Wishing

By Joni Ratts

I can’t count the number of times I’ve made a wish. I’ve wished things would hurry up and happen or hurry up and be over. I’ve wished for special things. Some wishes came true, and later I realized they weren’t really, what I wanted after all.

Everyone wishes for something at some time in their life.

We wish we'll fall in love and be happy. We wish for fame or to win the lottery. We wish for second chances. We wish for world peace and a cure for cancer. We wish, we wish, we wish, and then we wish again, and not always for simple, little things.

Admit it, you know what I’m talking about, right?

When we’re young, we see the world through a myopic lens and only wish for immediate things. Growing up, I remember being impatient, always wishing life would speed up and go faster. I wished I were taller to ride the bumper cars at the amusement park. I wished I were older so I could get my driver’s license. I wished I were popular, and I wished for a boyfriend.

My mother told me once to be careful what I wished for; I just might get it. At the time, I thought that was weird. Why wouldn’t I want to get the thing I wished for?

Years ago, my daughter wished she could dress like everyone else; she said her clothes were too nice she didn’t fit in. She would sneak other clothes out of the house in her backpack and change in the neighbor’s bushes. (To this day, she insists I made her wear yellow and brown argyle socks.)

The other day my granddaughter told me she wished her baby teeth would hurry up and fall out, so the tooth fairy would bring her something. She’s almost six.

There are so many ways to wish.

Throw a coin in a fountain. If a ladybug lands on your arm, wish as it flies away. See a falling star, and wish before it disappears. Find a wishbone in the turkey and break it with a friend – the long side gets the wish. Blow the fluffy down off a seeded dandelion, or blow out all the candles on your birthday cake with one breath, and your wish will come true. If you see a white horse, cross your fingers and wish before you see its tail. Wish on rainbow, a penny, or a pin.

But never ever tell anyone your wish; if you do, it won’t come true. To be certain it will, after you wish, touch blue.

Over and over, we wish for impossible things, things out of reach, things common sense tells us wouldn’t ever come true, but we wish anyway, because we need to believe that maybe, just maybe, someday our wish will come true like someday seeing a blue moon. Wishing gives us hope.

My friend of forty-odd years finished his last round of radiation treatment a few days ago. He was thrilled. For weeks, he wished for his daily trips to the chamber to end. When the day finally arrived, he said he felt ambivalent, almost hesitant. The tether that had provided a semblance of control and held him safe was gone. He isn’t sure exactly what to wish for next.

I wish him good health and love and joy. In this case, I hope my mother is right, and I get exactly what I wish for.

As long as I’m capable of intelligent thought, I will wish. I will wish in fear and need and wonder because wishes are like wide-awake dreams, and dreamers are the music makers and inventors and creators of the magic in life; they reach for the stars. That is my wish for me.

And I wish the words of Aristotle could be true for all of us. “If things do not turn out as we wish, we should wish for them as they turn out.”