Hope Is The Thing Deep Down

Pamela Livingston

Surely we must all
Be in our cocoons,
Pounded and displaced
By all the news.
Unravelled through -
We’re not quite new.
Chemicalization
It has been called -
The old basis of our belief
is gone. And in its place
A phosphorescent song - HOPE
was in us all along.

We in creation, are blind
At first, to see... the light
At the end of the tunnel
Is a little seed in me.
Or... the rise after the fall.
‘I have high hopes for you’.
The last words my mother
     spoke to me,
     Earth hums to all.

Surely we must be in this
Purge time, this merge time -
Could it be Hope
that makes a Butterfly?

But... fingernails, and claws -
We are not mush!
To reach
Into this earth
Is such a rush! In Spring
When all is Hope
And hope’s in
everything.

Pamela Livingston is at present hunkered down, and perched up above downtown Eau Claire in a small upstairs apartment, appreciating a view of trees, birds and squirrels.

Hope Is The Thing That Quells Fear

Erica Nerbonne

In fourth grade, I wrote that fear was stronger than hope. 9/11, stranger danger, and scraped knees—the world was full of fear, and it prevented me from doing.

In my fourth year of college, I could no longer write, couldn’t sit up nor hold a pen, but I could feel that hope was stronger than fear. As my chronic health condition worsened, my organs began to fail. I relied on feeding tubes, IV fluids, and the swift hands of nurses. My mom slept quietly on the tattered cot next to my hospital bed. When I tried to shift from sleeping on my back to my side, I was trapped in the sludge and drudge of illness; I couldn’t move my arms, my legs, or my neck. As I lie in the bed, stuck on my petechia-covered back, I was petrified until a whisper broke through the dark, “Do you need anything, honey?”  Hope is the mom who still checks on you when you are twenty-two and need her help. Hope is the whisper that quells fear. Hope was there.

Now, I write that hope is stronger than fear. When I tossed and turned in bed last night, I was bombarded by the doubts and dreads of a world that might end. As I sat up, I was panicked until the gentle whisper of my dog’s snoring interrupted my dark thoughts. Hope is the rescue dog who sleeps soundly, warming your lap. Hope is the whisper that quells fear. Hope is still here.

There are fourth graders who will be tempted to write that fear is stronger than hope. Global warming, poverty, and pandemics—the world can be full of fear, but it cannot prevent us from doing. Just listen for hope. Hope is the sigh of a nurse, settling in at home after a long night. Hope is the murmur of music that your neighbor dances to next door. Hope is the mumbled “I love you” at the end of a quick phone call. Hope is the whisper that quells fear. Hope is near.

Erica Nerbonne is an Eau Claire native. She is currently studying Spanish Linguistics at UW-Eau Claire and is excited to be (finally) graduating this May. She will then go on to pursue graduate studies in Ohio, focusing on English Language and Literature. She loves reading, baking, and taking long walks with her dogs throughout the Eastside Hill neighborhood. 

Hope Is The Thing That Binds

Connie Russell

This national crisis has left us stunned. We mourn the loss of so many people and weep for the dedication of our health care workers, police, firefighters, and first responders. But in the midst of this crisis, our humanity and caring shine through on so many fronts, and these bring us hope.

I have lunch on a regular basis with a group of women that all belong to the same organization. Many of those friendships have been casual. But as time goes by and we use group email to make connections, I find that I get to know these women in ways that I never have before, and our friendships deepen. I now know that Laurel has a daughter in law with a double lung transplant. I know Deb is sewing masks for health care facilities; she has taken time off from sewing hygiene kits for the young women in San Salvador. I heard from Mary Ann that the folks in River Falls are putting teddy bears in windows to give joy to children on walks with their parents. Sue is painting on silk scarves—a talent of which I wasn’t aware. Marge is baking bread again and, sadly, Nancy’s son has a serious medical issue. We send silly jokes to each other, and we talk about walking together as the weather warms. We are bound to each other by our organizational mission but also because we care and sustain hope for the days ahead.

On other fronts, the local library staff is thinking of ways we can give back to the businesses who take out memberships with the Friends of the Library and just today, I received from a classmate of long ago a note and pictures from the spring picnic at our country school when I was in seventh grade. I’ll write back to her. A high school classmate that I’ve rarely heard from sends me political cartoons on Messenger on a daily basis now, and my two sisters and brother are now in contact nearly every day. While we can’t see and touch those we love, we can listen to them and try to give hope to each other.

I text each day with a long time friend with a suppressed immune system, and our book club will use  Zoom to have a session. We aren’t called the Greedy Readers for nothing.  I’ve stopped procrastinating and read some nonfiction books that I kept ignoring, and my husband and I ordered a new game that we’ve yet to master so that we can take breaks from the constant news barrage.

