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I have been invited to guide a weekend of Emotional Healing through Expressive Writing January 16-18, 2026, at Wisdom House Retreat and Conference Center in Litchfield, Connecticut. This comes on top of the healing poetry retreat I’m facilitating this weekend at Mercy by the Sea Retreat and Conference Center in Madison, Connecticut. Many of us are turned off to poetry because a high school English teacher thought poetry is about answers. Poetry is not about answers, it’s about questions. And the kind of healing verses discussed during my poetry weekends can go a long way toward smoothening some of life’s rough edges. Many studies have shown that writing poetry has exceptional healing power over emotional trauma, enhancing immune system function, reducing physical symptoms and pain, and improving sleep. The healing poems discussed in my program are easy to understand, beautiful, uplifting, and helpful in easing the stresses of a bad diagnosis, a divorce, death of a loved one – just about any emotional trauma we face. Participants do their own writing throughout the program and share if they want to. It’s a supportive, no-critique, safe space – not an academic class about writing better, but more a contemplative approach to feeling better. Topics covered during the weekend include: • The science of Expressive Writing & its therapeutic benefits • Poetry versus journaling • Writing to heal: three secrets • Loneliness and healing poetry • Writing poetry for self-discovery, self-healing, and self-reliance • Life’s silver linings – Humor, Gratitude, Hope • Cherishing yourself Wisdom House, pictured above, is an interfaith retreat and conference center that presents programs in spirituality, wellness, the arts, and ecology, while offering hospitality to academic, civic, nonprofit, and business organizations. This former college and convent for the community of Catholic sisters, the Daughters of Wisdom, continues as a ministry of the Daughters of Wisdom and provides an environment for reflection and expression. In addition to weekend programs, I hold: • A weekly healing poetry hour at Hope Lodge, a facility of the American Cancer Society in New York City • Zoom Workshops for patients at Mount Sinai Cancer Center in New York City • Programs for the Sisters of Peace congregation near Seattle, Washington • “Healing Verses” writing workshops via Zoom every other week for ongoing support in writing healing poetry Here's what some past participants have said about their experience in the programs: • “Your workshops unlocked something inside me that yearned to come out!” • "Your class has opened a new world to me, and I'm so appreciative.” • “I will treasure these memories in the future, and plan to continue on this path of self-discovery and appreciation for everyday life.” • “Writing poems has been a great outlet for me and I thank you so much for introducing me to this. It’s very therapeutic and healing.” It was novelist Thornton Wilder who said seniors need to stave off death through work – even if it’s work that no longer drives a career. Three years ago I took Wilder’s wise advice and made it my “old man’s project” in retirement to teach people how to write poems that help them feel happier and healthier. It’s not only the act of writing poetry that is enabling me to give the Grim Reaper a run. Teaching others to do it makes my life sweeter than ever.
Remember a while back when I couldn’t decide if I should join a group of guys from my building for a Saturday afternoon in New Haven’s famed Wooster Street Italian neighborhood? Well, my Florida friend, Gwen Keegan, told me in no uncertain terms that I should consider myself blessed to be invited. So I took her advice, bit the bullet (bit the pizza, rather) and threw myself into the jaunt last week. My building, you need to know, is named The Eli, pictured below. It's listed on the National Register of Historic Places and is residence to lots of Yale grad students and faculty, both active and retired. Our objective that afternoon was Zeleni’s, rated among Connecticut’s top three pizza restaurants and the top fifty nationwide. I was intimidated when I met the others in the party, all but one of them “Yale-affiliated” as they liked to say. “No,” I answered when they inquired, “I’m Fordham, in The Bronx.” I'm from New Jersey, so I wanted to add, "You got a problem with that?" But I knew better. Only one other of the bunch was not a Yalie, an educator who works with autistic people. He was Jewish and sported a goatee, as well as a Bronx accent I found comforting. He and I bonded immediately, and our new friendship was cemented at the first corner we came to on our walk to Wooster Street. The decision was, do we cross at this corner or at the next traffic light a block away. There was a lengthy debate while we waited for a green light. “Look at the Yale guys trying to figure out how to cross the street,” my new best friend whispered to me. And so it went, right up to the time the check came and one of the Yale guys