The Gift of the Wish

Yesterday as I was washing my face, an eyelash fell onto my cheek.

Last time this happened, Grisha stopped teaching. One Heart! On your face! he said in that tone that warns: A spider is crawling on you!

I responded appropriately. Frenzied head shaking and swiping and eek!ing.

No, no! Grisha said. He plucked something off my cheek, dropped it in my palm.

Eyelash.

Huh.

Hardly seems worth the fuss. Maybe he has an eyelash phobia?

Make a wish, he said, then blow it away.

Ah.

I have a standard wish for birthdays and shooting stars and dandelion seeds and now, for eyelashes. It’s a cliché, but what is a wish anyway? I may as well put my vote out there.

World peace. Poof!

Back to work.

* * *

I am not the most strong-willed person I know. My mother is, or maybe Sibling Five-of-Six is. Shortly after Five-of-Six woke up from routine back surgery, the doctors delivered the bad news: You will never walk again.

Mother and Five-of-Six looked at each other.

Grimly, I imagine. When they look grim, you’d best stay out of their way.

Because the surgery caused the paralysis, the hospital threw in a few weeks of free occupational therapy. They taught Five-of-Six to use a catheter, a wheelchair.

My mother registered Five-of-Six at Mademoiselle, a budget health club. No swimming pool, no hot tub, no personal trainers, no hot towels. Just space for aerobics classes and a motley collection of machines and free weights.

Against her own best judgment (such is the strength of Five-of-Six’s will), the hospital’s physical therapist agreed to visit the health club and run through a few exercises that would get my sister up and walking. The therapist did not mince words in telling Five-of-Six what she thought of this scheme. Five-of-Six, who had survived alone on the streets of three major cities, did not mince words, either.

The catheter didn’t last a month. Walking took a bit longer.

* * *

I come from a line of strong-willed women. I am the wimp. I don’t fight. I give way--to a fault.

So I never thought of myself as strong-willed until I edited The Everything Parent’s Guide to the Strong-Willed Child.

It was like reading my horoscope. I do this! I thought. That is just like me!

But wait a minute. Aren’t we all strong-willed children? Isn’t that our national character?

Who doesn’t want what they want? Who accepts substitutes? For example:

If you got into the middle of a good book, would you not stick with it? Would you not close your ears when called to the table for dinner, refusing to lift your eyes from the page even as you climbed the stairs to your room, where you have been sent for the night? Would you not settle in, smugly satisfied, knowing that no one will interrupt you until bedtime, when you will switch to using the flashlight under the covers until you finally reach the last lovely period?

If long division made no sense to you, would you not stick to your principles, refusing to accept that an educated guess is the best way to start solving a problem? Would you not insist to your math-whiz of a father that this is a sloppy system, even as you fail all your tests? Even now, now that you have at last provisionally resigned yourself to this sloppy system, even now would you not argue that there has to be a better way to figure out how many 14s go into 87 than saying, How about 5? No? Well then, how about 4? 3? And even now, right this minute as you contemplate this problem, would you not adamantly refuse to use the calculator because--admit it, in your heart of hearts you know it as well as I do--there must be a beeline through this thicket?

If your soul-twin died, would you not say to your God, That’s it, take me now? Wouldn’t you insist? And if the Bastard refused, wouldn’t you say, “I’ll show you!” and turn your back on the so-called gift of corporeal life? Wouldn’t your soul fold its arms and stand its ground on the tiniest of corporeal footprints, tapping its toe, sullenly muttering “Fine, I’ll wait,” and then do it, wait, and wait for as long as it takes?

If after 18 months of tango lessons and practice you suddenly discovered you are afraid of your shoes, would you not call Nina straightaway?

* * *

I never knew how strong-headed I am because I do not oppose opposition. I give way. Which is not to say I give up.

I do work-arounds. Obstruct me here, I carve a new channel there. Constrict me, and I push harder. Tell me I must do things your way and I’ll acquiesce—for now.

When I was a kid, I sang a song: Can’t go over it, Can’t go under it, Guess I’ll have to go through it.

In lifesaving I learned: When a drowning person climbs onto your shoulders, locks his legs around your neck in panic to keep his head above water, do not resist. Sink.

As often as not, I bear the brunt of my own strong will. I put constraints on myself, or I accept others’ constraints. Sometimes I do this because it is the right thing to do. Because I find self-discipline and –denial satisfying. Because when I am feeling dominated or invisible, self-control demonstrates my autonomous power. Because when you have nearly unlimited success in getting what you want, it is wise to narrow the scope of what you will pursue by defining what you will not. Because when the world is too wide, it is helpful to curl up in a box of your own making.

Self-direction is a game I like to win, even if my only opponent is me.

I am soft and pig-headed. I want what I want. I give way, but I play to win.

Who would take me on? Who would presume to try to deny me the thing that I want?

Right now I am denying myself.

* * *

Something bad has happened. I am trying to make it stop, but it is a battle of wills.

What if, when something bad happens, you don’t really want it to stop?

I want what I want and, usually, I get it.

Right now what I want is a thing I should not.

I am battling my own strong will.

* * *

Last week as I was washing my face, an eyelash fell onto my cheek.

I wished for the right thing, but my heart was not in it.

Even as I blew the eyelash away, I regretted the cheat. Regretted that I could not fully wish for the right thing and equally regretted that I squandered the chance to make the wish rightly.

* * *

Yesterday, another eyelash fell.

A second chance. Gift or demand?

For a long time I stood, the eyelash balanced on the tip of my finger. I breathed. I reasoned with myself, kind but firm. I marshaled every trick in the cosmic-love book. I imagined the absolute best thing that could happen.

It worked!

I made the wish. No crossed fingers. No strings attached. No holding back.

I breathed in, the Breath of Life, held wish and breath together in a moment of sincerest intention, then blew, the Breath of Love.

* * *

Why do we make wishes? Why do we bother to puff on dandelion seeds and birthday candles and eyelashes?

Are we merely strong-willed children, enlisting magic to get what we want?

What if the act of making a wish was not the means but the end?

What if the act of making a wish was about experiencing the moment of sincerest intention?

Poof! I blew the eyelash away. But I will hold to this moment.

In times to come when I find myself wanting this thing I should not, I will reenter the moment of wishing. I will stand in the place of sincerest intention, and it will sustain me.