Wish I May, Wish I Might

When I was a little girl, I had a fascination with the first star of evening.  Who am I kidding?  I still do.  Back then, I had one wish: I wish for a horse.  Every night.  For decades.  Eventually, in my late 20s, I got my horse.  Two, in fact.  Old, cream-colored Amish Belgians, past their prime, bony and angular.  They were perfect. 

I miss those days.  I miss the simplicity, the honesty, the beauty, the single-mindedness of that wish. 

My wishes are no longer simple.  Probably not quite as honest.  Definitely not as beautiful.  Marred by vacillation and indecision. 

What do I wish for?  I wish for a heart full of peace, that peace that passes understanding.  The peace that no unexpected event, no sudden failure on my part, can take away. 

I wish for faith for my children, for spirits flying to God at every moment, even now, for the rest of their lives. 

I wish for them joy, and confidence, and adventure, and love--true love, the kind of love that I wanted and didn't find. 

I wish for wisdom . . . and gentleness . . . and forgiveness . . . and selflessness . . . and godliness. 

In truth, I wish for perfection, the kind of perfection I cannot attain, was never meant to attain, will only find misery trying to attain, and yet am inexorably compelled to attempt to attain anyway. 

I wish for success.  Not for wealth; I have troubles enough without that!  But a career that pays my bills (maybe one day without any assistance at all!), that I love, that I am good at . . . made for. 

I wish for happiness.  I am still little girl enough to want that.  I'm not sure I know what that looks like anymore, but I want it anyway.  I have moments, but even they are tinged with something that is not quite sadness, but definitely not happiness.  Is it maturity?  Is it fatalism?  Is it realism?  I don't know, but I'm pretty sure I don't like it. 

I wish for golden days. 

I wish for wings to mount up like eagles. 

I wish to be old and feel young rather than being not-quite-young and feeling quite old. 

I wish I had been able to finish the cheerful blog I started earlier in the day instead of this rather maudlin one that dropped upon me quite by surprise. 

In my family, we often say, "If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride."  Beggar I am, and once upon a time I had horses to ride.  Many horses.  Regal horses.  So tonight I will go to sleep with a prayer in my heart, and my wishes pinned to the stars of evening . . . and perhaps one day I will be taken unawares . . . and they, too, will have come true.