A Bucket of Hope

We’re just a drop in the bucket, as if that’s meaningless.
But we say, “No, wait a minute. If you have a bucket, those raindrops fill it up very fast. Being a drop in the bucket is magnificent.”
The problem is we cannot see the bucket.
Our work is helping people see that there is a bucket.
There are all these people all over the world who are creating this bucket of hope.
And so our drops are incredibly significant.
~Frances Moore Lappe from Hope Dies Last

How great is God—beyond our understanding!
    The number of his years is past finding out.

 He draws up the drops of water,
    which distill as the mist to rain;
 the clouds pour down their moisture
    and abundant showers fall on mankind.

Job 36:26-28

Our farm could be considered a broken bucket sanctuary; our Haflinger horses are very hard on their buckets , and in retaliatory defense the buckets have broken them back.

The best buckets are rubber, not hard plastic. They are more forgiving and flexible and can handle a fair amount of equine abuse.

One of my jobs on the farm is to keep all buckets full, and so less likely to be the target of entertainment and abuse. It takes all those drops of water together to provide what the horse must have to quench their thirst as well as to protect the bucket itself so it will survive to be filled another day.

I can never forget: each bucket of hope starts with just one drop in the bucket, the beginning of a magnificent abundance.

Petal By Petal

Life is a stream 
On which we strew 
Petal by petal the flower of our heart; 
The end lost in dream, 
They float past our view, 
We only watch their glad, early start. 

Freighted with hope, 
Crimsoned with joy, 
We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; 
Their widening scope, 
Their distant employ, 
We never shall know. And the stream as it flows 
Sweeps them away, 
Each one is gone 
Ever beyond into infinite ways. 
We alone stay 
While years hurry on, 
The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays. 
~Amy Lowell “Petals”

The stream of time flows ever faster,
rushing away my remembrance of yesterday,
the quiet moments today,
my hope for tomorrow.
Every day – a petal thrown into the cascade –
disappears one by one, never to return.
What of my dreams will last
as they droop and drop and scatter?
It is a lingering fragrance their roots leave behind;
that is how to be remembered.