Scouring the horizon

I read a lovely reflection on hope and expectation at Just(e) Words. Hope, she reflected, is a thing. It tangible, it's at work in the world. It's real.

But I hear the statement with an undertone of teen-ager. It's a thing. It's so tempting to say hope isn't a thing anymore, that hope is just not a thing. Or perhaps, not the thing, in the current world. Hope is for those who have lost something, not for those who have everything. 

Hope is expectant. Hope is for those who are seeking something. For those who are sure there is more than the world promises. Expect, I learned in Just(e)'s reflection, comes from the Latin root spectare  — to look. To expect is to look outward, to see beyond oneself. To expect is to look hard at and toward the future.

My study window at home faces the west and while I can't quite see the horizon for the trees and houses, I catch glimpses of what is coming. Today I am scouring the horizon for any signs of incoming weather. We might have snow. We expect some rain. We are in desperate need of something to ease the drought. (Remind me of this when the basement floods!)

I am scouring my personal horizons as well. I misread so many signs of the Parkinson's. My smaller handwriting, my difficulty writing on the board and stirring my tea and typing. Almost imperceptibly my horizons shrank. My world has expanded again, but I worry about what is on the horizon.