suggested we determine who had how many slices and then do a forward progression. Not really. He was joking, right? Right? I’m sure he meant to say proportional allocation or pro-rata distribution – dividing something according to each person's share of the whole. It's not typically called "forward progression" in mathematics. Using this method, I would pay for the slices I ate, divided by the total slices, times the total bill. Not wanting to crow about my Fordham bona fides by lecturing the Yale guy about his misuse of higher math terminology, I simply threw a twenty into the pot, and we progressed across Wooster Street to an Italian bakery whose lined-up patrons stretched out the door. That was all fun, but when the entire dinner conversation – I mean entire – centered on sports, I tuned out (Do I look bored enough in the picture above?). I also started to analyze what was going on. The differences between male social groupings and female are profound: Men often bond by doing things together—sports, projects, shared interests—with friendship developing alongside the activity. Men's groups tend toward more hierarchical communication with clear turn-taking, friendly competition or teasing, and bonding through shared activities rather than emotional disclosure. Male groups often use teasing, playful insults and humor to bond. Men's groups typically establish clear hierarchies and status, sometimes through competitive elements. Hell, isn’t this whole blog an example of my competitiveness with the Yale men? By the end of the meal, the group had reached a conclusion. The next gathering would not be for pizza, but to take in a Yale hockey game next month. I will be facilitating a healing poetry retreat weekend then and, unfortunately, will be unable to attend. Whew!
I celebrated another birthday last week, a lofty number I thought I’d never see. The older I get, however, the more I understand that not much really changes in this life and in this world. I like to read an excerpt of Thomas Merton’s Journals most mornings. This gifted writer was a perspicacious observer of his place in history, even though he peered from the confines of a Trappist monastery in the hills of Kentucky. Last week, for example, in a journal entry from 1962, he wrote of being almost forty-eight years old. “It is doubtless time to feel a change of climate in my physical being, which begins to dispose itself for its end some one of these years.” Bingo, Thomas! I was in my forties when I was assailed by two contradictions. I was at the height of my physical attributes, training to run the New York City Marathon, while sensing that my body was beginning to “dispose itself for its end.” Eyesight diminishing. Hair thinning. Cheeks thickening. In Merton’s 1962, our government was determined to deepen our involvement in Vietnam, believing we could succeed where the French didn’t. Contrast Merton’s 1962 assessment with our country’s current state of affairs: ". . . this sense of death and desperation running through my whole society with all its bombs and its money and its death wish. The colossal sense of failure in the midst of success.” Bingo, Thomas! Vietnam was only the beginning. We learned nothing as a people. We kept electing leaders who found any excuse to involve us militarily in every far corner of the world. Since the end of the Vietnam War in 1975, there have been almost twenty major U.S. combat operations, extended deployments, and significant military actions. My quick count doesn’t include our smaller military presence and advisory roles in numerous other countries. Our pugnacious attitude isn’t uniquely American. Read the Hebrew Scriptures or review world history, and find that our persona as homo sapiens is one of war after war after war. Homo sapiens . Latin for wise man . Wise? Really? So the violence we’re going through right now is really not all that new. What is it the French say? "Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose." The more things change, the more they stay the same. This phrase, I’m told, is attributed to French critic and journalist Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr, who wrote it in 1849 to express the idea that even when there appear to be dramatic changes or upheavals, the underlying situation or human nature remains fundamentally the same. But for me, the most arresting – and disturbing – words from Merton’s journal last week were these, because they apply so aptly to me, and maybe to you, as well: “Now is the time I must learn to stop taking satisfaction in what I have done or being depressed because the night will come and my work will come to an end. Now is the time to give what I have to others and not reflect on it. I wish I had learned the knack of it, of giving without question or care. I have not, but perhaps I still have time to try.” And yet, isn’t change our greatest source of hope in these times? Poet Jane Hirshfield thinks so. She pins her hope on the truth articulated by Greek philosopher Heraclitus three thousand years ago: panta rei. Everything changes.