Once this crisis is over, may we remember the little acts of kindness and the need to care enough about others to connect and deepen the friendships we have as well as reach out to others to give them hope.

Connie Russell lives in Chippewa Falls where she reads, writes, and spends time with her husband, family, and friends. Connie is a past participant in the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild retreats. She has published her memoir as well as articles in Volume One, Language Arts and Wisconsin English Journal. She has also written chapters for three professional books.

Hope Is The Thing Our Hunger Thirsts Upon

Rachel Werner

Hope is the thing

our hunger thirsts upon.

Despite doubt,

                        despair,

                                    and ourselves

—most of all.

The pride of man,

Responds to Ego’s call.

A seductive lure

—enclosing hearts—

behind stonewalls.

We deny Hope’s gifts,

To our detriment.

Undeterred, she returns—

A benevolent savior,

in the end.

Feasting upon Joy;

Humbled by Folly.

Empathy feeds us,

is the moral—

of Humanity’s story.

Rachel Werner is the Content Marketing Specialist for Taliesin Preservation; guest faculty at The Highlights Foundation & Hugo House; and a We Need Diverse Books program volunteer. Her work has appeared in Fabulous Wisconsin, BLK+GRN, BRAVA, Madison Magazine, Entrepreneurial Chef and Hobby Farms Magazine. Connect with her on Instagram @therealscript.

Hope Is The Thing That Might Print

Jeff DeGrave

So here we are: day whatever of the Coronamadness. We have moved from the natural world into sanitized zones of plastic, latex, and virtuality. Our desire to work, talk, and communicate with our fellow shuttered humans has never been more subject to the capabilities—and incapabilities—of modern technology. Enter: my all-in-none printer: the Epson XP-640.

Eppie and I fell in love three years ago. There she was—a humble bottom-feeder, but capable of actualizing print commands through the ether, all the while comporting herself in a space well within regulation breadbox size. She was “wireless, creative, and superior”—with an external tray dedicated to photo paper and DVD covers. She could do it all: print, copy, and scan—and even fax in times of pure desperation. It was time to take her home. And introduce her to my wife. And dog.

At first, we all got along. Eppie’s 10 color prints per minute were clearly right out of the 21st century. Compared to our previous printing assistant, the HP Laser Jet 4000—a machine that somehow simultaneously emoted the very best of Gutenberg and Battlestar Galactica—Eppie generated 600 dpi color prints beyond our wildest Pantone imaginations. All the while free of notable dot gain. Life was good and we were all printing happily together.

Until one day things changed. Eppie’s diseased intentions began to reveal themselves. The dog was first to sniff out all of her “late night updates” and her surreptitious “illegal firmware protocol activity.” The relentless all-hour screeching and chattering was unbearable. And during the day she had morphed into some sort of infected technological alien mercilessly devouring reams of helpless paper between her suffocating idler rollers. Her crossmember engine controller eventually became unhinged. And finally, one day, her Crucial CT12872AF53E 1GB 533MHz DDR2 FB-DIMM PC2-4200 was no longer fully buffered. And all the printing stopped.

We decided to look into Eppie’s past to see if others had been duped by her “expression premium” and lab-quality custom borderless capabilities. We were not alone. She had gone state-to-state and town-to-town luring in one suitor after the next with her seemingly harmless 2.7 inch LCD command display and cutting-edge duplex printing. An outraged Washingtonian asserted that her “touch screen interface was not friendly.” A New Yorker cried out into cyberspace, “Shame on you for your deceptive and underhanded business practices!” While a desperate woman from California stated he would use Eppie “as a doorstop or scour the Internet for some shady way to roll back the newest firmware update.”

After weeks of sitting idly in our homes, we finally rid ourselves of Eppie this morning—along with her equally unscrupulous soulmates Cyan, Magenta, Yellow, and Noir 310. Our house of three in quarantine now seems stunningly spacious and screechless and cozy. We talk about life before the madness. And afterward. And the stunning full color borderless images that our new “superior and versatile” XP-7100 might be printing for us very, very soon.

Jeff DeGrave is a writer and world traveler.

Hope Is The Thing Penciled In For Sunday afternoon

Courtney Kueppers

Sundays have a reputation for being scary, but for me, they are sacred. Not because I go to church — I usually do not. (Sorry, mom and dad). But because the seventh day of the week (or is it the first? I can never remember) tends to be completely devoid of obligations. 

You remember obligations, don’t you? Friends’ birthday gatherings; professional happy hours; that play you bought tickets to months ago and now somehow the date has snuck up on you. The kind of plans that feel great to make and even better to break — or at least they used to. 

