Reflections in an Age of Uncertainty
In the hush of early morning, with the kettle just beginning its gentle rumble and the first light breaking across the backyard, making its way through the blinds in my breakfast nook, I often find myself ruminating on the curious business of hope. Not the sentimental variety, mind you, nor the chirpy optimism so fashionable in certain circles—but something deeper, sterner, more demanding. Something one might rightly call radical hope.
It is a curious thing, radical hope. It asks of us not merely to look for the silver lining, but to believe in the possibility of future goodness even when we cannot yet comprehend what such goodness might look like. It is hope with the backbone of a philosopher and the quiet faith of a gardener planting trees whose shade he may never enjoy.
This notion is eloquently explored by Jonathan Lear, who turns our attention to the experience of the Crow people during a period of profound cultural devastation. When the buffalo disappeared from the plains, the Crow lost not only their livelihood but the very rituals and meanings that had given shape to their lives. Their leader, the remarkable Chief Plenty Coups, captured this desolation in haunting words: “After this, nothing happened.”
And yet, something did happen. Amidst the collapse of meaning, Plenty Coups turned to the ancient tradition of dream-seeking. In a vision, he saw the Chickadee—a small, watchful bird—who taught him the art of observation and adaptation. Guided by this dream, the Crow did not vanish. Instead, they found a way forward—not by clinging to the past, but by honouring it even as they stepped into the unknown.
This, dear friend, is the essence of radical hope. It is not naïve. It is not comfortable. It is the hope that dares to speak when the old ways fall silent. It is the courage to believe in a future whose contours remain hidden from view.
In our own time—marked as it is by the unraveling of familiar institutions, the digital reordering of our social fabric, and a climate growing ever more restive—we may feel an echo of the Crow’s bewilderment. Traditions seem to falter. Certainties dissolve. And the pace of change, like a fast train through mist, often outruns our understanding.
Yet in such times, radical hope is not merely advisable—it is essential.
Importantly, it is not passive. It does not sit idly by, hands folded, waiting for better days. No—radical hope works. It builds. It listens. It adapts. It invests itself in the slow and often unglamorous work of tending to relationships, nurturing beauty, and seeking meaning in art, in conversation, and in silence.
It recognises, too, that while political structures may crumble and ideologies may clash, there remain certain enduring truths that are the ballast of any civilised society: the love of those we embrace as kin, the loyalty of friends, the sanctity of story and song.
To hope radically, then, is to affirm that no matter how deep the disorientation, there is always room—indeed, a sacred duty—for renewal. Just as Plenty Coups led his people toward a new form of life grounded in agriculture, not as capitulation but as a reimagining of survival, so too we must explore new paths with discernment and courage.
May we, like the Chickadee of his dream, remain alert. Observant. Gentle in manner, but fierce in our fidelity to the possibility of a better world. It is only the possibility of a better world that keeps me going, sometimes identifying with Bob Marley who once wrote, “my fear is my only carriage”.
And so, as the sun rises, flooding my nook with light and the day carries on, let us not despair in the face of what is ending, but rather prepare the soil—spiritually and socially—for what may yet come to life.
