A double-dip post this week: Spiritual Journey and Poetry Friday.
We are writing with Carol this month, who has nudged us to revisit our One Little Words. Carol reminds us: we are halfway through our 2026 journey. So much has happened for so many of us. What are we noticing?
Mona Voelkel is our round up host for Poetry Friday. Join us!
hopeful
I speak often of seasonal whiplash, a consequence of living in and traveling to and from desert to mountain. It’s a bit like jet lag. But instead of sleep, I need a calendar to remind myself what month we are in.
My parents died eleven months apart. Days and weeks that normally mark time are a blur. So when Carol suggested we revisit our One Little Word, I had to search my files to recall what it was.
It was hopeful.
Time is a salve.
Five days after my mom’s funeral, Tom and I, one of my sisters, and her husband, escaped to Yosemite National Park. Surrounded by the majesty of granite monoliths, thundering waterfalls, and achingly blue horizons, I could finally, finally inhale.
I have spent two solid weeks rising with robin song, the Sierra’s own John-the-Baptist announcing the advent of day. I head to our deck. Crawl under a quilt. Cold is a slight sting of the cheeks. Coffee warms my hands and my throat.
I sense something out there…
or rather within.
A tiny tick of joy, seeking light.
Tom and I went on from there for some long-overdue cycling days. I lost myself in the mesmerizing shadows and hum of our wheels spinning on asphalt. It felt good to feel leg fatigue, to drive deltoids down, and stretch stiff necks.
hopeful, still
because winter decomposes
because wood debris, rich and damp
        decays
because the dying gives way
because soil softens and hearts
        thaw
because conifer and pine reawakened…
        exhale…
                           tang––
and you gulp great gulps,
as of air gathered, held
        captive
because light-headed, you are
        hopeful
let it expand
photos and poem © Patricia J. Franz
Patricia Franz writes picture books and poetry. She believes children, dogs, and sourdough have a lot to teach us about life, joy, and wonder. She has raised two boys, four dogs, and holds a master’s degree in Theology with a focus on children’s spirituality. Patricia, her husband, her Bernese Mountain dog, Bonny, and her sourdough starter split their time between the Arizona desert and the Sierra Nevada mountains. 
This is beautiful, Patricia. Thank you for your gorgeous photos and words. My heart goes out to you as you maneuver through the fog of grief, and I’m glad that you feel the salve of time and the challenge of biking. Nature gives us beauty and perspective… both healing balms. Thanks be to God.
Nature’s rx, for sure! Thank you, Karen.
Patricia, the words, “Time is a salve”, is just what you needed to move away from the exhaustion of grief and seasonal whiplash. Nature nurtures us when it is needed and your one word, hopeful, will expand your mind, body, and spirit. Thank you for sharing your life with its challenges and resting time. May your walk on the spiritual journey bring you peace and hopeful happenings.
Grateful to have the company of spiritual friends like you, Carol, on the journey.
Patricia, I am observing the birthday of a lost loved one, and your poem reminded me of the cycle of things, and how you keep things in and locked, but there comes the time, you let it all out, and breathe again.Love “soil …and hearts thaw” and “rise with the robins” from your post. Thanks for sharing, and love the photos!!!!
I hope the memories are a blessing to you, Mona.
Beautiful post, Patricia. Your poem reminded me of Jean Little’s “Surprise”:
I feel like the ground in winter,
Hard, cold, dark, dead, unyielding.
Then hope pokes through me
Like a crocus.
Oh so perfect, Tabatha. Hope pokes through…
Patricia, hope(ful), where would we be without it. Just like Pandora’s box, when troubles beset us there is always that one spark of hope that keeps us going and lets us know that everything will be fine. Your pictures show the beauty of the world around us. That beauty gives us hope and the will to go on. Bob
Leaning on that spark of hope, Bob. Thank you.
Such a beautiful post. Your poem and gorgeous photos felt so rejuvenating. I could just feel the great gulps of fresh air and imagine the healing power of the pristine surroundings.
Patricia, I am thinking of your phrase “seasonal whiplash” as metaphor for life – it does become a blur at times, with seasons of loss, grief, pain, and unwanted changes that we must navigate. Spiritual deserts and mountains. Time is a needed salve, indeed…yesterday I heard someone say “Time is marvelous medicine.” So is nature, to which your post attests so beautifully in photos and words. I recall a definition of one of my former OLWs, awe, as the realization of being part of something larger than yourself. I sense it here as I read about your journey through Yosemite and see these breathtaking sights. The glories of Creation. Our souls respond to it. “The tiny tick of joy, seeking light” – that is exactly it. A desire for that eternal Light that draws us to it. The word “quickening” comes to mind. Life being generated – or, in the context of your poem and even with the mention of John the Baptist, regenerated. Thank you for writing and sharing your dual journey, inner and outer – and my heart goes out to you as you continue to navigate the loss of your parents in a year’s time. Blessings to you.
Fran, thank you. I love “quickening.” I’m caching that word for a future poem. 🙂
What a gorgeous poem! I love the repetition of “because.” I can just about smell the early morning pine-tangy mountain air. Ahhh…
Wow…amen….AMEN. Your reflections in this post are lovely. Your spirit is absolutely beautiful even as you cycle and feel that fatigue. I am inspired and in awe of how you are able to put into words the feelings that you (and many of us) have but haven’t been taught the language or usage of. Your family is fortunate to know you as a spiritual leader. Thank you for being one here. Like Fran, I love specific phrases that bring me to a place of holy ground–robins as John the Baptist is especially lovely.
Robins: Prepare ye, the way! Right? Thank you, Linda.
I’m so sorry for the loss of both your parents so close together. Today marks 46 years since my dad’s death. It’s hard to comprehend living so many years without his earthly presence. Yet his soul is as close as the memories that I recall almost daily. His laughter, his love of life, his joy in nature – all of these speak to me still of a father who loved expansively.
Like you, I had forgotten my OLW for 2026. Your poem, “hopeful, still” captures the essence of this important word and your accompanying photo is exquisite. Thanks for the thoughts and photos. May you have a blessed day.
What a gift to have the blessing of these memories, Ramona. Thank you.
This is a beautiful poem. I’m so sorry for your losses. My heart aches for you. Grief is such a solitary and cataclysmic journey. I’m glad you’ve been saturated in nature lately and have been able to notice “A tiny tick of joy, seeking light.” That line in itself is a poem.
Patricia, my sympathies again on the losses of both your parents.
I love the multiple meanings of your title here — “hopeful, still” can mean we’re still hopeful, or that we are willing to sit with hopefulness and stillness and see where we go. Beautiful poem.