Disappointment happens when our expectations are not fulfilled.
From some we will hear that our expectations were in fact
Dis appointment – could easily be mis appointment
ill timed dispatch
which shall find no repair
Dis joint time out of mind
Or mind out of joint
Or simply out of time
Disappointment stings not once but now again
measure my sag
Put that dent in my swag
Watch me deflate
I hear you revving up your optimism machine. Ready to aim it in my direction, pump me up with your elixir of cheer. Save yourself the trouble. Let me have my struggle and sway with my slump. There’s value in the valley so I’ve been told. Let me conduct my own investigations here in the dust and dregs.
The disappointment here is not just here
It’s part and parcel of an
Me to the future: so you legit gonna be like that?
And the future’s like: Yup.
To hell in a handbasket
we thought we never knew what that really meant
Now we will.
We’ll be in the basket
(In fact, we are the basket)
finally spot on.
Disappointment is no longer the word.
It is all that’s left.
2 thoughts on “Dis appointment”
Sherri – thank you for opening up, for sharing these thoughts. Could not have been easy, and possibly such sharing is not suppose to be easy, or to bring relief, however temporary. And sorry to break this to you, but this dis appointment, disenchantment may be how things will be from now on, with too brief moments of rekindled hope. There is just too much going on. We fight just too many battles at any one moment in time.
So where do I fit into all of this? I have given up on hope. Hope means believing that our resistance, our acts, our compassion will make a difference, will change the world into a better place. I don’t believe in that anymore. But this does not prevent me from being compassionate, from fighting harder than before, from resisting, advocating and protesting. Doing this without hope makes this a sober act of defiance, of a relentless pursuit of not giving in.
I confess that I need more time-out than before. I need more quiet times. It means that I increasingly ask for extensions and apologise for not submitting stuff on time. I can’t do us much as I used to when I had hope.
And sending you this virtual hug will not, necessarily, make a difference. But I send it anyway.
I hear you and my fear is rising. I am reluctant to give up on hope although I may be closer to that than I realize. Thank you for being real with me in the most compassionate and gentle way. I feel loved because you are telling me the truth, your truth. What’s important is that it’s a truth I can work with, wrestle with, chew on. It won’t dissolve in the rain like sugar. It won’t melt like a soft wet snow after the sun comes back out.
Because you are here – for me, with me, alongside me – I am willing to hang on a little longer to those shreds of hope that sustain me: a 12 y-o who sings around the house, a community of readers, writers, scholars who continue to feed my soul with their words and kindnesses. Perhaps it’s this: I have hope but I am not inherently hopeful. I know love and also resentment. Thank you for hearing me fully, Paul. That’s rare. It is a gift I cherish.