Hope is a paradoxical thing, a ‘thing with feathers that perches in the soul’ to quote Emily Dickinson . Is hope a ‘good’ thing in that it keeps us going when times are tough, or a ‘bad’ thing as it stops us facing up to the reality of our situation. The conundrum of hope is a question I’ve been carrying around for some time; I devoted a whole piece’ to it in The Dao of Complexity.
The theme came back to me when I received the following (reproduced here in part), written by my dear friend and colleague Peter Reason, riffing off Dickinson’s poem.
‘Hope’ is the thing that keeps us numb –
That infiltrates the soul –
And blocks our ears to frightening words –
And never stops – at all –
And worse – hope does deceive the heart –
We hide under its wing —
Don’t upset the apple cart –
Look forward to the Spring –
But every Spring is more disturbed –
No insects kiss the trees –
Hope continues unperturbed,
For – truly – Hope deceives.
By Peter Reason
Many people argue that hope is what motivates us and keeps us going, but Peter suggests that hope ‘keeps us numb’ and ‘deceives the heart’.
There are many views: on the one hand, Dervla Murphy, homebound until thirty looking after her mother, kept alive her cherished hope of travelling the world. As soon as her mother died, she cycled to India, wrote twenty-six books about her travels and never looked back. Hope served her well.
On the other hand, what of the cherished hope for love, or worldly success? If we tend to ‘live in hope’, do we run the risk of living in the shallows or shadows, vainly waiting for the right person or the right opportunity to arrive, diminishing the value and enjoyment of living the life we have, rather than the life we want? Philip Larkin asks if we live in “the glare of that much-mentioned brilliance, love, … its bright incipience sailing above, still promising to solve, and satisfy…” But, he continues: “it had not done so then and could not now”.
Moving to the topic of climate change, the underpinning narrative of Peter’s poem, recent research on attitudes to climate change suggests that giving people a sense that there is still hope does not lead to changes in behaviour; rather, they found that it is anxiety that leads to action.
On yet another tack, I am attracted by the argument that facing despair can be transformative. For example, Buddhist writer Jack Kornfield suggests that “disillusionment is a powerful and fiery gateway”. Through giving up on hope and facing the depth of our disappointment we may, paradoxically, find new promise ‘on the other side’.
I am reminded of The Plague by Albert Camus in which he tells the allegorical story of a town cut off from the outside world due to an outbreak of the plague. Some citizens react by hoarding food and barricading themselves in; others carouse and throw caution to the wind. But the doctor, who understands more than anyone what is likely to be in store, continues to work tirelessly to help the sick. Clive Hamilton, in Requiem for a Species describes this as active fatalism – despair, accept and then act.
Complexity thinking has an interesting contribution to make in that it distinguishes between possibility and probability. Things may be unlikely but still possible. Things may seem doomed but sometimes the seemingly impossible becomes possible. Maybe keeping alive a little bit of hope can help us endure today and attune us to any unexpected possibilities as they arise and motivate us to keep going? As one friend said to me, “should we keep a little bit of hope alive for our cherished dreams but only peek at it once in a while”.
So, what is the answer? Is hope generative or does it lull us to sleep? Does blind hope that things will sort themselves out, that all will be well, contribute to our global apathy to face today’s crises – climate change, rising inequality, political polarisation and conflict? Or does it motivate us to keep going? Hope is paradoxical, a thing with feathers.
As illustrated by Camus’ doctor, it takes true courage to act in the face of despair and see value in continuing to act with integrity, with the collective future in mind, when there is little hope. And yet, there is always hope. And given the maxim, shared by complexity thinking and Daoism, that we all co-create the future, we can stand in the notion that our own tiny acts, in our own limited spheres, may catalyse shifts in ways we cannot predict. Is it not then incumbent on us to aim to ‘seed the future with good ingredients’ even if we cannot control what becomes?
