As a sort of experiment, I've been watching my dog, Cleo. She anticipates and she's joyful, and if I hold up a treat she sees it and salivates, her brain remembering that she got this treat the last time I held it up. Even so, I am not sure she can really hope. Hope requires an ability to imagine a future that is not this one, even if that future is out of our real control or is not very likely. While to live in the moment as Cleo does can be celebrated, to be able to change something - ourselves, the world, anything - requires an element of hope. We humans are able to hope.  

          Some of my darkest days are when hope is hard to find. My friends and I are worried about the state of the world. We cringe when we hear about bombings and the threat of more bombings. We cry tears of empathy when we learn about mothers and children being separated, about sons being murdered, about lives that matter to some but not all. We worry about climate change threatening both the honey bee and the very heartland of countries as we know them. To cope, we learn about and try to build resilience. To cope, we work on developing hope.

          Maya Angelou wrote, "Hope and fear cannot occupy the same space. Invite one of them in." I'll admit, I have been fearful at times. I want certainty more than anything. Certainty that my loved ones will be OK. Certainty that my garden will have enough water to grow and enough bees to pollinate the flowers. Certainty that the good students I know who work so hard will not be punished for being born on the wrong side of the border and will be allowed to complete their degrees. Certainty that our scientists, including my son, will be able to continue to work on behalf of all of us to find new ways to deal with problems that require facts and evidence-based research to solve. I want certainty for myself, my daughter and her friends that we will not be singled out for abuse because of being a woman, or someone with a disability, or a transgender person, or a person of color. I want certainty that I will have a safe place to come home to each and every day.

          When I live in fear, I cannot hope. When I give up and say there is nothing I can really do, I give up hope. When I say, even in a very enlightened way, "I accept whatever is here," I may be choosing to live outside of hope. Hope is required for anything to change, for it is an essential part of imagining the possible.

          When we were little, we sang, "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine." Today, I heard someone say that even on a sunny day, when someone lights a candle, there are more "Lumens" (a scientific measure of the total quantity of visible light emitted by a source) than before, even when that extra light is not noticeable to a person standing there. Lighting one candle, literally, changes the world. It is also true that the ripple effect of the light waves from that light, (like the ripple effect of miracles, I'll add), enters the web of the Universe. We cannot know where these waves of light go or what their impact may ultimately be. As with many small acts, the end result may be almost imperceptible to a person standing nearby. Sometimes, it may just be too soon to tell. 

          What is the measure of a smile? Can we calculate joy generated by reading a card from a friend, warmth from a hug when lonely, the sense of fullness when we provide dinner for a homeless. hungry person? Each of these acts seems small in light of the horrible tragedies of our time, paling in comparison to the suffering on the news we block from our minds in self-preservation. And yet, the smallest acts of smiling, of serving, of sending love, are also "candles," significant signs of true resistance in a world that can seem dark. Hoping beyond hope that I can make a difference, I will resist!

           Here are some ideas that have been recommended to build up our "hope muscles":

1. When feeling hopeless, ask yourself, "What is truly important to me? Does the situation now make a difference to my raison d'etre?"
2. Ask yourself, "What is it that I have control over in this situation?" and do only that.
3. Conduct a simple act of kindness and know that you just sent a hopeful light into the world. 
4. Don't take failures personally.
5. Celebrate small victories and successes: don't wait for only the big ones.
6. Take  baby steps towards your goals.
7. Tell one another success stories, no matter how small you think they are. These are the ripple effects of light into the darkness and you hold the candle!

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          Mao said that women hold up half the sky. I beg to differ. Like the ad jingle from the '80s said, "I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan..." a sentiment that women across the globe can understand as they juggle the multi-faceted needs of their jobs, families and communities. Women bond over the unique experiences that belong to them, a sisterhood that in combination with other forces, like motherhood or glass ceilings (or both), can produce some mighty friendships. 

