WISHES AND HORSES
“If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.” My mother told me that as a small child. Of course she meant well. She was trying to prepare me for the realities of life. Wishing alone will not make things happen.
Starting at a very early age, we are told this in so many ways by people in authority. Our teachers chastise us when we’re daydreaming. “Get your head out of the clouds,” they say. Coaches bark, “They’re not going to roll over just because you step onto the field!” Or we may hear adults talking about other adults, saying something like, “He’s such a dreamer, he never gets anywhere.”
After a while, we are conditioned to believe that wishing and dreaming are for fools. People who are successful keep their nose to the grindstone. They don’t waste time with frivolous things like wishes and dreams. We begin to lose our ability to dream and keep our wishes wrapped up so tightly they choke from lack of air. We become realists.
But where’s the fun in that? Isn’t it wishes that propel us forward? Aren’t wishes the exact things that make us work harder to achieve? I wish to win the big race, so I train hard. I wish to have a successful career, so I study hard in college. I wish to buy a new car, so I get a job.
Wishes are crucial to accomplishing things. They provide our inspiration.
So, does that mean our parents, teachers, coaches, and other well intentioned adults were wrong. No, not at all. Wishes alone will not bring about results. Wishes, combined with effort will. Every time. Guaranteed.
Now, it’s true that we may have a wish, execute a plan, and it doesn’t turn out exactly as we’d hoped. But it still will produce results. Winners take those results and either modify their approach to bring about different results or temper their wishes to appreciate what they’ve achieved. Losers simply lament and become victims. (More on winners and losers another day.)
Sometimes it’s that victim mentality that’s shared with us by those well intentioned adults when they say those things. They have suffered disappointment and were so crushed by it that they are trying to pass along their wisdom to us by implying that wishes should be cast aside. They only give us partial information and we have to figure out the rest. It’s not a perfect system, but it’s the one we have.
Like everything else in life, we have to learn to integrate what we’re told with what works for us. It’s important to pay attention to what other people tell us. But, it’s more important to take what they’ve shared and see how it plays out in our own lives. Living someone else’s failures won’t get us very far. We’ll only end up at the same dead ends they’ve made for themselves. Even living someone’s triumphs won’t do it for us either, because they are not our own.
So, wish for anything you want, but be prepared to do the hard work required. And don’t be surprised if you trot with some failure along the way until you get that horse to gallop into the sunset of success.
If you're enjoying this over coffee, tea, or whatever, please consider buying me a cup!COFFEE HAUS
Part of my morning routine includes a walk down to Jose’s Coffee Haus to have some coffee. This allows me to relax for a few hours before I formally begin the day. At least, that’s what I strive to do. But if it’s raining or I had a particularly difficult time wrestling the garbage cans down to the curb, you can forget it.
There’s a scrawny woman I don’t recognize making the lattes. She appears to be older, maybe late 40’s or so, judging by the tired way she holds herself. She’s occupied with the coffee machines as she hums off-key. I try to get her attention by snapping my fingers, which I think probably pisses her off. She freezes without turning around.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” she says. She tosses her black, dyed hair, returning to whatever previously occupied her. She appears to be cleaning up, and not very well. I wait, getting more indignant by the minute.
“Excuse me, I’d like to place my order.” The woman whirls around, glaring at me.
I glare back, hardly knowing where to look. She has metal bars through both eyebrows, plugs in her ear-lobes, and numerous rings piercing her nose and ears. Bright, bold tattoos swarm up her neck. She’s wearing a very tight tee-shirt and mini-skirt. I think I see a tongue stud as she grins at my expression.
“Hey, I’m not going to bite! What will ya have, hon?” I stare unabashedly, my order completely forgotten.
I suppose I should be used to seeing this form of self-expression by now. Everywhere you look there are tattoo parlors and heavy-metal shops. Certainly tattoos and other forms of body adornment have almost become mainstream.
There’s nothing wrong with it, though I think the more outrageously adorned do it to make a statement. I’m not sure what statement this woman is making except, “Hey, look at me, I raided my teenager’s wardrobe, got drunk and had all this stuff done so I could stay hip into my Golden Years. What-do-ya-think?”
I return my attention to the Tattoo Queen and squeeze out a request.
“I’ll have a decaf Mucho Grande, Mocha Muchacho Pumpkin-Spice Latte skinny, sugar-free, with whipped-cream, heavy on the cream.”
“Coming right up, sweetie. Greg, will you make her order?” She motions to Greg who looks up dully from arranging the honey buns. He looks guilty, like he got caught jamming a few into his mouth.
“OK,” he says, not looking at me. Greg shuffles over to the machine. He makes the drink. He hands me the cup with the standard warning words, “It’s hot.”
He’s right. I open the lid. The whipped-cream has experienced a meltdown. It runs down the sides of the cup, bubbling, like white lava. I try to wipe up the mess with Jose’s cheap, paper napkins. But the napkins dissolve almost immediately into a shapeless mass.
Heavy steam rises from the cup like a miniature Mount Vesuvius. I’m afraid to stir the contents lest I invoke a full-scale eruption. I blow on the surface periodically, creating rippling tsunamis of cream.
After forty-five minutes, I’m just able to place my lips on the rim of the cup without suffering a third-degree burn. I take a sip, ready to enjoy my just rewards. The drink is delicious. But I taste whole-milk — not the skim I ordered.
I briefly consider marching up to Ms. Tattoo, complaining about Greg and the molten-hot beverage, and demanding she remake my drink. But, being basically timid, and not wanting to wait another couple of eons, I gather up my bruised pride and settle in to drink my cholesterol-laden, artery-clogging elixir.
If you're enjoying this over coffee, tea, or whatever, please consider buying me a cup!
