Pinterest and Me

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers Poster

Finally, I got on Pinterest after hearing friends and family talk so much about the great recipes, craft ideas, and home decorating tips shared between Pinterest users.  I am not artistic or crafty, and will probably never cook most of the delicious-sounding recipes I have pinned on my recipe board.  However, after seeing a cute DIY Pinterest project, I ventured outside my comfort zone and decided to make something for the office.  I am in the process of refurnishing the office and needed something inexpensive for the wall- but I also wanted it to have meaning. 

It really did not turn out the way I had thought it would. It looks messy and imperfect. But it does mean something.  The text is from a little poem about Hope by Emily Dickenson.  It may be hard to decipher the words, and that object in the lower right section is supposed to be a bird.  I made a stencil for it, but the paint leaked under its beak, so it looks like it doesn't have one!  

Isn't that how life is sometimes?  Things don't turn out the way we expect.  Life can get messy.  We and others are imperfect.  But underneath the surface, there is meaning, and perhaps beauty.  The beauty in life may be hard to find, and the meaning of our struggles may be difficult to understand.  At those times, hope may be all that keeps us going.   

                                                            Hope is the Thing with Feathers:  Emily Dickenson

                                                                               Hope is the thing with feathers
                                                                                     That perches in the soul,
                                                                         And sings the tune without the words,
                                                                                        And never stops at all,

                                                                               And sweetest in the gale is heard;
                                                                                   And sore must be the storm
                                                                                  That could abash the little bird
                                                                                       That kept so many warm.

                                                                                 I've heard it in the chillest land
                                                                                    And on the strangest sea;
                                                                                       Yet, never, in extremity,
                                                                                       It asked a crumb of me.