Hope

Hope.

The weather's growing colder in Washington, particularly when the sun goes down.  The early evening crowds haven't gotten smaller next door at CCNV, the nation's largest homeless shelter.  Judiciary Square, Chinatown, Penn Quarter, Union Station: not just Metro stops.  Landmarks for men and women to lie down for the night and escape the traumas and indignities of everyday life, if only for a few hours.  

Hope in the face of difficulty.

It's time to buckle down.  When a data drop at change.gov looks like it may be a way out.  When countless are searching daily for a way to get back to work, and countless more are stuck working 1, 2, 3 jobs they can't stand just to pay the bills, wondering if it's too late to live the life they've imagined.

Hope in the face of uncertainty.   

Wishing that Levi's jeans, and not torture, would be the symbol of America again.  Looking for our servicemen and women to save American cities, rather than sweat it out half a world away.  Praying that West Virginia doesn't develop a coastline.

The audacity of hope!

Hope alone hasn't put roofs over the heads of the men and women who sleep outside a few blocks from my apartment.  Hope alone doesn't pay you on the 15th and the 30th and provide you with benefits.  Hope alone doesn't close Guantanamo Bay.  

But hope can inspire women 9/10s of a century old to come to the polls on in a bleak November rain.  Hope can bring tears of joy to even the most cynical voters.  And about a week ago, hope emerged after millions upon millions talked to their neighbors, drove them to the polls, and cast their votes.

A belief in things not seen.  A belief that there are better days ahead.

We know not what the future will hold.  But for the first time in a long time, things not seen don't seem quite so scary.  And for the first time in a long time, better days are ahead of us.