Now, these sound like things to daydream about from our separate bunkers, formerly known as living rooms, as we stare out the window at the afternoon sun, hoping a cardinal pays us a visit today. But in the chaos of the busy lives we once lived, the weight of our many obligations could quickly feel heavy. 

In the world B.C. (before coronavirus), I carefully made sure to not commit to any such events on Sundays. The occasional brunch or hike with a pal was sometimes permissible in the morning hours, but come noon — I might as well have turned into a pumpkin.   

It was my little retreat from the world. A time I fiercely guarded as my own. A chance to reset before the week ahead. 

Now, the need for this refuge seems less necessary — at least not in one designated chunk of time. Lately, as I shelter in place, YouTube yoga practices have replaced the time I once spent in traffic. Home-cooked meals have taken the place of the pre-made kale salad I once scarfed down for lunch five days a week. While I take a stroll in the afternoons, I call my friends to check in on how they’re feeling.

These are all luxuries I feel both grateful, and sometimes guilty, to be experiencing right now. It’s not all hunky dory: I have lost many hours of sleep to anxiety about what the future will or will not look like. But for the most part, I know I have immense privilege right now, in an undeniably scary and uncertain time. My days may lack clear boundaries between work and personal time, but they also somehow feel more balanced. 

However, the shift left me with a hole in my once strict schedule: what to do with Sunday afternoons? The answer is at once both retro and completely of the moment: family time.

These days, we gather on Sunday afternoons with a little help from our new friend Zoom. Bridging the miles between my Atlanta apartment and my Midwestern roots, we come together for game night. 

First it was charades, then Kueppers-family Jeopardy, which required knowledge of family history and memories of childhood trips in order to be victorious. There’s been an in-house scavenger hunt, a couple rounds of “categories” and Boggle. I’m happy to report that our fierce sense of competition, penchant for sarcasm and deep love for one another translates just fine via video chat. 

As we laugh, talk about the state of the world and sip beers from our respective homes, I wonder why we haven’t always made this a priority. 

For right now, it’s the only standing social commitment I have on my calendar every week: right there on Sunday afternoons. 

Courtney Kueppers is a writer and journalist who lives in Atlanta. She’s originally from the Twin Cities, attended UW-Eau Claire and formerly worked for the Leader-Telegram and Wisconsin Public Radio.

Hope Is The Thing That Repeats

Jeannie E. Roberts

Waves shift

activate

appear

in intervals

like dominoes

flow

in recurrent display.

As liquidity cycles

fractality unfolds

minerals rest

beneath buoyancy.

Encircled by atomic theory

and quantum mechanics

my hope recurs

in periodicity

as atomic orbitals

build

repeat

electron configurations.

In chemical drenches

and elemental curls

my molecular mass

attempts to fathom

the submicroscopic actions

of electrons in matter

here

my hope repeats

in predictable variations of marvel.

Jeannie E. Roberts has authored six books, including The Wingspan of Things (Dancing Girl Press), Romp and Ceremony (Finishing Line Press), Beyond Bulrush (Lit Fest Press), and Nature of it All (Finishing Line Press). She is also author and illustrator of Rhyme the Roost! A Collection of Poems and Paintings for Children (Daffydowndilly Press, an imprint of Kelsay Books) and Let's Make Faces! (author-published). She is poetry editor of the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. When she’s not reading, writing, or editing, you can find her drawing and painting, or outdoors photographing her natural surroundings.

Hope Is The Thing I Hum

Bonni Knight

Hope sends me on a quest for solace. I begin my search in music. I force myself to try on various versions of Ode to Joy.

First: A string quartet (too sedate). Next: A mad German chorus wailing “Freude, schoener Goetterfunken” (too angsty). Finally: Desperate, I go punk with the raucous rock of the Adicts (too cynical).

Hope tells me to abandon my trip to Italy on the miraculous miniscule-butterfly-effect chance that my distance will somehow spare my elderly family there.

Hope digs deep, gouging into my non-spiritual soul until I feel secretly, silently, slightly envious of those with faith. 

Hope gives me words and actions to comfort others, because this is my survival skill: being there. But I find no song for myself.

Hope pushes me back to music. This time What a Wonderful World cues up. I’m angry and scared, but still clinging to hope by a musical thread. I wander to Louis Armstrong (too optimistic), swing by Innocence Mission, of all places (too naive), until I land at Joey Ramone (hmmm, maybe?).

Giving up on hope, I take an empty egg carton, a small pile of dirt, and some lettuce seeds. I mean, who doesn’t love a good salad in the midst of a pandemic? Absurdity wrestles with anxiety. But still, I scoop another helping of rich damp soil into the carton, tamping it in, before I dig a small divot, sprinkle in a couple tiny seeds, a tinch more water, and cover carefully with another dose of dirt.

