A single story can be hopeful or not-so-hopeful. It all depends on where you put the emphasis.
Part 1
Create hope in a story you tell by making sure you know in your heart where the hope is. Feel it first.
Part 2
Create hope by playing with time. Make the time span as long as it needs to be.
Part 3
Create hope in one context by telling a hopeful story about another.
Part 4
Create hope in stories by talking about hope.
Part 5
Create hope in stories by including symbols.
part 6
Create hope with heroes
Part 7
Create hope by favouring the underdog.
Part 8
Create hope by reporting the unexpected good thing.
Part 9
Create hope by telling how an impossible thing became possible.
10) Create hope in stories with the language of ”yet” and “”when”.
Using “yet” and “when” in a hopeful way is a skill worth developing because these are powerful hope words coming from people who know how and where to place them. They can help us connect to the hope that lies unexpressed just below the surface of a story. They can set up the foreshadowing of a future that will occur later in a story, or a future that might occur after the story. A sentence that hints at the possibility of a better future is a sentence that invites us to hope. It takes a bit of experimentation to learn to use “yet” and “when” in a hopeful context, given that both these words are commonly used in a variety of ways.
For those of you who find it helpful to map out the grammar, we’ll be employing “”Yet” as an adverb and “when” as a conjunction. These rules out other forms that are not related to hope, even though they are appropriate uses of the language. “Yet” as an adverb sets a timeline on some sort of action. “It hasn’t happened yet.” “When” as a conjunction connects a timeline to an event. “It rained when he came to town." ”Yet” and “when” give us hope when we use them to draw a contrast between a situation at one time, and that same situation at another time.
Let us look at using “yet” and “when” to foreshadow something good that is going to happen in a story. The teller has all the power to influence hope here, because the teller knows what is going to happen. Think of a story where Johnny’s mother despairs over the constant mess in her house. You can in that story, for example, describe a floor covered in dirty socks. You can say, “Johnny never picked up his socks,” and not feel any hope at all. You can say, “Johnny hasn’t picked up his socks yet.” In this case, we really don’t know if there’s any hope that he will. Some will choose to hope that he will, others will imagine that he won’t. But if you, the teller, already know that Johnny did eventually learn to pick up his socks, you can say, “Johnny hadn’t learned to pick up his socks yet.” That statement foreshadows the future. It opens the door to a possible contrast between this point in the story and some other point we haven’t reached yet. It tempts us, invites us to hope that he does, at some point, pick them up. It guides us through the story in a hopeful way.
“When” can also foreshadow a good thing the teller knows is going to happen. In this example it points to a contrast between how things are at one point in a story, and how they will be at another point. “It was back in the dirty days, the days when Johnny didn’t pick up socks.” “She would sip her coffee, dreaming of the day when the floor would sparkle, its surface unencumbered by Johnny’s dirty socks.” Again, note the contrast between two time periods.
Now let us turn to another way in which we can generate hope with “yet” and “when”. We can use them to foreshadow a hopeful future that could possibly happen in a time after our story is finished. It hasn’t happened so far, or maybe it did happen in the past and is not happening now. It’s the hopeful future that hasn’t occurred yet. The hope comes from our expectation that things will be better when it does. Things will be better as soon as it happens. Things will be better at the time when it happens. Here we are stepping out on uncertain, untested ground—the land of the unknown, the territory of possibility. We are deciding that we will still have hope at the known end of our story, using language to create that hope without the support of the happily-ever-after scenario that has neatly concluded so many fairy tales from the past. We are projecting, in a subtle way, a hopeful story of a time beyond the end of our story.
“Johnny hasn’t picked up his socks yet. And if the house is quieter now, no sound of nagging or pleading, then it just may be that Johnny’s mother is too busy making fabulous quilts to notice.” “Johnny’s mother is busier these days. Quilting is her all-consuming passion. And when Johnny reaches that magic age of picking up socks and doing little things to please his mother, it may take her a few days to notice.”
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
WARMER
Nothing makes you warmer than a random day of hotness
A surprise in late September
When the sun comes out with gusto and the wind goes on vacation
When your coat goes into hiding while your toes are glad of sandals
And the heat balloons inside you through your skin and bones and tissues
Warming all the places that have wanted to be warmed
Nothing makes you warmer than a random day of hotness
A surprise in late September
Except cuddling somebody
Or chasing after a toddler,
Or blowing into the day’s first cup of coffee
Or eating hot and sour soup,
Or maybe—and this is where the hope comes in,
Maybe a really warm day in early October?
A surprise in late September
When the sun comes out with gusto and the wind goes on vacation
When your coat goes into hiding while your toes are glad of sandals
And the heat balloons inside you through your skin and bones and tissues
Warming all the places that have wanted to be warmed
Nothing makes you warmer than a random day of hotness
A surprise in late September
Except cuddling somebody
Or chasing after a toddler,
Or blowing into the day’s first cup of coffee
Or eating hot and sour soup,
Or maybe—and this is where the hope comes in,
Maybe a really warm day in early October?
Friday, September 24, 2010
THE PARTY
On the night of my most recent birthday—an annual event that occurs only two days after David’s birthday—Mark cooked prime rib with fresh garden vegetables for dinner. I ate two helpings. The prime rib was delicious, and there was no need to leave room for dessert, seeing as how Tracey had baked chocolate cheesecake muffins for my breakfast, and we would be able to snack before bed on the last of the Mars bars squares she had baked for David. Their gift to both of us—a spiffy new webcam with tracking capability—stood patiently upstairs in the study, waiting for something to track.
Birthdays in our house have changed over the years. We used to celebrate them with David’s family. His mother loved to buy him his favourite cake. Then, when Ruth grew to adulthood, she would sometimes plan a party, a two-caker accommodating our differing tastes.
Though Mark grew up with birthday parties, his adult self never was one to celebrate birthdays. You could celebrate his if you liked. He’d never ask you to. You could tell him yours was coming and he’d forget, or maybe ignore your hint. But Tracey has brought about a change. Birthdays matter to Tracey. She has a generous heart, and birthdays lend themselves comfortably to some of her favourite pastimes—baking, shopping and giving. Compelled by her enthusiasm and her attention to the calendar, Mark has been transformed into a man who shops for birthday gifts. Once he has shopped for a gift, a point of pride, he gives it to you. “You might as well have it now,” he’ll say logically. “No point in waiting.” I look on in wonder. People change. How else can you account for it.