Many of us are turned off to poetry because a high school English teacher thought poetry is about answers. Poetry is not about answers, it’s about questions. And the kind of healing verses we’ll talk about during my upcoming poetry retreat can go a long way toward smoothening some of life’s rough edges. Numerous studies have shown that writing poetry has exceptional healing power over emotional trauma, with general enhancement of immune system function, fewer physical symptoms, reduced pain, and better sleep. I will guide a weekend of emotional healing — “Writing for Wellbeing: Emotional Healing through Expressive Writing” — at Mercy by the Sea Retreat and Conference Center in Madison, Connecticut, November 7 to 9. You’re invited. Or you might think about gifting a friend or loved one with this restorative, getaway weekend in a beautiful, peaceful, and inspirational setting on the Connecticut shore. The healing poems I introduce to participants are easy to understand, beautiful, uplifting, and able to help us come to terms with the stresses of a bad diagnosis, a divorce, death of a loved one – just about any emotional trauma we face. We discuss a poem, spend twenty minutes writing something in response, and then participants share if they want to. It’s a supportive, no-critique, safe space – not an academic class about writing better, but more a contemplative approach to feeling better. The flow of the weekend will run like this: • The science of Expressive Writing & its therapeutic benefits • Poetry versus journaling • How writing a poem can help you triumph over trauma • My two secrets for writing a healing poem • Curing loneliness through writing poems • Writing poetry for self-discovery, self-healing & self-reliance • Life’s silver linings – Humor, Gratitude, Hope • Cherishing yourself Here's what some of my past participants have said about their experience: • "Your class has opened a new world to me, and I'm so appreciative.” • “Your classes provided a very positive experience, opening up the possibility of using poetry to deal with the complex emotions felt by cancer patients. I will treasure these memories in the future, and plan to continue on this path of self-discovery and appreciation for everyday life.” • “Writing poems has been a great outlet for me and I thank you so much for introducing me to this. It’s very therapeutic and healing.” The details: • Dates: Friday, November 7 - Sunday, November 9, 2025 • Price: Single Occupancy $465; Double Occupancy $410 per person (All rooms have ensuite baths; price includes all meals from Friday dinner through Sunday breakfast) • Commuters: $200, which includes dinner Friday night, and lunch & dinner Saturday Go to this website for more information and to register: https://www.mercybythesea.org/programs-and-retreats/upcoming-programs/writing-for-wellbeing-november-2025/
The height of East Coast elitism: Sauntering into New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art last week with a sandwich of French pate and cornichon on a baguette. Not so fast, Gonzalez. My daughter and I were stopped cold by museum security even as I nonchalantly flashed my member’s card. “No food allowed in the museum,” the petite young lady announced loudly enough to cause heads to turn and give us the disdainful look New Yorkers reserve for visiting philistines. “I wasn’t going to eat it in the museum,” daughter offered. “It’s for my lunch later.” The security gal pulled herself up to her full 5’2” presence and shot back, “You have to take it outside.” If you read my blog last week, you’ll remember that I was unable to decide when to get into Manhattan to take in the new “Divine Egypt” exhibit at the Met. My solution was to invite my daughter, Julie, to go with me as my guest, thereby ensuring I would actually work up the energy to go at all. It turned out to be a day unlike my typical solo forays from my Connecticut home to the city. For starters, when I visit the Met Museum, I usually walk the forty-plus blocks from Grand Central to Eighty-second and Fifth. But with daughter in tow, I treated her to a cab. Ka-ching. $25.26. Before boarding the cab, she wanted to drop into Pave, the gourmet sandwich shop on Forty-sixth. It was there that my vegetarian daughter acquired the pate sandwich. Ka-ching. $18.85 By way of explanation, you have to understand that this is the kid who knew how to dip lobster into melted butter at two years of age – while sitting in a high chair! (My wife was a teacher and took seriously the education of our two daughters, including how to eat a steamed lobster.) Having been metaphorically but soundly smacked down by museum security, we found a place to sit on the Met’s grand but cold steps for Julie to dispatch the sandwich. After, of course, buying a bottle of five-dollar sparkling water to wash down the sandwich. Ka-ching. $5.06. After the museum we had to have lunch, of course: two salads and a glass of house wine at Nectar. Ka-ching. $104.38. And so it went all day. But. A Dad cannot put a price on his child’s eyes brightening with the thrill of seeing new things – still, after all the years since she was little enough to carry with one arm. I have to this day the memory of my other daughter, Wendy, when I took her at four years of age to the Christmas show at Radio City, watching her walk alone into the cavernous entry portal to the women’s room. My eyes misted, knowing this was simply her first steps toward my losing her to independence. A few years ago The Guardian newspaper in the United Kingdom carried a story in which the writer, Declan Fitzsimons, bemoaned the fact that at fifty-two years old, he was unmarried. He wondered what it would be like to have a daughter: “Would she have my eyes? My smile? What is it like to see in a child little mannerisms, a way of doing things, moving, speaking, laughing, playing, that remind us of ourselves? Or of course, she may have the eyes of my loved one. And what a joy that would be, to see in our child’s face, our love; to bring into this world a beautiful child that was of us – a child that would grow into her own person but growing out of who we are.” Declan’s story was titled “Childless At 52: How Sweet It Would Be To Be Called Dad.” As the Dad of two daughters, I declare Declan correct. It is sweet. In my girls, my late wife’s smile lives on. Their eyes are her exact shade of hazel. Their voices on the phone indistinguishable from hers. I wonder if my Dad recognized in me the manifestation of his love for my mother, as my daughters manifest my love for their Mom.