And, as I tuck the seeds gently into the soil, I envision the little sprouts snuggling in their beds, growing, reaching toward the sun. I can almost see those babes stretching their tiny green tendrils of hope. This act of planting and watering and sunning these egg cartons of dirt, this is a leap of faith, which is almost hope.

As I scoop and dig and sprinkle and tamp, Joey Ramone’s desperate, cancer-shaded rock wriggles in my ear, and I find myself humming, “I see trees of green, red roses, too. …”

And I think to myself … hope is the thing I hum.


Bonni Knight is a storyteller who struggles to write. She taught French and all the communicative arts for 30 years before setting off into the woods with a husband, two slobbery, affectionate dogs, and one willfully indifferent cat.

Hope Is The Thing That Knows

Jodi Vandenberg-Davies

Hope is the thing that knows

What we cannot know.

It’s a pandemic spring in Wisconsin.

The floods came last time the earth spun this way,

And they receded. 

The political apocalypse arrived years ago now,

smudging all that we had written.

Nothing was engraved, it turns out.

Change exposes all that we thought we knew.

I feel the soft earth under my feet this morning

On the marsh running trail.

Yesterday the earth felt so vulnerable.

Now, as a scourge of death and disease

Passes among us humans,

The earth resonates like a solid home,

Away from the sidewalks and streets

A bed of sticks and dormant grass holds me up.

Throaty voices of the geese pierce the grey and insist on spring.

Bold blue jay’s colors shout against the misty, distant sun.

Snow is forced back by warm circles of tree trunks.

Ice is mottled, ridged, patched, thin and fraying

Or thick and angry white-grey, riddled with snow.

And then it’s water and the sky is kissing it

Sharp red lines of leafless bushes line the water’s edge

Vines curlicue up and around sister trees.

Everything is embracing everything else

What do we ever know about who or what is fragile?

Jodi Vandenberg-Daves is a professor at the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse and the author of Modern Motherhood:  An American History (Rutgers University Press, 2014), various other academic publications, and a self-published collection of poetry, Poems in the Mother Tongue. 

Hope Is A Goodnight Message Over Microsoft Teams

Emily Kassera

The thoughts my 8th graders choose to vocalize fascinate me. Sometimes, they’re sweet: “You’re like the best listener.” Sometimes they’re backhanded: “If you weren’t old and if you wore cooler shoes, I would totally want to be your friend.” (I’m 23 for reference…)

But most of the time, they’re contrary: “I don’t want to be here.”

That one’s my favorite. Most students mutter it subconsciously from time to time, but a few really enjoy the way it feels on their tongues. Like an Olympic javelin toss, I can see them preparing to launch those words. I’ll be up there, jiving with the lesson, other kids are loving it, I’ll start circling the classroom for one-on-one help, and these folks… they’ll look me dead in the eye when I get to them and let it fall from their lips like it’s weightless: I don’t want to be here.

It used to crush me, but not any more. How could I let it? They’re only saying what we’re all thinking. Do I sometimes wish I could stand up in the middle of a stressful meeting and say, “I don’t want to be here”? Yes. Do I think it on particularly tough days when I have things outside of school causing me worry? Absolutely. The thing is, “I don’t want to be here” is just the blunt way of saying all of the things adults have invented niceties to damper. How could I fault a 14-year-old for that?

Right now, however, the global pandemic has quite literally forced us to “not be here.” Schools are officially closed for the remainder of the year. While I’m devastated to lose the in-person aspect of my student teaching semester, I couldn’t help but let my mind drift to the “I don’t want to be here” kids. Were they shocked? Were they elated? Were they toasting sparkling white grape juice and making celebratory TikToks?

I didn’t know the answer, but a week after schools closed I sent all of my students a check in message to ask how they were and assure them I was available and eager to stay connected through our district’s chosen platform, Microsoft Teams. I got several responses later that day with everything from Netflix recommendations, to photos of pets, to recipes for their mom’s banana bread.

That was almost one month ago, now–one month since I sent that first check in–but just two nights ago, my phone buzzed on my dresser. It was 10pm. I grumbled and rose reluctantly from bed to check it. There was a reply… to my one-month old message, from the poster child of “I don’t want to be here”: goodnight ms kassera. i miss ur class.

A native of Chippewa Falls, WI, Emily Kassera is an English and theatre education student at the University of Wisconsin Eau Claire. After wrapping up her student teaching semester this spring, Emily hopes to find a job in the area where she can read, and write, and do theatre with those hip Chippewa Valley teens.

Hope Revealed

Teri Holford

Hope is the thing just beyond reach.

The smoky shape of desire,

Hanging low, we must stretch our arms,

And believe.

Hope is the thing we could call crabgrass.

Stubborn, persistent, resistant.

