For the wishes of one’s old life wither and shrivel like old leaves if they are not replaced with new wishes when the world changes. And the world always changes. – Catherynne M. Valente
Wishes are tricky, sticky and always have been: crossed fingers, a puff of air, a trail of candle smoke, a flipped coin, a held breath. Nothing you can lean on, nothing you can catch. Nothing I can say for sure, at this point, only that I wish so often that I’m building the foundation for something. I’d be okay with chaos, if only I knew it was truly construction.
Wishes are selfish, singular: a cramped vehicle, one road map, and a non-negotiable destination. I don’t spend very much time thinking about the wishes of others, a confession that will make me seem small. I’ll amend: I never thought about your wishes when I crafted my own, fueled them, and put them on the path where they would eventually collide with yours. Head-on, because from the start, we were traveling in opposite directions.
Old wishes feel muddy, tacky in my bones. They are a lump in my throat and pinpricks behind my eyes. They are the things I don’t want to say, the ways I am ashamed by how the world has changed and how much I look the same. In the mirror, the constant half smile, quarter vision, sprinkling of freckles, dusting of indecision, short limbs, short sight, painted nails, varnished fear.
There is a new wish on the tip of my tongue. I know the word for it, I know I do. I can almost see the shape of it, the name of it. I can almost hear the sounds in my head and I’m sure I’ve tasted it before. There is a wish just beyond my reach, one I remember remembering before I forgot it again. There is a wish I put away for safe keeping in a place too hidden for me to recall.
Wishes are context, pretext. They frame and bookend, they propel and tether. Wishes give meaning to work and work with seeking and seek with dreaming, all woven together nicely, tightly, like wearable warmth. I started this year on a park bench, too busy observing to realize how the people and things leaving me, walking and floating away, were taking pieces of old wishes, loose strings on a garment coming undone beneath my nose.
I made no resolutions for the new year and two months have almost gone, all in silence, as I work unendingly. Every minute of every day is full of labor or study or writing or recording or reading or new projects, things I can do alone if I have to. Things I can do instead of slowing down or taking too deep a breath, all in the hope that I’m building the foundation for something, and all this chaos is truly construction.