My late father-in-law had a million of ‘em. Trouble was, they were corny as Kansas in August. Here’s one I must have heard from him a hundred times: “Do you have trouble making decisions?” “Gee, I’m not sure.” On Wednesday it hit me like never before – I have trouble making decisions. Not big ones. Little ones. I was plagued by two decisions I couldn’t make: • Should I visit the subscriber preview of the Divine Egypt exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art the next day? • Should I join a group of neighbor guys who are planning a Wooster Street pizza crawl the afternoon of October 25? Now, you have to understand that in my life I’ve made some huge decisions without thinking twice: • Proposing marriage • Starting my own company • Buying/building several houses But as I write this, these two upcoming, trivial events have me frozen. To go or not to go? To be or not to be? Experts say a struggle with indecision stems from a fear of making the wrong choice amid the available options, leading to a paralysis that leaves one feeling anxious and unfulfilled. Indecision is, in itself, a decision to remain stagnant. Making a choice, regardless of the outcome, is better than remaining stuck in a kind of limbo. Research identifies people who struggle with taking stands or committing to positions as "indecisive" or "lukewarm" personalities. Indecisiveness is defined as "the subjective inability to make satisfactory decisions" and is considered a trait that has detrimental effects. This isn't simply about being unable to choose between options, they say, but rather a deeper pattern of avoiding firm commitments. Studies suggest that one in five adults exhibit chronic indecisiveness. In other words, inability to make decisions is a significant psychological phenomenon – not an occasional struggle. Common causes of indecisiveness include: 1. Fear of making the wrong choice : A primary factor that can paralyze decision-making. 2. Overwhelming number of options : Too many choices can lead to confusion and uncertainty. 3. Anxiety : The stress that comes from feeling unsure can contribute to indecision. 4. Lack of clarity : Uncertainty about personal goals and values can make it difficult to evaluate options effectively. 5. Desire for perfection : The belief that every decision must be perfect may lead to hesitation. 6. Fear of mistakes : Concern over making a wrong choice can prevent action. These factors create a cycle that reinforces indecisiveness, leading to inaction and frustration. So here I am, writing this blog post Wednesday evening. I still can’t decide if I should head to the Met Museum tomorrow or Friday. I know myself. If I postpone going to the museum tomorrow, I’ll find an excuse to not go on Friday. And I will end up missing the exhibit entirely. I need my Mommy to tell me what to do . . .
From Norse halls to modern America, the thread remains unbroken.
