Hope after Divorce

Hope is around us and within us.  Always stirring and sometimes ignored.  Sometimes, when I get to the other side of an obstacle once thought insurmountable, I look back to discover what brought me to the other side.  It’s always the same thing—hope.

It was a day like today—sunny, warm and breezy—that I walked out of the court house no longer married.  During the brief hearing, the judge asked me to confirm that I wanted to keep my married name, Speranza.  I responded, “Yes.”

At that moment, I thought I was keeping my married name because I wanted things to be as simple as possible for my daughters.  Maybe I wanted things to be as simple as possible for myself?  I mean, what kind of paperwork was involved with going back to my maiden name?

Although brief, my divorce hearing was tense, sorrowful, and sickening.

What was I doing?  Was this really me standing here confirming the beginning of a new life in which I had no idea how to navigate?

Confirmations of child support, number of days with children, and financial awards.  Confirmations that I made a mistake, could not figure it out, and basically failed. 

I felt small.  He in his business suit, accessorized by an expensive lawyer and tears, me in my in inexpensive black slacks and a barely-crisp white blouse left in my wardrobe from the days before babies, when I worked.  I looked down; my black shoes could have used some polish.  His were shiny.  He cried and I didn’t.  I looked like a heartless, money-hungry conniver but knew I was just a lost middle-aged mom who didn’t know what she was doing or going to do.

When it was all said and done, I walked out of the court house, alone, onto the busy sidewalk and expected tears.  Instead I felt a swift breeze hit my face, looked up toward the sun and smiled. 

My last name was still Speranza.

Speranza, literally translated from Italian, means hope.

Some days, I do not know what I am doing.  Things my ex-husband used to take care of still baffle me.  But I try.  I have to.  Someone has to take care of the grown-up things—things other than caring for the girls, cleaning, and grocery shopping.  Those were the things I was good at before my divorce.

Today, I’m good at more.  I pay bills (sometimes on time), I have a degree, and I write.  I do figure out the grown-up stuff, even when I’m scared to death.  And I’m still a good mom.  Maybe better.

I remember one night this past April, because it was National Poetry Month, I wanted to read some poetry to the girls at bedtime.  I stumbled upon Emily Dickinson’s poem, Hope Is the Thing with Feathers:

Hope is the thing with feathers. . .

I've heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity, 

It asked a crumb of me.

I read it aloud to the girls, twice, and cried. 

It was a soft cry, not one of those sobbing, guttural displays. 

I think the girls understood. . .something.

I understood.  We have hope.

Linking up with Flicker of Inspiration Linkup #56  

photo credit: kira.belle via photo pin cc