Birthdays in our family continue to change. Say what you like about tradition. The future pulls you forward. Mark disappeared while we sat at the table, sighing and chatting the way you do when you’ve eaten a bit more than you ought. Next thing we knew, he was urgently beckoning us upstairs to the study.
There, in front of the computer stood two cakes, a white Safeway cake covered in inches of disgusting white icing for those among us who prefer that, and a lovely chocolate cheesecake for me. There were candles to blow. Ruth and Derek were singing Happy Birthday into their webcam in Guelph. Thus began a most delightful cyberparty. It felt like fun. It was almost as if we were all there in the study. As we ate our cake, they were eating peach cobbler.
Who knows what the future holds? Who can possibly imagine? Will it be another year or two before some techy figures out how to share a cake over the Internet?
Birthdays in our house have changed over the years. We used to celebrate them with David’s family. His mother loved to buy him his favourite cake. Then, when Ruth grew to adulthood, she would sometimes plan a party, a two-caker accommodating our differing tastes.
Though Mark grew up with birthday parties, his adult self never was one to celebrate birthdays. You could celebrate his if you liked. He’d never ask you to. You could tell him yours was coming and he’d forget, or maybe ignore your hint. But Tracey has brought about a change. Birthdays matter to Tracey. She has a generous heart, and birthdays lend themselves comfortably to some of her favourite pastimes—baking, shopping and giving. Compelled by her enthusiasm and her attention to the calendar, Mark has been transformed into a man who shops for birthday gifts. Once he has shopped for a gift, a point of pride, he gives it to you. “You might as well have it now,” he’ll say logically. “No point in waiting.” I look on in wonder. People change. How else can you account for it.
Birthdays in our family continue to change. Say what you like about tradition. The future pulls you forward. Mark disappeared while we sat at the table, sighing and chatting the way you do when you’ve eaten a bit more than you ought. Next thing we knew, he was urgently beckoning us upstairs to the study.
There, in front of the computer stood two cakes, a white Safeway cake covered in inches of disgusting white icing for those among us who prefer that, and a lovely chocolate cheesecake for me. There were candles to blow. Ruth and Derek were singing Happy Birthday into their webcam in Guelph. Thus began a most delightful cyberparty. It felt like fun. It was almost as if we were all there in the study. As we ate our cake, they were eating peach cobbler.
Who knows what the future holds? Who can possibly imagine? Will it be another year or two before some techy figures out how to share a cake over the Internet?
Monday, September 20, 2010
HOPE AND COUNSELLING PUBLICATIONS FROM THE WORK OF THE HOPE FOUNDATION OF ALBERTA
A number of you have been asking for a list of publications that describe some of the work we show in hope presentations. This is by no means an exhaustive list, but it represents our recent work. You can find many more articles by searching for articles and book chapters by Denise Larsen and Ronna Jevne.
PUBLICATIONS
Larsen D., & Stege, R. (2010). Hope-focused practices during early psychotherapy sessions: implicit approaches, Journal of integrative psychotherapy 20(3) 271/292.
Larsen D., & Stege, R. (2010). Hope-focused practices during early psychotherapy sessions: explicit approaches, Journal of integrative psychotherapy 20(3)292-311.
Edey, W. (2010). Handling life’s problems in a hopeful way: a hope and strengths program for parents who have fetal alcohol spectrum disorder (FASD), AASCF research journal retrieve from http://www.aascf.com/index.php/research-journal
Edey, W. (2010). What would a hopeful parent say? Living with FASD. Retrieve from http://www.skfasnetwork.ca
LeMay, L., & Edey, W. (2008). Teachers helping teachers: A hope-focused experience. Edmonton, Canada: Hope Foundation of Alberta.
Edey, W., (2008). The words the cat took, in This Little Light of Mine: Stories and Poetry from Family Caregivers, Kathleen M. Banchoff, Editor, McMaster University Press.
Lemay, L., Edey, W. & Larsen D. (2008). Nurturing Hopeful Souls, Practices and Activities for working With Children and Youth. Hope Foundation of Alberta.
Larsen, D., Edey, W., & LeMay, L. (2007). Understanding the role of hope in counselling: Exploring the intentional uses of hope. Counselling Psychology
Quarterly, 20(4), 401-416.
Larsen, D., Edey, W., & LeMay , L. (2005). Put hope to work: A commentary. Journal of Advanced Nursing, 52(5), 515-517.
Edey, W., Larsen, D., & LeMay, L. (2005). The counsellor’s introduction to hope tools. Unpublished paper. Hope Foundation of Alberta, Edmonton, AB.
Edey, W. & Jevne, R.F. (2003). Hope, illness and counseling practice: Making hope visible. Canadian Journal of Counselling, 37(1), 44-51.
Edey, W. (1999). Hope as a line of inquiry in the counselling relationship. Unpublished paper prepared at the Hope Foundation of Alberta, Edmonton, Alberta.
Edey, W. (1999). After the laughter. Psymposium, 8(5), 12.
Edey, W. (2000). The language of hope in counselling. Unpublished paper prepared at the Hope Foundation of Alberta, Edmonton, Alberta.
Edey, W., Jevne, R.F., & Westra, K. (1998). Key elements of hope-focussedcounselling: The art of making hope visible. Edmonton: The Hope Foundation of Alberta.
PUBLICATIONS
Larsen D., & Stege, R. (2010). Hope-focused practices during early psychotherapy sessions: implicit approaches, Journal of integrative psychotherapy 20(3) 271/292.
Larsen D., & Stege, R. (2010). Hope-focused practices during early psychotherapy sessions: explicit approaches, Journal of integrative psychotherapy 20(3)292-311.
Edey, W. (2010). Handling life’s problems in a hopeful way: a hope and strengths program for parents who have fetal alcohol spectrum disorder (FASD), AASCF research journal retrieve from http://www.aascf.com/index.php/research-journal
Edey, W. (2010). What would a hopeful parent say? Living with FASD. Retrieve from http://www.skfasnetwork.ca
LeMay, L., & Edey, W. (2008). Teachers helping teachers: A hope-focused experience. Edmonton, Canada: Hope Foundation of Alberta.
Edey, W., (2008). The words the cat took, in This Little Light of Mine: Stories and Poetry from Family Caregivers, Kathleen M. Banchoff, Editor, McMaster University Press.
Lemay, L., Edey, W. & Larsen D. (2008). Nurturing Hopeful Souls, Practices and Activities for working With Children and Youth. Hope Foundation of Alberta.
