I was standing out on the deck last night with the kiddos and we all looked up in the sky to see the first star of the evening. On reflex I said:
“Starlight, star bright first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might have the first wish I wish tonight…”
They both giggled a bit and I told them to make a wish, without saying it out loud, which they actually did. I made my wish. And we went inside. I’m sure they didn’t think anything else about it.
But I was suddenly awash with memories. I’ve been wishing on the first star of the night for as long as I can remember. I can vividly recall standing in the middle of the pasture where I boarded my first horse, Magnum, him butting against my arm looking for last minute treats and my head tilted upwards, eyes closed, deeply immersed in concocting my wish for that evening. It was a nightly routine. I almost always wished for the same thing, which I will not tell you for fear that it will not come true, and Magnum always got the last treat in my pocket.
I got attached to the tradition of it. Me making my nightly wish, wherever I happened to be. I always tried to go outside right at or just after dusk so that I could make sure to catch the first star. Occasionally I’d make it out there when there were already two. And I cheated. I still made my wish, but only on the first star I saw. I figured it would still count in some way or another. Maybe that’s why the same wish hasn’t yet completely come true. See kids? That’s what cheating will get you.
I think I grew to love this nightly event so much because it was a bit of magic thrown into my everyday life. And there was a romance to it. Standing outside night after night, a level of concentrated peace in my mind as I leveled all of my personal power upon convincing the universe that mine was the one wish, out of millions, that should be granted.
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