A fellow alumnus of Saint Basil Prep was in Connecticut last week and invited me to join him in visiting our alma mater. My instinct was to turn him down. Why? For no other reason than my anxiety that I can’t afford a day away from my desk, even in retirement. But I remembered my recent resolution to take my inner child on play dates, and I agreed. In our hyperconnected world, where multitasking has become a badge of honor, the simple act of being present has become a radical pursuit. Living in the present moment, however, is more than a philosophical ideal. It’s a scientifically validated pathway to well-being and quality of life. We wandered for hours around the campus that stands as an oasis of landscaped greenery in the concrete and asphalt wasteland that has become Stamford. We prowled through the several school buildings, peering into the classrooms in which we suffered through language, science, and math classes. We sat in the chapel pews we occupied decades ago. We even opened closed closet doors to see what was inside. The human mind's tendency is to dwell on past regrets and future anxieties. This is why we want to go back in time to relive happy moments. The stuff from the good old days is “settled law.” We lived it. It turned out okay. We needn’t worry about it. We can relive the good times and relive them and relive them, relishing our nostalgic sentimentality. But Thich Nhat Hanh, the renowned Zen master, has said that the present moment is filled with joy and happiness. “If you are attentive, you will see it." Maybe. But sometimes – no, often – I have to look awfully hard to see the joy. I have a hunch that you have to be either a saint or a poet to be really, truly attentive to the moment and in touch with the wonder of being alive. Poet T. S. Eliot thought saints live at the intersection of time and timelessness. I would add poets, too. The saint's aspiration is union with God through self-surrender and love. The poet's is toward the creation of aesthetic works that translate transcendent truths to others. In other words, the saint's existence at the intersection of time and timelessness is fundamentally about being, while the poet's engagement with this intersection is primarily about making. Remember the scene in Thornton Wilder’s play, Our Town? EMILY: "Does anyone ever realize life while they live it . . . every, every minute?" STAGE MANAGER: "No. Saints and poets maybe . . . they do some.” But both saints and poets aren’t residents of planet earth as you and I are. Their dwelling is the Temple of the Present. There, in the temple, they observe the little, thus making sense of the large. So the poet's quest is the same as the saint's—a continuous journey toward deeper understanding. One lives it, the other articulates it. As poet Mary Oliver put it: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.
I was privileged last week to bring my Healing Verses Workshop to The Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City, a welcome expansion of my volunteer efforts to guide people in writing poems to help ease emotional trauma. This is the press release issued by the hospital: The Center of Excellence for Cancer Support Services at Mount Sinai launched its new Art Fridays program on September 12 with a poetry workshop at the Dubin Breast Center in East Harlem, welcoming nearly a dozen patients, caregivers, and staff. The monthly enrichment series is designed to provide creative outlets that support healing, connection, and self-expression. Author and poet Peter Yaremko, who shared how poetry can help people process the emotional weight of cancer, led the inaugural session. Participants heard poems by distinguished writers who turned to poetry in times of illness and grief, and then wrote their own personal reflections. “The whole purpose is to put on paper the feelings that are bothering you, so you can unburden yourself and find some peace,” Yaremko explained. “Poetry doesn’t take away pain, but it provides companionship in the grief journey.” Yaremko’s commitment to leading healing poetry workshops is deeply personal. After losing his wife to cancer ten years ago, he turned to poetry as a way to cope with his grief. Writing became a space where he could slow down, reflect, and begin to heal. Inspired by how transformative the practice was for him, Yaremko now shares this gift with others facing illness or loss, guiding patients and caregivers to discover how words can bring comfort, peace, and resilience. For patient Lisa Atkins, a Brooklyn resident, the event felt like a sign. “This class was inspirational. Art is healing because there’s no right or wrong—you can just express yourself freely,” she said. “My dad was a poet, and I saw this as a way to reconnect with him, and with myself, after my cancer diagnosis. “This workshop reminded me that even in the middle of a cancer journey, I can find moments of joy and expression. Writing poetry helped me put my feelings into words and feel connected to others who understand what it’s like,” she said. Alison Snow, PhD, LCSW, co-director of the Center of Excellence for Cancer Support Services at Mount Sinai, described the gathering as intimate and moving. “Everyone was holding back tears,” she reflected. “Art allows patients to tap into creativity, feel safe, and form bonds with one another. You could see those connections happening around the table.” The Art Fridays series will continue this fall with workshops in painting, cooking, and interior design. “We’re excited to see this program grow,” Snow said. “Through art, we want to give patients and caregivers moments of beauty, healing, and hope, a reminder that even in the hardest times, creativity can light the way forward.”
