When
I was a little girl, there was the persistent belief that you could make a wish by blowing on a dandelion. As an adult, I can now see that the only wishes likely granted that way were the wishes of the dandelion to spread its weediness far and wide, but seeing these the other day made me think about the nature of wishes.
We have so many superstitions about the objects that can prove transformative — birthday candles; necklace clasps; eyelashes — that can somehow take the utterly intangible and make it real. As though they are gateways, somehow, to the larger power of the universe, the power to manifest and make it so.
Is the world a better place with or without wishes? In a way, they are little packets of hope, whispered to no one and kept close to ourselves. But sometimes hope turns to disappointment, disillusionment. So is it better to not put faith in magic at all?
I didn’t pick that dandelion. I didn’t close my eyes or send its seeds scattering on the wind of my breath.
But I can’t say that I didn’t hope, if only for a millisecond, that a little girl might come along who would.
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