Wishful Thinking

Wishful Thinking...

The dandelion explodes with optimism as I breathe my wish on it.  Its remnants scatter to the winds, and I wonder would it carry my wish to the universe.

Who or what I expected to respond to this request I do not to know.

But the potential of that bounding promise was too much to pass up as a child.  Dandelions, shooting stars and every wishful romantic omen you can think of, I tried them all.  And for what?  Mostly little pointless things.  Things I thought I wanted or needed.  Did I ever believe those wishes would come true and those treasures manifest or was I simply content to daydream.  I cannot say for sure now.
How I would explain the sudden material changes in my life?  Well the prospect of granted wishes excited me too much to worry about the logistics or explanations.  I thought I grew out of that.

It may not be toys, or gold I wish for now.  Not in their raw form.

We all grow older and more cynical, and while many hold on to the hope of a benevolent paternal being, not everyone's wishful thinking is so obvious.  We constantly make promises, deals and bargains, often with ourselves or some unknown entity.
Let this happen.
Stop this happening.
Give me a chance.
And that's okay.  If you work towards that wish, and you are not crying out for a sign as you drift through the muddy waters.  It may be purely comfort, but all too often I hear good things come to those who wait and what's for you won't pass you but these ideas, while comforting are also wishful thinking. You can fall into that pit waiting for the universe to align and give you the help you'll need.  It's hard.
To give up the comfort, after having shrugged off the responsibility.
But inaction is irresponsible.

Better to think of that dandelion as your options.
Some seeds are fruitful, some lost to the wind and elements.
But it is worth the breath you spell.

Lines

Diagonal lines, parallel lines and perpendicular lines but no curves and no optical illusions.  This could only be art.  With a glass in hand I wander around the rest of the exhibition.  I pause for a while in front of each exhibit and sip, determined to give each piece its dues in spite of my boredom.  The gallery itself is the most interesting thing and with my friend we speculate how it would make an awesome apartment.  After one short lap perusing each piece and eavesdropping on various conversations we decide to leave.
It had been a minor diversion on the way to the pub.  If it had been my goal, I would have been bitterly disappointed.  As it were, it was an opportunity to fluff up the credibility of my cultured self without surrendering too much time.

And yet I would find my mind wandering back to the exhibition and back to lines and what they meant and how we used them, in buildings and in building speech.  The lines that we cross, the fine line that guides us and the line we toe.  The deadline we must meet and the line we draw in the sand.  Suddenly, I got it.
The delayed realisation dawned on me, one ray at a time.  It all starts with a line, a dotted line, a swiggley line or  a curved line on the page.

We follow the line.

Even as our gaze turns out to the horizon, we follow the line and strain our eye to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond, be that the receding object of interest or the impending object of curiosity.

Sometimes we step out of line, despite those guiding contours.
And sometimes we forget our lines, like the sloppy actors that we are.

Cherry Picker

The petals, dispersed by the sigh of the wind, gently danced to the ground.  Sometimes a gust would send them swimming in a brief flurry, before drifting down to blanket the playground and garden in a layer of pink.

The cherry tree, that majestic tower standing tall behind the kindergarten had bloomed as its fruit begun to ripen.  The tree greeted children and parents and bade them farewell as they tore themselves away and headed for home after another day.

A colleague mounted a ladder and collected a handful of cherries-some were not quite ripe.  This collection was hurriedly devoured.  With the children's curiosity whetted it was only a matter of time before it piqued.  And I was the smiling victim.

First I was asked for a simple cherry, a request to which I happily obliged.  Within an instant I was swarmed, surrounded by bear trap paws that clutched and grabbed and screamed.
'Cherry, please!'
I stretched reaching for chose cherries hanging from the lowest branches.  When I had exhausted my limited reach, I turned to face the masses of eager faces and frowning to convey the full weight of my disappointment I told them there were no more.  Most relented and turned sorrowfully away, plodding back to the swing, trikes or sandpit; empty handed.
I would have thought it'd end there.  I returned to my regular duties of being pulled, pushed, quizzed, sat on and being an  accessory to general mayhem and chaos.

However, the following day I was approached by one the smaller shier children, she smile a toothy smile and made a request I could not then refuse.
'Cherry, please.'
'Okay.'  I replied.  'I'll see what I can do.'  Unsure whether she had understood I followed her to the cherry tree at the bottom of the garden.  My movement in the appropriate direction had obviously signified that I'd accepted to grant this request.

After several laps of the tree, with my gaze arched upward and a multitude of sighs.  I tried jumping and clutching.  With much ado this initially unsuccessful comical effort worked.  My success was short lived; a hungry mob of spectators had gathered and they began to chant.  They wanted their cherries.

I was the ladder.  I was the stair, as they climbed up reaching for the branches and the cherries, laughing and yelling loudly and directing me in German.  I coaxed and pushed them to repeat everything in English.
'Left.'
'Right.'
'Back.'
'Stephen, back!'
This could have gone on forever, or at least until there were no cherries but I soon feigned a sore back, bending and stooping I made my way to the bench and lay down.  I pretended to sleep, snoring loudly with my hands cupped on my chest.  I soon got a smack on the belly and felt the wind knocked out of me.  Hands and knees pressed upon me as little bodies began to crawl on top of me.
'I'm awake!'  I yelled.  'I'm up, I'm standing up.'
No where is safe here.
Everything can be climbed; a peak or summit waiting to be conquered.  The trick then, is to never stand still.

Always be moving.

There is seldom a body that remains stationary here anyway, save for those that pause to shed a few tears, but usually within moments they too remember their momentum and their eyes dry as they rush off to some other adventure.  There is a multitude of stories unfolding every minute,  It's a time of experimentation and boundary pushing.  Their lives, like their playtime can encompass a multiverse of narratives, each clutching and begging to be fulfilled.

Always be learning.
Always be changing.
Always be growing.
Always be climbing.
Always be reaching.