposing solutions for them. I lack access to fully understand causes and effects, though I remain often painfully aware of these difficulties' effects on my sense of well-being. For me, a greater hopelessness manifests when I attempt to find a non-existent solution. Then, I can tumble into existential despair, for what am I doing here if I'm not clever enough to solve what appears to be a straightforward problem? The problem, then, turns out to be my perception.

I am not lobbying for becoming an ostrich, just somewhat more self-sufficient. Even naive aspirations can elevate my spirit. Even outright distractions can prove therapeutic. It might be that the malady we suffer from comes from hopelessness or, worse, copelessness. When I feel most cynical, I notice my sense of possibility shrinking just when I need it most. I know enough to be just as cynical as anybody. I merely choose not to be, never to tumble into that seemingly inescapable black emotional hole. I am not certain, so I retain some wiggle room around which I can always hope for something more alluring. I hold little formal power, except over how I allocate my attention. I'm free to doomscroll and self-administer dopamine hits destined only to render me dopey. But why? I might not be powerful in ways many appreciate. Still, I remain fully capable of powering myself through most days, even those that seem intent upon leaving me feeling helpless, hopeless, and copeless. I get through by dreaming of something, anything alluring, before engaging in something truly meaningful for myself, like weeding an obscure, long-neglected corner of the garden.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #CHope , #PureSchmaltz