Larsen, D., Edey, W., & LeMay, L. (2007). Understanding the role of hope in counselling: Exploring the intentional uses of hope. Counselling Psychology
Quarterly, 20(4), 401-416.
Larsen, D., Edey, W., & LeMay , L. (2005). Put hope to work: A commentary. Journal of Advanced Nursing, 52(5), 515-517.
Edey, W., Larsen, D., & LeMay, L. (2005). The counsellor’s introduction to hope tools. Unpublished paper. Hope Foundation of Alberta, Edmonton, AB.
Edey, W. & Jevne, R.F. (2003). Hope, illness and counseling practice: Making hope visible. Canadian Journal of Counselling, 37(1), 44-51.
Edey, W. (1999). Hope as a line of inquiry in the counselling relationship. Unpublished paper prepared at the Hope Foundation of Alberta, Edmonton, Alberta.
Edey, W. (1999). After the laughter. Psymposium, 8(5), 12.
Edey, W. (2000). The language of hope in counselling. Unpublished paper prepared at the Hope Foundation of Alberta, Edmonton, Alberta.
Edey, W., Jevne, R.F., & Westra, K. (1998). Key elements of hope-focussedcounselling: The art of making hope visible. Edmonton: The Hope Foundation of Alberta.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
AUDACIOUSLY SPREADING HOPE THROUGH STORY part 9
A single story can be hopeful or not-so-hopeful. It all depends on where you put the emphasis.
Part 1
Create hope in a story you tell by making sure you know in your heart where the hope is. Feel it first.
Part 2
Create hope by playing with time. Make the time span as long as it needs to be.
Part 3
Create hope in one context by telling a hopeful story about another.
Part 4
Create hope in stories by talking about hope.
Part 5
Create hope in stories by including symbols.
part 6
Create hope with heroes
Part 7
Create hope by favouring the underdog.
Part 8
Create hope by reporting the unexpected good thing.
9) Create hope by reporting times when the impossible became possible.
Charles Alexandre de Calonne: The impossible takes a little longer.
Stories about impossible things that became possible are stories that generate hope. They provide evidence that future predictions, sensible as they be at any given time, are not infinitely accurate. Things may change. With the acceptance that things may change comes the feelling of hope.
What are we really meaning when we say something is impossible? We are saying, “This cannot happen.” We are saying, “This will not happen.” We are saying, “Don’t believe in this. You will only be disappointed.” We are saying, “There is no evidence that this is possible.”
Fortunately for all of us, impossible things happen on a very regular basis. Everyone who previously said they were impossible is automatically proved wrong. Thus we are freed to entertain the possibility that the wisest people who have the most information may possibly be wrong. There is hope in that.
Roger Banister is a good example of someone who achieved the impossible. When he ran a mile in less than four minutes, he was doing something that was inmpossible, impossible because it had never been done before. At the moment when he did it, it suddenly, irreversably became possible.
The range of stories about impossible things that became possible is probably infinite. Technology gives them to us by the millions. Through all of time it was impossible for people to cross wide expanses of ocean in five days, to fly, to go into outer space, to transplant hearts. And then, one day, each of these things was possible, possible because it had been done.
The stories that generate hope can be about impossible things that are now considered commonplace, like crossing the ocean quickly, or flying. They can also be about things that are still very infrequent. The act of running a four-minute mile is still unlikely for most of us. Only a few people have done it and reported it to credible sources. It would take a long time for any of us to develop the ability to do it. Impossible things do tend to take longer.
Part 1
Create hope in a story you tell by making sure you know in your heart where the hope is. Feel it first.
Part 2
Create hope by playing with time. Make the time span as long as it needs to be.
Part 3
Create hope in one context by telling a hopeful story about another.
Part 4
Create hope in stories by talking about hope.
Part 5
Create hope in stories by including symbols.
part 6
Create hope with heroes
Part 7
Create hope by favouring the underdog.
Part 8
Create hope by reporting the unexpected good thing.
9) Create hope by reporting times when the impossible became possible.
Charles Alexandre de Calonne: The impossible takes a little longer.
Stories about impossible things that became possible are stories that generate hope. They provide evidence that future predictions, sensible as they be at any given time, are not infinitely accurate. Things may change. With the acceptance that things may change comes the feelling of hope.
What are we really meaning when we say something is impossible? We are saying, “This cannot happen.” We are saying, “This will not happen.” We are saying, “Don’t believe in this. You will only be disappointed.” We are saying, “There is no evidence that this is possible.”
Fortunately for all of us, impossible things happen on a very regular basis. Everyone who previously said they were impossible is automatically proved wrong. Thus we are freed to entertain the possibility that the wisest people who have the most information may possibly be wrong. There is hope in that.
Roger Banister is a good example of someone who achieved the impossible. When he ran a mile in less than four minutes, he was doing something that was inmpossible, impossible because it had never been done before. At the moment when he did it, it suddenly, irreversably became possible.
The range of stories about impossible things that became possible is probably infinite. Technology gives them to us by the millions. Through all of time it was impossible for people to cross wide expanses of ocean in five days, to fly, to go into outer space, to transplant hearts. And then, one day, each of these things was possible, possible because it had been done.
The stories that generate hope can be about impossible things that are now considered commonplace, like crossing the ocean quickly, or flying. They can also be about things that are still very infrequent. The act of running a four-minute mile is still unlikely for most of us. Only a few people have done it and reported it to credible sources. It would take a long time for any of us to develop the ability to do it. Impossible things do tend to take longer.
Friday, September 17, 2010
RASPBERRY CONCERT
I neded to make a comb concert
For 150 people
So that we could stand together
Lips vibrating, hearts laughing,
All of us one for only a moment,
The gulf between us gone.
But despite my fervent wishes
For a story of loaves and fishes
I had only one small comb
I was miles away from home
And we needed a comb concert
If we were to hope together.
So for those of you still puzzled,
Having craned your neck to see
150 people blowing raspberries at a conference,
It was all because of me
Wanting them to laugh together.
Blow raspberries with your neighbours
Feel the tickling on your lips,
And notice how hard it is to laugh with them,
And resent them at exactly the same time.
For 150 people
So that we could stand together
Lips vibrating, hearts laughing,
All of us one for only a moment,
The gulf between us gone.
But despite my fervent wishes
For a story of loaves and fishes
I had only one small comb
I was miles away from home
And we needed a comb concert
If we were to hope together.
So for those of you still puzzled,
Having craned your neck to see
150 people blowing raspberries at a conference,
It was all because of me
Wanting them to laugh together.