Despite all odds, the seed buried deep beneath the cold death of pavement,

It finds the will to generate towards the light it knows is there,

And shows us the way to the first yellow brick.

Hope is the thing we understand the least.

But strangely, it’s the thing we never forget.

Our common bond, our collective humanity.

Polyglot, it speaks all languages,

And flies under the radar of translation, interpretation, conjugation.

Hope is the thing that fills balconies with song.

The audacity to fling open the shutters,

Fill its lungs with expression,

And share freely, wildly, a song for the universe

Sounds with wings that infiltrate shadows and narrow passageways.

Hope is the thing that promises tomorrow.

It flies in the face of containment.

Skirting definition, boundaries, and rules.

It knows nothing of formulas, codes, order, or tyranny.

Like the sun, it shines for everyone.

Hope is the thing that knows.

It knows before we do.

And never fails. But never is a big word. A dangerous word.

Because never sometimes comes calling.

And when it does, we close our eyes,

And accept that hope knows.

What is best.

Hope is the thing that grows into wisdom.

It spares no one.

When we feel that Hope has betrayed us,

Left us abandoned, treading in our sea of despair,

It unsparingly gives.

A sliver of something, the sound of a whisper, a wink that flirts.

Because it knows.

Not necessarily what we think we know.

Or what we want to know.

When the dice have been cast,

And all seems lost,

Hope is generous.

Gently, prodding our emptiness towards renewal,

healing,

And reconciliation.

Without despair, truly, what then is hope?

Words are a big deal to me. They are the flip side of the coin that they share with visuals. Both are wonderful because they co-exist in a delicious way and play together to create some sensational art. I am an academic librarian during the day and when I get home, I play with words and images. Writing for me is more about presence than product. Maybe someday I’ll finish one of my many projects. In the meantime, words have powerful creative potential and they give me infinite pleasure.

Hope Is The Thing To Do Right Now

Mickey Crothers

Hope is three crumpled dollars you find in a coat pocket when you thought you were flat-broke… then giving those three crumpled dollars to somebody who needs them worse than you do.

Hope is that power surge of devotion when a tiny, brand new hand closes around your finger, and you realize in that moment that life will reach way out beyond any days you will see. And you realize the world will be tended skillfully and lovingly one day by the owner of that brand new, tiny hand.

Hope is a chameleon. It morphs. If hope in one form doesn’t do the trick, it mysteriously transforms into a revised version of itself so it can rise to the occasion. Hope changes its clothes, reinvents itself as many times as it must, to get the job done.

Hope is working shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers-becoming-friends. It’s the deep, coursing power of building together what we cannot build alone. Hope is a neighbor showing up to milk the cows when somebody’s leg is broken. Hope is a barn-raising. Hope is a casserole.

Hope is straining the eye to look through the chinks in the headlines for the good news. It’s about believing in things unseen, like the million small acts of generosity we’ll never know about, because they won’t be touted in the bold, black strokes of headlines. Hope is written quietly, by hand.   

Hope is a prayer whispered through the darkness. It’s the prayer you whisper for someone you love. It’s the prayer you whisper for someone who hates you. It’s the prayer you whisper for a stranger you will never meet. It’s the prayer someone whispers for you.

Hope is starting to sing when the last thing on earth you feel like doing is singing. It feels artificial at first – dishonest. Your brain doesn’t believe a word of it. But keep singing. The vibration of throat and chest set the air around you vibrating, and the song streams back in through your ears, and your skeptic brain has now forgotten who it was that did this singing in the first place, and grudgingly allows itself to be cheered. First thing you know, you won’t really have to sing any more – the song will start singing itself. And every stringed instrument in the universe will start resonating – echoing hope.

Hope is a hand. The strong hand that pulls someone up when they’re too exhausted to make the climb on their own. The hand that milked your cows when your leg was broken. The hand that raised the barn. The hand that made the casserole. When the hope of one is on the ebb, it’s the gentle hand of another that reaches out and pulls it back. Hope is the unspoken language of a hand that touches the places words can’t reach. Hope is the hand that promises it will never let go.

Hope is the thing to do right now.

Mickey Crothers is a clinical psychologist in private practice and a professor of psychology at the University of Wisconsin – Eau Claire. Her work has appeared in dusty journals tucked at the bottoms of desk drawers.

Hope Is The Thing That Shines

Chloe Rowe

Hope is what you believe. Hope is trust. Trusting those around you to take action, to stand by your side. Stand by your side through joy, through despair. Hope is the little piece in your heart that knows everything is going to be okay. Hope is knowing tough times happen in everyone’s lives, knowing you have to fight for a happy ending. Fight, even if there are bumps in the road. Hope is the light at the end of the tunnel. 

