That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stop - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale- is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I've heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
"People always think that happiness is a faraway thing," thought Francie, "something complicated and hard to get. Yet, what little things can make it up; a place of shelter when it rains - a cup of strong hot coffee when you're blue...a book to read when you're alone - just to be with someone that you love. Those things make happiness." (Betty Smith, A TREE GROWS UP IN BROOKLYN) What little thing can make up happiness... I hate to be a killjoy and argue with Francie, but, a couple of items on her list are pretty damn rare, if you ask me. Now that I, like a bitter old woman, have slammed Betty Smith, I should a caveat to my conclusion. Though perhaps sappy and a little naive, I think, there is a grain of truth in what Smith and Emily Dickinson wrote. Take me, for instance. Considering my last few posts, it will suffice to say, Yours Truly has had a rough couple of days. <Insert wailing and gnashing of teeth here> But humans, in my opinion, are designed to hold onto hope. Like coke fiends, we're addicted to the stuff. Personally, I've been trying to break the habit for years, but, no such luck. Whether we like it or not, most of us are itching for another hit. Deal with it. The good news here, my Friends, is that hope comes in many forms: a warm hand on your skin; a kind smile; an unexpected email; and even - a tweet.