Blow raspberries with your neighbours
Feel the tickling on your lips,
And notice how hard it is to laugh with them,
And resent them at exactly the same time.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
THE PAINFUL SIDE OF FUNNY
Therese Borchard: Pain And Humor: The Dark Side Of Funny
”I typically offend five to 10 percent of my readers when I use sarcasm and wit in a post. So should I skip the attitude and satire? Absolutely not. I hate
to say this -- it sounds cold and heartless -- but I'd rather offend five listeners to allow 95 listeners a moment of healing laughter, than to stay boring
and safe. It's sort of the opposite philosophy of Jesus and the lost sheep. I'd sacrifice one sheep in order to help out the 99 that are desperate for
a laugh. Sorry, Jesus.”
I like this philosophy. I probably live by this philosophy. But I can't help but wonder what you say when you meet the one--or is it five--that you sacrificed.
”I typically offend five to 10 percent of my readers when I use sarcasm and wit in a post. So should I skip the attitude and satire? Absolutely not. I hate
to say this -- it sounds cold and heartless -- but I'd rather offend five listeners to allow 95 listeners a moment of healing laughter, than to stay boring
and safe. It's sort of the opposite philosophy of Jesus and the lost sheep. I'd sacrifice one sheep in order to help out the 99 that are desperate for
a laugh. Sorry, Jesus.”
I like this philosophy. I probably live by this philosophy. But I can't help but wonder what you say when you meet the one--or is it five--that you sacrificed.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
THE BIG CHANGE
“What is the biggest change of your life so far?” he asked. It was an inquiry made for interest’s sake by a genuinely curious person. Even if it hadn’t been some time around 9:00 AM on a Sunday morning, I expect it might have taken me a little time to sift through possible answers. My life so far is not nearly as short as it used to be.
Several possibilities presented themselves for evaluation. Could it have been when I started at the University of Alberta—the first time I ever did any serious walking on a daily basis? Could it have been my wedding day, or the year we moved to Calgary, or the day my Granny moved into the seniors’ lodge, or the day Mark was born—the first day of a permanent state of parenthood,, or the day Mom died? Well, really, it could have been any of those days, and maybe a dozen more. But I do believe that despite all the years, amid changes of various kinds, the biggest change of my life occurred when I was eleven—almost twelve. That is the time when I split in two. When I was eleven there was a little Alberta farm girl named Wendy. Her mother sewed her clothes and washed her hair in the kitchen sink and did her laundry in the basement, agitating it in the washing machine and feeding it carefully through the wringer before hanging it out to dry. Wendy played in the chicken yard, stroked her old dog, petted the barn cats, napped on the veranda, talked to the turkeys, rode bareback on Trixie, listened to country music and believed just about everything her parents told her. Farms were safe places, villages not quite as safe, small cities were scary, unless you had to visit big cities. Then small cities were safe.
Wendy went to school. She had a few friends to whose houses she was occasionally a visitor. But the main person in her life was her mother—solver of problems, arbiter of decisions, interpreter of life’s vagaries.
It was Mother who changed first. To her regular summer gardening, cooking, cleaning, chicken-tending, community volunteering duties she added one more—the job of getting Wendy ready to go away. Wendy was going to the Jericho Hill School for the Blind in Vancouver—a decision reached during conversations to which Wendy had not been a party. Much preparing had to be done.
She was fitted for dresses. Dresses, in Vancouver, were mandatory on school days. She was fitted for a raincoat. Raincoats, in Alberta, were not normally found in the closets of little girls. Her little purse—the first purse of her life—was filled with money—something she had never needed, not more than a quarter at a time. It also held cough drops in case she coughed, painkillers in case she got a headache, gum in case she wanted to chew and chocolate bars in case she got hungry. Her bag was packed tightly with Granny’s shortbread, rice Krispies squares and chocolate chip cookies. She had her own tube of toothpaste, her own bottle of shampoo. She even had a housecoat and slippers! But she was still Wendy.
Wendy and her mother rode an airplane to Vancouver, and a school bus to Jericho Hill School for the Blind. The matron took them aside for a private chat about the rules. Rules had never been a problem for Wendy. She had always been willing to obey.
The matron told them that the girls were not allowed to keep money because it might get stolen. They were not allowed to keep medications because they might be misused. They were not allowed to keep food. All food must be shared with everyone. When the matron left the room, Wendy’s mother told Wendy those rules were intended for children who were less responsible. She thought everyone would be happier if the matron were not burdened with too much troubling information about food, money or medicines Wendy might have in her possession. It was interesting to see the effect that one hour in a big city had on Wendy’s mother. But the change was only temporary. Wendy obeyed her mother.
Wendy’s mother went home to the farm. Wendy was homesick. Everything was foreign and strange. People were kind to her. Often they ignored her. She cried every day for the first twelve days, disciplining herself after the first week to cry a little less each day, hoping at some point to have a dry one.
Wendy did not last long at Jericho Hill. There were already two Wendy’s in the grade seven class at Jericho Hill. Wendy raised the count to three. To simplify the confusion, one of her teachers decided to call her Cooky, a derivative of her last name. He likely had not intended to create a new person. But Cooky was a new person. That made everything easier.
Cooky washed her clothes in an automatic washer and learned how to iron them. “I am not ironing for a girl your age,” the matron scolded. Cooky visited friends who had never been to an Alberta farm. With them she laughed at the habits of Alberta farm families. Wendy would never have seen the humour. Cooky swore—not a lot, but enough to make her popular. Wendy’s family would not have liked that at all. Cooky’s transistor radio was tuned to CFUN. CFUN did not play any country music.
Cooky got on a plane and went to visit Wendy’s family. They, expecting Wendy, had bought Barbie doll clothes for Christmas. Cooky did her best to hide her surprise. She was not a girl without manners. On vacations she did her best to accommodate herself to the life that had been so familiar to Wendy. But it was winter. The turkeys were on holiday tables and the chickens were hunkered down in the chickenhouse. Wendy’s dog had succumbed to old age. Still, Wendy inched out a little, feeling more at home with each passing day. But a Christmas break is a short break, and Cooky was anxious to get back to her friends.
Wendy’s mother never knew Cooky very well. Cooky was a teen-ager. To get to know a teen-ager, you need to be close enough to observe things so you know what questions to ask. She knew her daughter was often invited to spend weekends with other students. No information was purposefully withheld from her, but she never thought to ask, “How was the weekend you spent at the house where a drug-addicted uncle had to be lied to so he would not get angry and kick his mother down the stairs again?” It never occurred to her to inquire about the friend who had sex for the first time, or the one who had seen her brother assaulting the family dog.