I trust those above me, under me, and equal to me will all put in their part to defeat COVID-19. Although COVID-19 is exponentially increasing both in deaths and in positive tests, I am beginning to see the light. I can see the sun shining at the end of the coronavirus. I can feel the hope in those around me. I see citizens in my community choosing to work from home to stop the spread. I see businesses shutting down even if they qualify under “essential” because the owners know how continuing activity is not mandatory. Companies are putting other’s health before profit. I watch the news and see hospitals preparing for patients. People around the world are rising and joining together by staying apart. Creators on social media are actively encouraging fans to stay home. Communities are making masks for hospitals. Volunteers are rolling carts around the hospitals supplying food for the day shift workers while the hospital cafeterias close. 

What especially gives me hope is neighborhoods creating ideas for each other to take part in. For example, families are decorating the sidewalks with activities and inspirational notes and quotes for both children and adults, and houses are putting stuffed animals in windows for neighborhood scavenger hunts. The reason the neighborhoods are giving me hope is that I see people coming together by keeping the joy high. The houses participating in similar activities are keeping their community delightful and energized. 

Hope is the growing faith in those around you. Hope is the ability to see the luminous shine peeking through the dark. COVID-19 may be expeditiously growing, but hope has the capability to expand even quicker. 

Chloe Rowe is a student in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Her goal in life is to attend University of Wisconsin- Madison to become either a pediatrician or a family doctor. 

Hope Is The Thing That Stays The Same

Breanna Hayden

The ringing of the church bell hourly. The knowledge of the seasons changing yearly. The sun rising and setting every day. There can be hope found in all these things that happen constantly. It’s almost like the beat of what we do; they keep us together in what we do, and we become reliant on them to lead us. 

 The church bell other than being a percussive instrument can help people keep track of time, so they can be on time to events. Without this many people may lose track of time. Without the seasons changing there wouldn’t be much agriculture resulting in more people starving. Without the sunrise and sunset there would be no set time to sleep, and no new day starting. But this is not the case. Even in this tough time of COVID19 we still have all these things to push us forward.  

COVID19 hasn’t completely ruined our daily lives. Sure, school may be out, and there might not be a lot of workplaces open, but some things never completely change. When any new virus is introduced to us there will be hard times, but we can grow from those hard times. The flu used to be worse than it is now with no preventatives, but now we have the flu vaccine. Even though there have been many tough times that we have been presented with life never completely changes.  

Our needs are another example. We can’t change those completely suddenly because of COVID19. We still need food and water. Only a few things changed compared to the many things in life. Like most things there is a peak. We are nearing that peak of COVID. Once things are under control, we will have school and work like normal. We might even take a few good things out of this experience like washing hands more often, sneezing in your elbow, and overall having better hygiene.  

Do you still brush your teeth day and night? Do you still shower? Do you still talk over the phone to your family? Hopefully you can say yes, but even though this pandemic is scaring people and taking things away from us these are always possible. If the sun rises and sets, the church bells ring, and the seasons change, I have the ability to hope.  

Breanna Hayden is a middle schooler in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. She spends time with her family and friends, although currently her family is all terrified of COVID19.

Hope Is The Thing To See On The Bright Side

Anthara Boehm

I hoped that I would always have my first dog Dudley beside me forever.I hoped that my great grandma would spend one more Christmas with me, and I hoped that my grandpa’s cancer would go away forever. I really hoped. Even though the ones I loved so much were gone, I replayed the memories I had with them. The dog walks I had with him, the morning conversations I had with her would now only be dreams. I hoped to see the bright side of all  these crises. Seeing my grandfather with this pain of cancer makes me heartbroken, but on the bright side I see that I still have time to make more memories with him.

I always hoped to see the bright side of everything until I heard that I was not going to be attending school, I was not going to be seeing my friends and family, and I was not going to be anywhere but in my house being quarantined. This crisis in fact made me hopeless. Being at home I started looking on the negative side. Doing 8th grade online school all alone by myself, not being able to talk to my friends and family, and worst of all not being able to go anywhere but staying in your house keeping yourself away from anyone and everyone. All anyone could talk about was Covid-19. Everyone was worried, scared, and did nothing but panic. I did, too. 

Then one day when I was in quarantine I decided to bake brownies. The joy in putting the ingredients together into the oven and watching it all form into a delicious treat made my heart beam. I started to love baking and I kept on doing it.  Another day when I was in quarantine I decided to write letters to my friends and family thanking them for how much they mean to me. It was such a blast using my creative crafts and arts to form a homemade card. I even went outside one day and spent the day outside with my dog, chasing him, and playing tug a war with him. 

