A wish…

Some time back, we had a wishing tree in front of our house. Here’s a link to that blog – just so you know, what I’m talking about…

http://lettinggoexperiment.blogspot.com/2014/07/the-wishing-tree.html

On this wishing tree, on bright blue paper, stood a wish. Every time I passed the tree, I sneaked a peek - to make sure it was still there, to make sure the wind hadn’t swept it away, to make sure ants hadn’t gnawed on it. But mostly, I sneaked a peek – because the wish made my heart sing – just a teeny tiny bit.

Each time I looked at it, I felt a little flutter inside. Each time, I looked at it, I made a quick fervent wish that the child’s wish be granted. If there were any such thing as wish reinforcement, this would be it, I suppose. Finally when I noticed that the ants or whoever had started chewing on the paper, I clicked a picture. So I wouldn’t forget it.

It was a wish that spoke to me. It was my wish too. Perhaps it still is (except unlike this child, I am already grown-up. Darn it…). I clicked a picture so I wouldn’t forget it. The child had made my wish. A wish I didn’t have the courage to make.   

So this was my vicarious wishing?

Perhaps. It made me marvel at how unadulterated the child’s wish was. How unpolluted. Mine on the other hand would be full of doubt, hesitations and skepticism - about my writing skills (if any), tenacity (to complete a project) and commitment (mostly to not giving up). And that sadly enough discourages me from venturing out or daring to make that wish or even take any steps in that direction.  

Sure. I would like to be an author when I grow up too. But do I dare to make such a wish?
I do like to write and it clears my head. Journalism seemed more within reach. There was a topic and you decided the thrust of the story. There was a deadline and an editor breathing hot air down your neck. Go ahead - use your imagination to decide which of the above was most effective in getting the story done.

But creative writing, or writing a book, or children’s stories or whatever else…exists in a certain vacuum. And in this vacuum creep in, effortlessly - self doubt, the crisis of the day, anxiety about random things, and other unnecessary, mundane things, that push and shove their way in.

All that can only pollute the writing (not to say my life – or whatever else I may choose to do). And writing requires a clear unpolluted mind, in a sense. Odd thing though. It requires it but it can also create it. And therein lies hope. My hope. My wish?

I am still not convinced I can dare to wish this wish. Perhaps I can piggyback on this beautiful blue note that flutters freely with fierce optimism. A child’s sense of wonder and optimism. An optimism that is untouched by even the faintest whiff of adult cynicism.

Maybe some of the child’s optimism and sense of wonder will rub off on me.

And to this wonderful child, all I say is, Thank You.