Cooky’s life was brief—only three years in length. It waws a happy life and it was significant. It ended with one final plane ride. Educational trends mapped out the future. Wendy would go home to start Grade 10.
Cooky was gone, but not forgotten, not all at once anyway. For the first few months of high school Wendy had no friends. Sometimes she cried. Cooky tried to help, but she really couldn’t do much. She was too far from home. There was no place for her here. She had never been a farm girl.
Several possibilities presented themselves for evaluation. Could it have been when I started at the University of Alberta—the first time I ever did any serious walking on a daily basis? Could it have been my wedding day, or the year we moved to Calgary, or the day my Granny moved into the seniors’ lodge, or the day Mark was born—the first day of a permanent state of parenthood,, or the day Mom died? Well, really, it could have been any of those days, and maybe a dozen more. But I do believe that despite all the years, amid changes of various kinds, the biggest change of my life occurred when I was eleven—almost twelve. That is the time when I split in two. When I was eleven there was a little Alberta farm girl named Wendy. Her mother sewed her clothes and washed her hair in the kitchen sink and did her laundry in the basement, agitating it in the washing machine and feeding it carefully through the wringer before hanging it out to dry. Wendy played in the chicken yard, stroked her old dog, petted the barn cats, napped on the veranda, talked to the turkeys, rode bareback on Trixie, listened to country music and believed just about everything her parents told her. Farms were safe places, villages not quite as safe, small cities were scary, unless you had to visit big cities. Then small cities were safe.
Wendy went to school. She had a few friends to whose houses she was occasionally a visitor. But the main person in her life was her mother—solver of problems, arbiter of decisions, interpreter of life’s vagaries.
It was Mother who changed first. To her regular summer gardening, cooking, cleaning, chicken-tending, community volunteering duties she added one more—the job of getting Wendy ready to go away. Wendy was going to the Jericho Hill School for the Blind in Vancouver—a decision reached during conversations to which Wendy had not been a party. Much preparing had to be done.
She was fitted for dresses. Dresses, in Vancouver, were mandatory on school days. She was fitted for a raincoat. Raincoats, in Alberta, were not normally found in the closets of little girls. Her little purse—the first purse of her life—was filled with money—something she had never needed, not more than a quarter at a time. It also held cough drops in case she coughed, painkillers in case she got a headache, gum in case she wanted to chew and chocolate bars in case she got hungry. Her bag was packed tightly with Granny’s shortbread, rice Krispies squares and chocolate chip cookies. She had her own tube of toothpaste, her own bottle of shampoo. She even had a housecoat and slippers! But she was still Wendy.
Wendy and her mother rode an airplane to Vancouver, and a school bus to Jericho Hill School for the Blind. The matron took them aside for a private chat about the rules. Rules had never been a problem for Wendy. She had always been willing to obey.
The matron told them that the girls were not allowed to keep money because it might get stolen. They were not allowed to keep medications because they might be misused. They were not allowed to keep food. All food must be shared with everyone. When the matron left the room, Wendy’s mother told Wendy those rules were intended for children who were less responsible. She thought everyone would be happier if the matron were not burdened with too much troubling information about food, money or medicines Wendy might have in her possession. It was interesting to see the effect that one hour in a big city had on Wendy’s mother. But the change was only temporary. Wendy obeyed her mother.
Wendy’s mother went home to the farm. Wendy was homesick. Everything was foreign and strange. People were kind to her. Often they ignored her. She cried every day for the first twelve days, disciplining herself after the first week to cry a little less each day, hoping at some point to have a dry one.
Wendy did not last long at Jericho Hill. There were already two Wendy’s in the grade seven class at Jericho Hill. Wendy raised the count to three. To simplify the confusion, one of her teachers decided to call her Cooky, a derivative of her last name. He likely had not intended to create a new person. But Cooky was a new person. That made everything easier.
Cooky washed her clothes in an automatic washer and learned how to iron them. “I am not ironing for a girl your age,” the matron scolded. Cooky visited friends who had never been to an Alberta farm. With them she laughed at the habits of Alberta farm families. Wendy would never have seen the humour. Cooky swore—not a lot, but enough to make her popular. Wendy’s family would not have liked that at all. Cooky’s transistor radio was tuned to CFUN. CFUN did not play any country music.
Cooky got on a plane and went to visit Wendy’s family. They, expecting Wendy, had bought Barbie doll clothes for Christmas. Cooky did her best to hide her surprise. She was not a girl without manners. On vacations she did her best to accommodate herself to the life that had been so familiar to Wendy. But it was winter. The turkeys were on holiday tables and the chickens were hunkered down in the chickenhouse. Wendy’s dog had succumbed to old age. Still, Wendy inched out a little, feeling more at home with each passing day. But a Christmas break is a short break, and Cooky was anxious to get back to her friends.
Wendy’s mother never knew Cooky very well. Cooky was a teen-ager. To get to know a teen-ager, you need to be close enough to observe things so you know what questions to ask. She knew her daughter was often invited to spend weekends with other students. No information was purposefully withheld from her, but she never thought to ask, “How was the weekend you spent at the house where a drug-addicted uncle had to be lied to so he would not get angry and kick his mother down the stairs again?” It never occurred to her to inquire about the friend who had sex for the first time, or the one who had seen her brother assaulting the family dog.
Cooky’s life was brief—only three years in length. It waws a happy life and it was significant. It ended with one final plane ride. Educational trends mapped out the future. Wendy would go home to start Grade 10.
Cooky was gone, but not forgotten, not all at once anyway. For the first few months of high school Wendy had no friends. Sometimes she cried. Cooky tried to help, but she really couldn’t do much. She was too far from home. There was no place for her here. She had never been a farm girl.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW VISIT
“What would you like to do when you come here?” It was Ruth on the line, preparing in advance for our trip halfway across the country, the inaugural mother-in-law visit to a town I’d never before set foot in.
”I’d like to go bra shopping if we have time,” I replied. The first half was meant to be decisive, the second considerate.
The other end of the line went strangely silent. Having expected to hear a vote for a visit to Niagara Falls, or possibly the Elora Gorge, she took some time to regroup her thoughts before saying, “Sure. In this way, a plan was born. For her it was a surprise. For me, a golden opportunity for an experience I had not had in—let me think—an experience I had not had in at least 35 years. This was my invitation to go bra shopping with a woman.