This really made me miss all the times that I could have done this with him in the past but never had the time. I hoped to see the bright side of this crisis, and I had! I learned, experienced and explored so much. I baked, made homemade letters, and spent time with my dog making memories to last a lifetime. I really did find hope on the bright side of all of this. Hope is truly the thing to see on the bright side.

Anthara Boehm is a student and writer.

Hope Is The Thing That Promises More When The World Is Less

Ann Larsen

Her hand presses into mine as I'm crying again for the third time. 

She counts the weeks on the calendar, and marks them for me to see, so that even when my mind is raging static, my eyes can find something clear to fix onto. 

Six months ago, we signed a lease with trembling hands, electrified and terrified to embark on something new together. After debating in the car, teary and desperate and more than anything, asking for solidarity, we'd agreed. 

And I'd still second-guessed it. It was all I talked about in my weekly sessions- the fear of commitment as opportunity for abandonment the root of every frustration. 

But over the months, I'd allowed myself to believe in it. I'd taken detours down main street just to see the porch swing one more time, so we could rubberneck and chatter excitedly about where we could put potted plants, and whether the siding looked different than we remembered. 

And now, nearly a year after I met a beautiful stranger in a coffee shop, the thought of home together pulls me forward, tugs me to my feet when another day at work, smothered behind a hot mask with a pandemic breathing down my neck, feels like more than I can bear. 

"We're in this together," she says, and I know that no matter what happens, summer will come. 

Ann Larsen is writer who has lived in the Chippewa Valley for three years and is proud to call it home. While working at the local food co-op and (slowly) branching out and participating in community events, she has witnessed the love and solidarity intrinsic to the area. She's excited to get back to exploring Menomonie once the snow (finally!) melts.

Hops Is The Thing With Job Security

hope is the thing, bright generalist, multi-tasking the hell out of it

hope knows our lives depend on it

do we? 

hope is the thing tugging at the hand of fear

as it runs, screaming, our limbic systems in tow

whoa there! take a break, let's sit down over here in this nice comfy place

in fact, you scaredy-cat, why don't you take the day off

here's some tea

not strong enough? ok, here's a scotch

now, let's breathe together

look, there's even a *gif* for that

you just sit and watch that for a little while

if you get bored

Facetime the devil - you get along good, yeah?

stay, ok? be quiet...i'll be back for you later

hope is the thing weaving a golden thread

through the shroud of grief we're wearing, a crabby little garment

see that? swirls of light!

hieroglyphs of happy villagers doing their thing, mythic creatures

those celtic knot patterns people favor for tattoos, along the edges

see all that lovely stuff?

walk around in that a bit now

ah, don't you feel better?  'course you do

hope is the thing hitting the damn smiley emoji button

in our wayward amygdalae

saying: you don't have to lean the heck so far away, at the grocery

or the sidewalk

there's already 6+ feet there

plus!

it's not illegal to smile

even with a mask on, it shows in those sweet crinkles around your eyes

say good morning like you mean it

they're still human and so are you

hope is the thing that courts joy in an endless romance

whispering quietly in our ears: 

savor the food, even dumb food, you lucky thing

dance in the kitchen while you're making it - even if you're alone, because then? you're not

listen to those birdy-birds, love the flowers even if it's going to snow tomorrow

and wow! those 17 dog breed mixes you never saw in your neighborhood, before!

cheerlead those people walking, go out, do that!

never mind the indoor cats; they like this and are not to be trusted

hail the loved ones near and far

let's not forget to hail ourselves; we have to be beloved to ourselves

i'm only here to give you the nudge, says hope, a little overworked

you have to carry this

hope is the thing that takes measure of worry, despair

there's an apothecary for that

pulls out the mortar & pestle, mixes the seeds

courage, instigation, reason, discernment, truth; ok, some outrage

and like every wild-good cook who overdoes the garlic

adds about 5x as much love as is called for

take that! you messed-up-beloved world

and keep taking it until you're well

old julian didn't have it wrong

hope is the thing doing essential work,

we can't lay off hope.

Jera Terreng is new to Eau Claire, and courting a long-time desire to write. She loves the optimism of this CVWG project and felt compelled to offer something in exchange for the joy & hope she's received. Bowing deep to everyone who's championing hope, in this time. Thank you.

Hope Is The Thing So Small, You Might Almost Miss It

Karissa Zastrow

When I first heard the whispers about Covid-19, I hoped it wouldn’t make its way north. But then schools and businesses shut down and cases were reported in my county. I felt as though I was sinking, sucked down and trapped in quicksand. While I try to find my new “normal” I have been trying to find the calm in quiet and solitude. As someone who thrives on busy hallways, social interactions, laughter, and events, I have had to dig deep to find the small moments that inspire hope. 

