Watching the democratic convention I was reminded of the hope we used to cling to in the sixties. It was a palpable, touchable concept and one we clung to as we picked flowers, danced in circles or laughed at nothing at all. We believed in hope. It was the passing of historically difficult years that ground away at us, disappointed us, let the balloon filled with hope float away from us, leaving in its wake disillusionment. Ground us down like a cinnamon stick. Yes it did.

Now, as I look out over the ocean waves, I see a glimpse of that balloon, hovering, dancing among the clouds. I want to believe again. It is easier to believe, cling to it, dance to it. But I am wary. This is a different kind of hope. Less sturdy and barely alive. Instead of joy I hear a quiet whisper, “maybe”.