After being pummeled by the pandemic and disheartened by the sheer venality of our leaders, it’s been hard to hope for a better future. Actually, it’s hard to maintain faith in the whole human race. I do all the usual good-citizen things – wear a mask, wash my hands, donate $$, vote, communicate with my senators (although they only respond with form letters and platitudes), stay informed, sign petitions and support the people who make good trouble.

And then I try to glue it all together with hope through small acts of attention and intention.

I stop by the gate every day to whisper to two red blooms growing rusty on the single zinnia plant I’ve managed to keep alive. I say, “You’re beautiful!” and there’s no one to make fun of me. I lean into the ear trumpet of the deep purple morning glories and tell them hello. I try to sweet-talk myself in the mirror instead of browbeating my failures. My birdseed brings all the chickadees to my yard. Making my bed every morning gives me the illusion of pushing back against the tide of chaos. Doing yoga in my back bedroom gives me a physical and spiritual pat on the back. Counting my steps gives me the impetus to move even if it’s around the neighborhood and not exactly forward. I read Jane Austen for comfort and Marcus Aurelius for courage. I’ve started praying even though I’m not religious. Just breathing in and out prayers—please save us, please make me brave, please show me what to do, thank you, help me, bless us. If that makes me sound like a goody-two-shoes, I also admit to researching how to move to Canada, Mexico, Portugal in my black and blue times. Keeping hope alive is an everyday practice that changes daily, that ebbs and flows, that is as fragile as a new-hatched egg, but it’s all we’ve got.

Nikki Hardin is a writer of stories, musings, and memories. Her poetry has been published in Riverteeth Journal. She was the founder and publisher of skirt!, a monthly women’s magazine in Charleston, South Carolina. You can reach her at nikki@thedailynikki.com.