Horses

If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.
If wishes were fishes, we'd cast all our lines.
If ifs and ands were pots and pans
There'd be no need for tinkers' hands.

If my aunt was a man she'd be my uncle.


For Blue Light, who so often inspires me. Not so long ago, I wanted what she wished for almost exactly.

I used to wish for long sleek hair to blow in the wind. I'd be satisfied for long enough to tie back, and it will get there. The difference is my mother cut mine in a pixie, and I do as I like with it now. I smile at my old sense of drama, and prefer the practical. And if it doesn't grow enough, I'll buzz it all off, like I do now for D, who always said he would keep it shaved if he started losing his hair. Long keeps my head warmer is all.

I watch my skin grow dry, the cracks form where my expressions habitually are. I see the squarish faces of the women in my family peering out at me shyly. I smile back ruefully, humorously. I once wished for a pretty face, but mine will wear better, with such a prominent nose to hang upon.

I once wished for the delicate frame of the elegant and slender dancers. But I have never really broken a bone, a small chip from a toe, a maybe crack in a knuckle, peasant stockiness to withstand the inevitable shocks of rude life. The sweet birds are for me to protect and tend to, I will outstand them. The bole, branch and leaves all have their roles to play, one wishing to be the other is pointless.

I wish I'd had a warm and healthy love in my original family, but this too is a blessing. I will never make assumptions about love or relationships, never feel entitled. I will never put my foot completely in my mouth about other's relationships with their families, never pressure anyone into a conventional social role. I treasure my friends who form my family. I think about these dynamics all the time.

I used to wish myself more calm, more comprehensible, and I still do. But this is what I am, my reactions are not standard, off the shelf ones. The mis-reactions tell me all about those making them, and who to be careful of. My fluster is my shield against arrogance, an emotion that would bring me great pleasure - but no friends.

I once wished for heaven, but I have come to believe there isn't one. There is one human unit of time, a lifetime, we each get one. To want another is sheer greed. To want anyone else's life is stupidity. Make my own, and use the crayons I have, without worrying if the other kid has all the blues and purples and I have brown.

I used to wish for enough money, time, travel, excitement, all the extravagant joys. Oh, much of it would have been fun, I'm sure. But I have enough, and not needing to struggle would have been horribly harmful to me. I must have life to push against, or I would loll. I really am lazy, an enlightened laziness, but low energy all the same. Little motivated by money, much as I enjoy nice things, I tend to do less if it is still sufficient. Wealth would sap me of my motivation.

I used to wish everyone to be intelligent. But I have found that meanness latched to intelligence is far more damaging than stupid meanness, in part because it can disguise itself too well. Too much kindness leaves us unwilling to be unkind to solve a larger evil. So I think just a bit more intelligence and a bit more kindness wouldn't hurt, just enough to tip the scales a little.

I wouldn't wish for more wishes. I would wish for a bit more enough for most people, a bit more courage for everyone to open their eyes and look at themselves honestly, and just a little more rain in the places it's needed.