Utter Hope

If you've ever ridden Pirates of the Caribbean at Disneyland, you'll know there's a warning sign, prior to taking the "big drop," that reads "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter." 

This sign should be hung over the front door of every prison in our country. These places are a "vacuum of despair," the utter absence of hope, a wet blanket of sorrow thrown over your head the second you pass through the gates.

Twice I've had to venture behind the iron-clad doors of penal institutions. Fortunately, both were for the purposes of work and not court ordered. 

I'll never forget stepping across the threshold, overwhelmed with gloom, hopelessness, and despondency. I wanted to run for the door, not because I feared the men locked inside, but to escape the abandonment of hope that permeated the walls that surrounded me. It was sad. It was depressing. It was hopeless. 

Tonight, I experienced the polar opposite of that: A Rehab graduation for four men celebrating six months of continuous sobriety.

A room full of recovering addicts and ex-cons buzzing with joy and hope for a new tomorrow. 

Men and women, all under six months, smiling and singing, hugging and laughing, in bright-eyed excitement for the graduates. The anticipation toward their own graduation was palpable. A room full of new sobriety, everybody firmly perched atop their own pink clouds. 

It was intoxicating (in the right way).