Hope and the holiday
After today, the Passage shutters until January 9, 2018, for a pause to celebrate and relax. I wish the same for you.
The sentiment I welcome this time of year, whether one draws it from a faith tradition or not, is hope. Not joy, not comfort, not goodwill toward men even if that term includes women. (Salma Hayek is the angel on my tree this year.)
So, hope. I hope harassers of any stripe will pause before acting to assess whether their actions serve dignity and safety, whether they would like those whom they love subjected to such acts—and then choose to change.
At Christmastime I think too, of lonely people, who have no one to visit or receive. Loneliness may inhabit the heart even if a person is bustling to work, or standing in line in a bank. I hope each of us does what we can to connect and ease that ache.
I suspect that we distract ourselves from community by the focus on things. I'm seeing more and more young adults stepping away from that model of consumerism and many aspects of the prevailing economic model. I hope they keep pushing, organizing, seeking ways to improve equality in the world my generation is leaving to them.
I hope both countries of which I am a citizen resolve their conflicts peaceably and that the US finds some way to revive its commitments to protection of the environment.
I hope Montréal's new mayor and her colleagues make good on their promises for more social housing and transportation.
I have frivolous hopes, too. I hope women stop fretting about the size of their pores—just use sunblock and moisturizer and get on with life. I hope now that I've found a well-fitting, inexpensive bra that it isn't discontinued like the last one. (Dadgummit, Olga.) I hope Patti Smith gives us another book soon.
And I hope you keep walking through the Passage. It was named for the tiny arcades of Paris, those idiosyncratic, half-hidden retreats in which to browse and restore ones' self away from the chaos and commotion of city life. Your comments connect me both to you, and to continuing to write.
I am asking for a gift: Would you tell us what you're hoping for? If you have a moment, I would love to hear that. Your hopes, humble or grand, serious or lighthearted, will give me hope, too.