I like to think of it as “14 days until hope becomes real again” … then the anticipation is more like a child at Christmas. My overriding emotion as we count down the next 14 days, daj, is, yes, hope. I’m almost giddy with it. Fourteen days … oh, I can hardly wait to see what Santa (read Obama) will bring when he comes … just 2 more weeks to go. Will it never get here? (:-)
I have to pass along an Emily Dickinson poem on the subject (sans dashes and capital letters):
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without words
And never stops 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.
I like to think of it as “14 days until hope becomes real again” … then the anticipation is more like a child at Christmas. My overriding emotion as we count down the next 14 days, daj, is, yes, hope. I’m almost giddy with it. Fourteen days … oh, I can hardly wait to see what Santa (read Obama) will bring when he comes … just 2 more weeks to go. Will it never get here? (:-)
I have to pass along an Emily Dickinson poem on the subject (sans dashes and capital letters):
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without words
And never stops 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.