I found it in the two-hour conversation for the second night in a row with my youngest sister, who I haven't talked to in months because we’ve been “too busy.” We laughed until we couldn’t breathe, and tears trickled down our cheeks. My heart felt lighter. 

I found it watching a robin dance on my lawn two days after the first day of spring and four days after my social isolation started. He didn’t fly away as I made my way past him to my front door. I paused for a minute as he hopped toward me and looked into my eyes before chirping. I watched until he flew away- a reminder that freedom will come again soon.

I found it in words. First, in a phone call about my grandfather. I chose to focus on the words “caught early” and “very healthy” rather than “cancer” and “surgery.” Next, between the words in my new book allowing me to escape real life for a while and live in a pandemic free world full of social interaction. 

I found it in the texts, phone calls, e-mails, and other messages from coworkers, colleagues, friends, classmates and family checking in to make sure I am okay while isolating alone. I take these moments to reconnect now that parts of life are on pause.

 I found it in a stranger who yelled hello to me through her face mask and from a safe distance—a sign that we have not lost our kindness in the madness. 

I found it in a new song that I play as loud as I can. I sing-scream along with the artist as I wander around my house, trying to stay busy and keep my anxious thoughts at bay.

I found it along the riverbank, as I listened to the water rush by and cleanse my soul. Looking up at the sky, I took time to imprint the gradation from orange to pink to purple as the sun set in the distance. 

I found it when the sun burst through the clouds after a week of grim, gray days as if exclaiming, “don’t worry! I am still here!” I turned my face toward the sun, soaking in the warmth and closed my eyes before whispering, “me too.”

Karissa Zastrow is a writer and graduate student who currently resides in Menomonie, WI.

Hope Is Virtual Office Hours

Stephanie Turner

Sitting here in my bunker—I mean, basement—no, I mean, office—I’m ready at the laptop. Ready to receive earnest students with challenging questions about my carefully crafted assignments, now adapted to our COVID-19 all-digital classroom-slash-office. There, we can talk through our screens face-to-face in real time, almost as good as actual office hours in my actual office back at school. Almost.

I’m charged up, logged in, have all the necessary tabs open: our classroom “management system,” my work email, a couple of websites students need for homework, gmail . . . .

But, as I just posted over on Facebook while waiting for my first visitor for today’s virtual office hours, “I’ve been having trouble concentr—”

I click on the New York Times tab, always there at the far left, forever updating. “Cases near 2 million,” one headline sighs. “Global Economy Faces Worst Slump Since Great Depression,” shouts another. Wait! What was that? Did I hear someone logging on? I click on the “Welcome” tab for my virtual office hours. Nope. I’m still the only one in the “room.”

 All they have to do to get my attention when they enter my virtual office is say the password, “bananagrams” for one class, “monsters R us” and “all we need is science” for the other two, respectively. I’m trying to make this fun, this social distance learning. I hope somebody shows up soon.

Over in my gmail account, more bad news. Something else important’s been cancelled due to COVID-19. Something that wasn’t even supposed to happen until June. June! I thought for sure that was far enough out that we could, at least cautiously, start to ditch social distancing. Uh-oh. There’s that funny sprung spring noise. I click back over to my virtual office. “Are you still there?” My virtual office is talking to me now. I click the button that means “yes.”

Virtual office hours remind me that most of us are clicking the buttons that mean “yes” now, each of us in our own ways. Yes, despite the suffering and death wrought by this new jot of protein, a great many of us are still here. We are showing up for each other now in surprising new ways. Zoom yoga. Virtual happy hour. Music and games shared from platform to digital platform.  

“Hello?” A hesitant voice calls from my laptop. Apparently this is someone who forgot the password. No matter! I pounce on the microphone button. “Hello! Can you hear me?” I’m desperate for the contact. “How are you?” I hit the video button. There we are!

Stephanie Turner is a writer and professor at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire.

Hope is the Thing that Gives Us More Time

Leni Marshall

Hope is the thing that gives us more time.

            Hope beguiles us to believe in longer.

            Hope conducts the imaginary of better, of cure.

Time is the thing that gives us more hope.

            Time spins visions of possible futures.

            Time dwarfs the personal tang of our fear.

“Hope time” as a home is irrational, naïve; as a destination,

remote, perhaps marooned, off the map.

“Time hope”: a new branch of philosophy,

            same as the old. Is the desire for assurances

            of progress a sign of progress?

Hope is the thing that is not a wish, that we can make

            come true (unless it is just a wish).

Hope is the thing that we can become.

Leni Marshall, Ph.D., is a principal consultant at LeaderSHIFT In and is the Intercultural Development Ambassador and a Professor of English and Philosophy at the University of Wisconsin-Stout. Marshall’s publications include poetry, articles, and books on intercultural awareness, age studies, inclusion, disability studies, and contemporary culture.