David was equally surprised when he heard about the plan. Without having been fully aware of it, he had been expecting to be shopping for bras with me for as long as we both should live. Our marriage vows were straight out of the book—love and cherish sickness and health, all that stuff. That said, he found himself adding a lot between the lines when he married a blind woman—extra duties as assigned, you might say. One of his extra duties had always been bra shopping. It came as a shock that I should be suggesting a change—after all these years.
Now it may be that I am wrong—or it may be that I am right—in thinking that women tend to do their bra shopping either alone or with other women. I imagine this to be true even of women who, like me, have a husband who is generous, gracious and good-humoured in giving assistance wherever it is needed. I imagine my husband to be one of a select few who know how it feels to tread boldly through the lingerie department, opening little boxes, offering up a variety of cups and straps to be inspected by touch. It may not be everyone’s experience, but this is a scenario we have acted out on many occasions.
Though years will elapse between one shopping excursion and the next, the pattern repeats itself with remarkable similarity. No matter how efficient you try to be—and there’s something about the feeling you get when two of you stand squeezing bras in public that makes you want to hurry--the process can take a while. Given the time it takes, an adventure is sure to develop.
”What size does she need?” a saleswoman will invariably ask. For any other purpose you might walk miles, wait for hours to find a sales clerk. But let a man start opening bra boxes and clerks will come swarming like flies to an open meat tray. It’s the indisputable lure of curiosity.
David will stand in silence, waiting for me to state the size. I’ll state my size. He’ll take a step back to give me and the clerk some room to get to know each other better. And this really ought to be the beginning of shopping for a bra with a woman, but it rarely is. Having discovered a man who will willingly go bra shopping with his wife, there are few clerks who can let him go so easily.
“What colour will she need?” the clerk will ask, beckoning him to rejoin the conversation. Colour is a thing that seems to require participation of the sighted.
This alone might be drama enough. But it rarely stops there. It is just the suspenseful warm-up for the next act, when we awkwardly approach the maze of change-rooms marked Women Only. That’s where the really hard questions present themselves. How will I find an empty change room? Will I be able to manage on my own? If I go into a room alone, what will we do with him?
It’s a quick trip, bra shopping with a man. You get in there, you get it on, you get out and you wait as long as is humanly possible before starting again. It was pure coincidence that had prompted Ruth to call with her question at the exact moment when I was observing that another round of bra shopping was becoming an immediate need. It was pure genius that prompted me to see how things could be different this time.
Without really being aware of it, I had imagined Ruth and me leaving the house together, leaving the men behind to do man stuff. But the morning of the shopping trip saw all four of us climbing into the car. Having recently taken marriage vows of his own—newer wording for the same old stuff, love and cherish, sickness and health, etc.—Derek was apparently preparing to find his own niche in the family culture. It wasn’t until we got inside the store that we parted ways. We ladies stopped in Intimate Apparel. The men went off in search of a weed whacker.
Before long, Ruth and I were chatting happily, popping open little boxes, comparing straps and cups by touch. In only a moment a salesclerk was upon us.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Ruth said we would ask her if we needed anything. A few moments later we were passing without incident into the change rooms.
Now commenced the happiest chapter of all—the sweet sojourn when I shopped the way I imagine the queen would shop if she ever made it to the change rooms at Sears. The trying-on began, some of it more satisfying, some less. Presented with choice, and Ruth’s freedom to pass back and forth unaccosted between cubicle and sales racks, I traded the pressure of getting it over with for the pleasure of getting it right. We dreamed of other styles, imagined other sizes. In what seemed like no time at all we were just about finished.
You learn things when you go shopping. On that day, I learned that buying a suitable weed-whacker takes less time than shopping for a comfortable bra. Emerging from the maze, we encountered the men who had made their way back to Intimate Apparel. Each had taken up a utilitarian post. David was the sentry, watching for us to come out. He had realized that I, having forgotten to bring my purse, would need money in order to complete the transaction. Derek had assumed a position in the lengthy cashier line—all the quicker to expedite the finishing touches.
And thus concluded one of the highlights of the inaugural mother-in-law visit. Today I was back at work, telling stories about our visit to St. Jacobs Farmers Market to those who ask me what kinds of things we did. Having shopped for bras the way other women do, there’s really no news in that. But it does occur to me to wonder, if Derek’s colleagues are also inquiring, will he say, ”Oh, we didn’t do all that much. We just went to St. Jacobs Market and did a little bra shopping with my mother-in-law.”
”I’d like to go bra shopping if we have time,” I replied. The first half was meant to be decisive, the second considerate.
The other end of the line went strangely silent. Having expected to hear a vote for a visit to Niagara Falls, or possibly the Elora Gorge, she took some time to regroup her thoughts before saying, “Sure. In this way, a plan was born. For her it was a surprise. For me, a golden opportunity for an experience I had not had in—let me think—an experience I had not had in at least 35 years. This was my invitation to go bra shopping with a woman.
David was equally surprised when he heard about the plan. Without having been fully aware of it, he had been expecting to be shopping for bras with me for as long as we both should live. Our marriage vows were straight out of the book—love and cherish sickness and health, all that stuff. That said, he found himself adding a lot between the lines when he married a blind woman—extra duties as assigned, you might say. One of his extra duties had always been bra shopping. It came as a shock that I should be suggesting a change—after all these years.
Now it may be that I am wrong—or it may be that I am right—in thinking that women tend to do their bra shopping either alone or with other women. I imagine this to be true even of women who, like me, have a husband who is generous, gracious and good-humoured in giving assistance wherever it is needed. I imagine my husband to be one of a select few who know how it feels to tread boldly through the lingerie department, opening little boxes, offering up a variety of cups and straps to be inspected by touch. It may not be everyone’s experience, but this is a scenario we have acted out on many occasions.
Though years will elapse between one shopping excursion and the next, the pattern repeats itself with remarkable similarity. No matter how efficient you try to be—and there’s something about the feeling you get when two of you stand squeezing bras in public that makes you want to hurry--the process can take a while. Given the time it takes, an adventure is sure to develop.
”What size does she need?” a saleswoman will invariably ask. For any other purpose you might walk miles, wait for hours to find a sales clerk. But let a man start opening bra boxes and clerks will come swarming like flies to an open meat tray. It’s the indisputable lure of curiosity.
David will stand in silence, waiting for me to state the size. I’ll state my size. He’ll take a step back to give me and the clerk some room to get to know each other better. And this really ought to be the beginning of shopping for a bra with a woman, but it rarely is. Having discovered a man who will willingly go bra shopping with his wife, there are few clerks who can let him go so easily.
