I haven’t made a wish in a while, not an official one anyway.
I didn’t blow out candles last year for my birthday and I can’t remember the last time Michael held out one of my fallen eyelashes. I have not closed my eyes on the stars, tried to channel a genie, or played tug of war with a turkey bone in quite some time.
I’m not sure exactly when I stopped, but it was probably around the time that I realized wishing doesn’t work.
If I were at Disneyland right now, I might be asked to leave. On the surface, this seems a sad declaration, proof that I’ve lost my youthful whimsey, but I don’t think what I’m saying is dark at all.
Wishing doesn’t work, the only thing that works is work.
I’ve never heard of a heart surgeon who saved a life because he wished it so, or a mother putting food on the table because she was a good person and wished for it. People don’t fight their way out or home by throwing pennies in a fountain. They walk again, rebuild, “get there” because they try and keep trying. Success is not delivered in a cloud of fairy dust, it’s blisters and scratchy eyes.
Wishing is a lovely idea, but it doesn’t move the wheel. I think we turn to fuzzy flowers when we are tired, or giving up.
This post may feel a little disheartening, like I’m grumpy, but I’m not. Life is good. I just wish I knew why my printer keeps breaking.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Forty Winks.