I am baulking at the idea of writing about hope is like a seed. But I did plant them.

Last night I held a wooden heart in my hand as I prayed. Felt its unyielding shape, and sharp point, digging into me. Maybe this gripping is one of the things hope is.

In this storm is hope the man in high vis uprighting garden furniture again and again?

Wondered if they could bear hope. If I would be right to even invite them too. Wondered what my bearing hope would look like.

Her body is tuned to hope. Seemingly hard wired to open herself to love as a reflex.

All day long, ideas were gathered, tumbled, tenderly held, stuck together and soft and so, so beautiful, when you think about it.