“What colour will she need?” the clerk will ask, beckoning him to rejoin the conversation. Colour is a thing that seems to require participation of the sighted.
This alone might be drama enough. But it rarely stops there. It is just the suspenseful warm-up for the next act, when we awkwardly approach the maze of change-rooms marked Women Only. That’s where the really hard questions present themselves. How will I find an empty change room? Will I be able to manage on my own? If I go into a room alone, what will we do with him?
It’s a quick trip, bra shopping with a man. You get in there, you get it on, you get out and you wait as long as is humanly possible before starting again. It was pure coincidence that had prompted Ruth to call with her question at the exact moment when I was observing that another round of bra shopping was becoming an immediate need. It was pure genius that prompted me to see how things could be different this time.
Without really being aware of it, I had imagined Ruth and me leaving the house together, leaving the men behind to do man stuff. But the morning of the shopping trip saw all four of us climbing into the car. Having recently taken marriage vows of his own—newer wording for the same old stuff, love and cherish, sickness and health, etc.—Derek was apparently preparing to find his own niche in the family culture. It wasn’t until we got inside the store that we parted ways. We ladies stopped in Intimate Apparel. The men went off in search of a weed whacker.
Before long, Ruth and I were chatting happily, popping open little boxes, comparing straps and cups by touch. In only a moment a salesclerk was upon us.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Ruth said we would ask her if we needed anything. A few moments later we were passing without incident into the change rooms.
Now commenced the happiest chapter of all—the sweet sojourn when I shopped the way I imagine the queen would shop if she ever made it to the change rooms at Sears. The trying-on began, some of it more satisfying, some less. Presented with choice, and Ruth’s freedom to pass back and forth unaccosted between cubicle and sales racks, I traded the pressure of getting it over with for the pleasure of getting it right. We dreamed of other styles, imagined other sizes. In what seemed like no time at all we were just about finished.
You learn things when you go shopping. On that day, I learned that buying a suitable weed-whacker takes less time than shopping for a comfortable bra. Emerging from the maze, we encountered the men who had made their way back to Intimate Apparel. Each had taken up a utilitarian post. David was the sentry, watching for us to come out. He had realized that I, having forgotten to bring my purse, would need money in order to complete the transaction. Derek had assumed a position in the lengthy cashier line—all the quicker to expedite the finishing touches.
And thus concluded one of the highlights of the inaugural mother-in-law visit. Today I was back at work, telling stories about our visit to St. Jacobs Farmers Market to those who ask me what kinds of things we did. Having shopped for bras the way other women do, there’s really no news in that. But it does occur to me to wonder, if Derek’s colleagues are also inquiring, will he say, ”Oh, we didn’t do all that much. We just went to St. Jacobs Market and did a little bra shopping with my mother-in-law.”
Monday, September 06, 2010
AUDACIOUSLY SPREADING HOPE THROUGH STORY part 8
A single story can be hopeful or not-so-hopeful. It all depends on where you put the emphasis.
Part 1
Create hope in a story you tell by making sure you know in your heart where the hope is. Feel it first.
Part 2
Create hope by playing with time. Make the time span as long as it needs to be.
Part 3
Create hope in one context by telling a hopeful story about another.
Part 4
Create hope in stories by talking about hope.
Part 5
Create hope in stories by including symbols.
part 6
Create hope with heroes
Part 7
Create hope by favouring the underdog.
8)Create hope by reporting the unexpected good thing.
Karin Dufault and Benita Martocchio: Hope is a multidimensional dynamic life force characterized by a confident yet uncertain expectation of achieving a future good which, to the hoping person, is realistically possible and personally significant.
Long ago, when I was a new hire at the Hope Foundation of Alberta my attention was engaged by this interesting-if-awkward definition of hope put forward by Karin Dufault and Benita Martocchio. I was intrigued by the paradox ofconfident-yet-uncertain, drawn to the idea of an unidentified future good.
My interest was to be shared by many others. Over the years, this definition has been reprinted hundreds of times in academic and general interest articles and books. It was the forerunner of many of the ideas we now use in counselling. At a time when studying hope was a truly revolutionary idea, they had distilled it from multiple conversations over a two-year period with 35 elderly cancer patients and 42 others who were terminally ill. No wonder it seemed to be a little bit confusing! Small wonder, therefore, that so many people, through the lens of their own experience, have come to appreciate the truth in it. I thought a lot about this definition as I set out to do the job for which I had been hired, a hope novice talking to distressed people whose problems I hadn’t the power to solve, people who were looking, if not for solutions, then for somebody who could give them reason to hope. I often asked myself: “What is it that could help me and them be confident—if uncertain—about a future good? What could cause me to expect a future good for things that were significant to me?” Asking these questions of myself over and over again, I noticed that I had accumulated a repertoire of stories about incidents in my life where things had turned out better than I expected. Later, my colleague Dr. Denise Larsen would say I had been gathering stories as evidence for hope.
The act of noticing and then talking about things that turned out better than I expected has become a habit with me. Among the dozens of hope strategies you might observe in my daily work, it is the one that has most often given me reason to hope when I couldn’t see a clear path to a good future. When, at workshops, I ask the participants to tell each other stories of things that turned out better than they expected, the room seems to fill with hope.
To get the best hope mileage from a story about something that turned out better than you expected, you need to stress the contrast between what you expected to happen and what actually happened. It’s best to play up the element of surprise. Think, for a moment about the story of the Three Little Pigs. Think of those deal little pigs. First, the big bad wolf blew down that lovely straw house, leaving a pig homeless. The he blew down the house of sticks. Count two homeless pigs. What do we expect to happen the third time? The wolf is not uncertain. He’s done it before, he can do it again. As we follow the pigs, we have little reason to hope for a good outcome. All the evidence indicates that a pig’s house is not a fortress. Piggy building skills have shown little promise. But then, against all the odds, we find that a pig has built a house so sturdy that it can stand strong in the hurricane of a wolf’s desperate breath. What might we expect in the eye of other hurricanes?
Part 1
Create hope in a story you tell by making sure you know in your heart where the hope is. Feel it first.
Part 2
Create hope by playing with time. Make the time span as long as it needs to be.
Part 3
Create hope in one context by telling a hopeful story about another.
Part 4
Create hope in stories by talking about hope.
Part 5
Create hope in stories by including symbols.
part 6
Create hope with heroes
Part 7
Create hope by favouring the underdog.