          When my younger daughter Allie was in 6th grade she was bullied. Not for a day or a month, but for the entirety of the school year. By June the light from her eyes had gone out. Watching her go through this torment remains the most painful of my parenting experiences. One of my closest friends had a daughter who was way cooler than anyone else in 6th grade and knowing of Allie's plight, she planted a seed with her daughter who, over time, coaxed Allie into a different group of friends. Another friend who was always willing to listen had her daughter ,who was friends with the bullies, help from the inside of the group.

          Friends save us in a myriad of ways. They open us up to worlds and wisdom we may not otherwise have been exposed to. They are our sounding boards, our cheerleaders and the sharers of life's greatest joys. They compel us to be our best selves. From friends I learned that to keep a confidence is truly a sacred trust, the ultimate respect; that to be the village for each other's children is an act of loyalty and protection that will never be forgotten; and that to show up, especially in times of stress and struggle and grief, is, as they say, 90% of life.

          When I look in the mirror, of course, I recognize myself. But behind me I can count the friends who have accepted me for who I am and loved me, even when I hadn't yet figured out how to love myself. They have been the caretakers of my soul. Sandra Day O'Connor said, "We don't accomplish anything in this world alone...and whatever happens is the result of the whole tapestry of one's life and all the weaving of individual threads from one to another that creates something." Sounds pretty miraculous to me. 

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Joy to the World...sounds like a message reserved for a Christmas Carol or the feeling when welcoming a new little one into the world as we did last month with our first grandchild.

I've always wondered where is joy the rest of the time. To be truthful, I think I am a joy-junkie. I can, as Katie says, "find whole scoops of joy with my children" (in my case, I'll admit it was mixed in with a bit of worry and a pinch of frustration), but I also find joy in the sunshine or the snow, in writing or in reading something that makes me laugh or cry or think more deeply. I find joy when I take the high road and don't cut off the silly driver who is attempting to run me down or try and be kind to someone whether I know them or not, even when I don't have the time or the energy. I have cocktail napkins that say, "Stop me before I volunteer again." but I never use them because volunteering brings me joy; it's my way to help contribute to the struggles in the world, doing my part to effect change where I can.

          Sadly though, sometimes when I present my happy-to-be-alive and grateful-to-be-living-my-life face to the world, I have been accused of being a tad Pollyanna-ish. After all, the unasked question of "Don't I know that others are suffering?" hangs in the air; as if somehow by being really sad or at least more subdued I could make it better. At last, those days are over and I can express my joy (as well as my sadness) freely. My new lease on life came from a book a dear friend gave me for Christmas, Lasting Happiness in a Changing World, The Book of Joy, and I have embraced it more wholeheartedly than anything I have read since Our Bodies, Ourselves back in the 70's! I mean if Archbishop Tutu and the Dalai Lama can find joy after all that they have been through, who am I to back away?

          Apparently  2015, the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Tutu spent a week together in Dharamsala, India in honor of the Dalai Lama's 80th birthday and to discuss the subject of joy. As they spoke it became clear that at the core they both valued connection with their fellow human spirits, seeing suffering together as the birth of empathy and compassion. Together they recognize that, "Ultimately our greatest joy is when we seek to do good for others." I think I have felt this my whole life. In my medical profession, like so many of my coworkers, I thought a part of my job was to make the patient's life a little easier and to help them find joy and humor in the midst of pain and suffering. The importance of finding joy has stayed with me in other areas of life as well.

          For years, I was drawn to the strength of Archbishop Tutu; his ability to stay strong and committed against all odds and to foster forgiveness after the atrocities that were committed in his homeland. I marveled at his fortitude and when I heard him speak years ago, I was shocked at how diminutive he was in physical stature and yet was a giant among men. When I read his words about joy and suffering, I feel vindicated for my years of being joyful in the face of sadness, and I think his words to the universe are directly aimed at me, "Discovering more joy does not, I'm sorry to say, save us from the inevitability of hardship and heartbreak. In fact, we may cry more easily, but we will laugh more easily, too. Perhaps we are just more alive. Yet as we discover more joy, we can face suffering in a way that ennobles rather than embitters. We have hardship without becoming hard. We have heartbreak without being broken." WOW. Now I have a benchmark, a goal and have found a calling not just to feel joy, but to spread joy. To help me practice that calling with the consistency it deserves, I have but one word that I will be able to rise to the challenge:

