Every June, our local library celebrates the summer solstice with crafts, games, and yummy treats. But my favorite part of the event is the release of the lanterns on the pond. There’s something magical about these flickering lights slow-dancing between the reedy banks. The event staff asks us to make a wish before we place our LED candle onto the inky surface, and I love the visual of dreams piercing the darkness.
Dreaming feels audacious at this stage of life. I live in a comfortable home and have worked in my pajamas since the days of flip phones. I drive vehicles with Apple CarPlay and heated seats. People who hold pieces of my heart tell me they love me—often. Every Sunday morning is filled with hugs. My nephews think I’m Bear Grylls. My passports hold stamps from more than 30 countries. I’ve experienced more grand adventures than deep relational wounds.
But I get in my feels every year, watching these wishes carried by the first breezes of summer. This weekend, I spent my wish on someone else. I still don’t feel permission to ask Fate for more. Five decades into my time on this planet, I haven’t yet found the balance between contentment and longing. What I have found is a peace while absorbing the collective dreams of my friends, neighbors, and strangers.
The world is a heavy place, captured in headlines of inequity, violence, and grift. Whether it’s discipline or optimism, I take heart in candles that overcome gravity and hope that resists the night. My friends’ daughters first invited me to this annual tradition, and I want my life to contribute to a world where their flower-crown wishes can be spent on whimsy and wild imaginations.
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