8)Create hope by reporting the unexpected good thing.
Karin Dufault and Benita Martocchio: Hope is a multidimensional dynamic life force characterized by a confident yet uncertain expectation of achieving a future good which, to the hoping person, is realistically possible and personally significant.
Long ago, when I was a new hire at the Hope Foundation of Alberta my attention was engaged by this interesting-if-awkward definition of hope put forward by Karin Dufault and Benita Martocchio. I was intrigued by the paradox ofconfident-yet-uncertain, drawn to the idea of an unidentified future good.
My interest was to be shared by many others. Over the years, this definition has been reprinted hundreds of times in academic and general interest articles and books. It was the forerunner of many of the ideas we now use in counselling. At a time when studying hope was a truly revolutionary idea, they had distilled it from multiple conversations over a two-year period with 35 elderly cancer patients and 42 others who were terminally ill. No wonder it seemed to be a little bit confusing! Small wonder, therefore, that so many people, through the lens of their own experience, have come to appreciate the truth in it. I thought a lot about this definition as I set out to do the job for which I had been hired, a hope novice talking to distressed people whose problems I hadn’t the power to solve, people who were looking, if not for solutions, then for somebody who could give them reason to hope. I often asked myself: “What is it that could help me and them be confident—if uncertain—about a future good? What could cause me to expect a future good for things that were significant to me?” Asking these questions of myself over and over again, I noticed that I had accumulated a repertoire of stories about incidents in my life where things had turned out better than I expected. Later, my colleague Dr. Denise Larsen would say I had been gathering stories as evidence for hope.
The act of noticing and then talking about things that turned out better than I expected has become a habit with me. Among the dozens of hope strategies you might observe in my daily work, it is the one that has most often given me reason to hope when I couldn’t see a clear path to a good future. When, at workshops, I ask the participants to tell each other stories of things that turned out better than they expected, the room seems to fill with hope.
To get the best hope mileage from a story about something that turned out better than you expected, you need to stress the contrast between what you expected to happen and what actually happened. It’s best to play up the element of surprise. Think, for a moment about the story of the Three Little Pigs. Think of those deal little pigs. First, the big bad wolf blew down that lovely straw house, leaving a pig homeless. The he blew down the house of sticks. Count two homeless pigs. What do we expect to happen the third time? The wolf is not uncertain. He’s done it before, he can do it again. As we follow the pigs, we have little reason to hope for a good outcome. All the evidence indicates that a pig’s house is not a fortress. Piggy building skills have shown little promise. But then, against all the odds, we find that a pig has built a house so sturdy that it can stand strong in the hurricane of a wolf’s desperate breath. What might we expect in the eye of other hurricanes?
Thursday, September 02, 2010
CAUTIONARY TALE FOR PEOPLE WHO ASK TOO MANY QUESTIONS
Me: I’m getting ready for my first mother-in-law visit to Ruth and Derek in Ontario.
Her: Oh! You must be excited.
Me: Yes I am. They ar too.
Her: I’ll bet! It’s really exciting, isn’t it?
Me: Yes. Only one more sleep. By the way, you and your mother have a close long-distance relationship. How often ideally would you like her to visit?
Her: Twice a year.
Me: Mmm, only twice?
Her: Well, I like to visit her too you know.
Me: Mmmm, I guess.
Her: Maybe three times, yes, ideally maybe three.
Me: Mmmm, I guess I was looking for more than that.
Her: Maybe more if my place had more than one bedroom.
Could this be the conversation that scuttles my plan to buy WestJet so I could get free flights to Ontario?
Her: Oh! You must be excited.
Me: Yes I am. They ar too.
Her: I’ll bet! It’s really exciting, isn’t it?
Me: Yes. Only one more sleep. By the way, you and your mother have a close long-distance relationship. How often ideally would you like her to visit?
Her: Twice a year.
Me: Mmm, only twice?
Her: Well, I like to visit her too you know.
Me: Mmmm, I guess.
Her: Maybe three times, yes, ideally maybe three.
Me: Mmmm, I guess I was looking for more than that.
Her: Maybe more if my place had more than one bedroom.
Could this be the conversation that scuttles my plan to buy WestJet so I could get free flights to Ontario?
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
AUDACIOUSLY SPREADING HOPE THROUGH STORY part 7
A single story can be hopeful or not-so-hopeful. It all depends on where you put the emphasis.
Part 1
Create hope in a story you tell by making sure you know in your heart where the hope is. Feel it first.
Part 2
Create hope by playing with time. Make the time span as long as it needs to be.
Part 3
Create hope in one context by telling a hopeful story about another.
Part 4
Create hope in stories by talking about hope.
Part 5
Create hope in stories by including symbols.
part 6
Create hope with heroes
7) Create hope by favouring the underdog.
Jan Scruggs: It is human nature for us to want the underdogs to win amazing victories against stronger opponents in sports or other endeavors in life. It gives us hope--if
this athlete or politician or business owner or performer can succeed in spite of overwhelming odds, maybe we, too, can overcome the challenges in our
own lives.
What more can I say than Jan Scruggs has already said? If you want to put hope in your story, feature an underdog who made good. Make sure you mention that this person is an underdog, draw attention to it through any means you have, dialogue, observation, direct reference. Make sure we know why your hero is at a disadvantage? Help us see how that changes. To add impact, tell us whether the hero had hope at any point in the story, and tell us when the hope grew. Add a symbol of the hope if you can.
Part 1
Create hope in a story you tell by making sure you know in your heart where the hope is. Feel it first.
Part 2
Create hope by playing with time. Make the time span as long as it needs to be.
Part 3
Create hope in one context by telling a hopeful story about another.
Part 4
Create hope in stories by talking about hope.
Part 5
Create hope in stories by including symbols.
part 6
Create hope with heroes
7) Create hope by favouring the underdog.
Jan Scruggs: It is human nature for us to want the underdogs to win amazing victories against stronger opponents in sports or other endeavors in life. It gives us hope--if
this athlete or politician or business owner or performer can succeed in spite of overwhelming odds, maybe we, too, can overcome the challenges in our
own lives.
What more can I say than Jan Scruggs has already said? If you want to put hope in your story, feature an underdog who made good. Make sure you mention that this person is an underdog, draw attention to it through any means you have, dialogue, observation, direct reference. Make sure we know why your hero is at a disadvantage? Help us see how that changes. To add impact, tell us whether the hero had hope at any point in the story, and tell us when the hope grew. Add a symbol of the hope if you can.
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