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 We are beginning again. A new year. A new president. For  some, new babies, newly wedded couples, new homes. As a way to symbolically bring in the New Year, I decided to go to an event where I expected there would be some type of ritual to support letting go and moving on. In my straight-backed chair, I waited to be led in some kind of "good riddance" activity that would leave me at least a little more hopeful about 2017. Then, an energetic man stood on the stage and got everyone up and out of their seats to "shake off the old" by using a traditional Qui Gong exercise. We started with shaking out our hands, then shaking our arms, then shoulders, and finally, we shook out our whole bodies. At this point, I could feel the energy in the room shift palpably. Within me, a kind of buzzing sense of connection of my Self to myself that I wasn't aware I had been missing started to happen and I began to feel a connection to all the other 'movers and shakers' in the room as well. When we finally stopped, we stood quietly, together, renewed.

          The end of the year is predictably hard for me as it brings up other endings: the end of my marriage, the children moving out of the house, the absence of loved ones who no longer sit around our holiday table. Imperfectly, and unfortunately, also, somewhat predictably, I respond to the season with less than my best self and I did this again this year. So, as I shook off last year in the room with all those people I had yet to meet, I also shook off regret. I shook off cynicism. I shook off disappointment. I shook off isolation.

          I felt very silly shaking myself all around like a child doing the Hokey Pokey - at least at first- but that was part of the ritual's beauty. By choosing to participate, I was being vulnerable, I was doing something outside my comfort level in the company of strangers. I guess that being vulnerable meant that my protective armor got "chinked." Miraculously, nothing short of Love, with a sprinkling of Hope, seeped in through the cracks. In Love, I forgave myself for messing up. For a short moment I was able to forgive others. This perfect peace was fleeting - clearly, I have much more work to do on myself and on Forgiveness. But I say it's a "Happy New Year." At least it's a very good start. 

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       When I was growing up, we opened our presents on Christmas Eve, but not before my father pulled out the Bible - which had gathered dust for the previous twelve months - to read Luke, 2:1-20. "And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus..." This decree required Joseph and Mary to travel, and hence, for Mary to give birth in a manger when there was no room at the inn. In this way, each and every year, my father reminded us of the story of the first Christmas, and that its meaning was beyond our brightly lit tree and the gifts I couldn't wait to open underneath it. I loved the Thanksgiving feast we recreated the next day for Christmas dinner and relished the carols I knew by heart, sung round the family piano as my mother played.

          There may not have been peace on earth, but in a raucous, imperfect family of seven, there always seemed to be peace and goodwill in our home for those holidays. Our traditions created a certain magic for me, a Christmas spirit that ignited a lifetime pursuit of the feelings evoked in an atmosphere of giving and joy and shared with the people I loved. Squabbling and worries were set aside and we managed to become our best selves - at least until December 26th. I still measure each of us by our highest common denominator, the joyful givers we became at Christmas time.

          My experience isn't unique if literature, film and history are any indication. O. Henry's short story, The Gift of The Magi, is about the young, destitute couple who each sell their one prized possession to buy the other a gift, not realizing the sacrifice the other is about to make. He sells his gold pocket watch in order to buy her combs for her hair and she sells her hair in order to buy him a chain for his pocket watch. Or, who doesn't love the story of George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life? In embodying his own best self throughout the year, he changed the stars for countless others. And then, there's the story during World War I when some English and German soldiers laid down their guns on Christmas, 1914 to sing carols and allow for the gathering of their dead. We have the capacity to rise to a spirit of generosity that is especially manifested at this time of year.

          Our family Christmases, as I'd known them, came to an end when my father died nearly thirty-three years ago. The house that accommodated us all had to be sold and my siblings began to scatter out of state. In time, I was able to look back and appreciate what we had and realize why Christmas is so important to me. Those festive, spiritual and connected days became the bar I set for a lifetime. I can still hear my father's strong voice as he quotes the angel in Luke's gospel, "Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy,which shall be to all the people," a message of hope that Someone has come to show us the way. (Katie)

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