It comes as no surprise that a July poll finds most of us have lost faith in the American dream. Seventy-five percent of Americans see little hope for improving their economic status and nearly seventy percent say the idea that “if you work hard, you will get ahead,” no longer holds true, or never did. So at a recent Zoom gathering of my Healing Verses workshop, we took a look at how poetry might help. This is precisely what poetry does – help us make sense of life. What we found was eye-opening and encouraging. For starters, I could find precious few poems that focus on hope. I was damned if I was going to spend an hour rehashing Emily Dickinson’s paean to "the thing with feathers / that perches in the soul." So I decided to write my own poem: There Are No Poems about Hope By Peter W Yaremko The assignment was to bring a poem about hope to class. But I couldn’t find any. Not one. Not anywhere among the labyrinth that is Google. ChatGPT let me down as well as Claude.ai. Even Poem Hunter. We must be so full up of hope there’s no need for poets to suffer for it or sing of it. Such a sissy word. A girl’s name, for Chrissake. No wonder poets don’t bother with it. “Do not go hopeful into that good night?” No. Doesn’t work. Could it be we don’t know what hope is? We pray for faith, hope and charity all the time. Faith and charity I can understand. But what do we hope for? Maybe we shouldn’t hope for, or hope that, or hope if. Just simply hope. Or just simply change hope to dream. Hope has had many definitions through the ages, and philosophers and psychologists have had a lot to say. One constant is hope's fundamental connection to our ability as humans to project ourselves into imagined futures and find meaning there. In other words, to dream. Which is why writer Ilia Delio defines hope as “the main impulse of life.” Legendary author Fyodor Dostoevsky chimes in with: "To live without hope is to cease to live." Mark Twain is his usual blunt self: "Without dreams and goals there is no living, merely existing, and that is not why we are here." And Langston Hughes, the great voice of the Harlem Renaissance warns: Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird, that cannot fly. To my way of thinking, the concept of hope that checks all the boxes and puts further debate to rest is this one by French philosopher Gabriel Marcel: “The essence of hope is not to hope that . . . but merely to hope. The person who hopes does not accept the current situation as final.” Václav Havel, the poet who became president of the Czech Republic, says much the same thing: “Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense regardless of how it turns out." During the writing period of the workshop, participants created poems that heartened me, and I hope will uplift you: Parens Patriae By SJ Harrold The day I slugged my father was uneventful as I recall. I must’ve done whatever a thoughtless boy does to someone, or something or, perhaps I did nothing and that was the sin. In my tiny room, hearing his heavy steps stomping down the hall, closing in. Another beating penciled-in from loving dad. Crashing through the door, thick fingers stabbed my puny chest and his lips peppered foamy spit. Untethered, my pot melted. A robot fist punched him square in his fleshy jaw. He played the stunned mullet, bulged eyes and gaping mouth, dropping to the floor like a sack of whatever. A damaged chip ripped off the flawed block. The parched apple finally dropped from the hoary tree. Perfect harmony. Amidst the circus bear dance my reptile brain fired. Enveloped in shame, I fell back, defenseless. He pummeled away to my crocodile tears. We knew no better. I still grieve that. Life and death in September By Paul Bumbar September 3, 1939, Sunday morning in Buffalo, NY, In a wood frame, rented house on Timon Street, Sophia Bumbar gave birth to me her third child ( second son ) in the same bed she and my father had been sharing for the over three years since their wedding. My life – as with most – begins in love and life goes on. September 3, 1939, that same day, the “war to end all wars” was reprised as England and France declare war on Germany and World War II begins. Death and destruction for six years. Worldwide, up to 80 million people – soldiers and civilians - will die. September 3, 2025, 80 years after it had begun, thousands in Tienamin Square commemorate the end of the war with dictators reviewing marching military and rolling weapons of destruction, all the while professing peace, but the drums of war go on, and so do birthdays. Assisted living By Tina Peel Leaning over his walker Glasses slipping down his nose He slowly navigates the pathway Over to the garden that reminds him of his youth There, he keeps watch as he did long ago Weeding Watering Muttering Expecting sweet corn to come From a plant that’s mostly stalk right now “A couple more weeks, or maybe three,” he guesses And as each day passes, he waits As a wad of silky golden thread Lures him into believing That yes, That sweet ear of corn will come A millennium ago Japanese poetess Izumi Shikibu found cause for hope in the moon beaming through the broken roof of a desolate house. It was about the year 1000 when she wrote: Although the wind blows terribly here, the moonlight also leaks between the roof planks of this ruined house. And today, poet Alexandra Vasiliu offers this advice: Never empty your heart of hope. Try to copy the moon because on her lowest days, a crescent moon starts to rise. So, my darling, imitate the moon. It all comes down to this: hope, like faith and love, is an act of will power . . . a decision.