Or rather, I absolutely wanted to shy away, thought, is this really the moment to try to say things about hope, what things are there to say, how can I, in all my complicities, say them?

Hope in the choosing of festive jumpers and red dresses and Christmas hats. Little bits of hope carried by each person chaotically filling a room like these lights.

The trust when you open your mouth and your soul, bearing hope that what goes out from you won’t come back empty.

So many little penguin stories in their faces and various attire. So much woollen fun in the woollen snow. So much joy over a little woollen fish.

But where are the stories of not knowing? The stories of pilgrimaging into an unknown that remains unknown? The stories of not arriving, and not being able to call that not yet.

Somehow, my (INJF/Enneagram 4 if you like that kind of thing) gut is whispering that the not-managing, or the choosing to let my brain rest, or the excessive sugar of the last few days, held hope too.