The genie grants you a wish. What is it?
First, I would have questions.
Does the genie understand context? Are there hidden fees? Is this one of those situations where I wish for peace and suddenly become a decorative rock in someone’s garden?
Because I would like to remain a person. Preferably one with access to coffee and pretty stationery.
Once we settled the details, I think I would sit with the question for a while.
One wish is a lot of responsibility.
There are bills I could name. Places I would love to see. People I would give almost anything to sit beside again. And yes, the thought of waking up in a body that doesn’t immediately present me with a list of complaints is very tempting.
But I think my wish would sound something like this:
I wish to feel at home in my own life.
I would like to wake up and let the morning arrive before the worrying does.
To make plans with a little more confidence. To enjoy a good moment without quietly preparing for what might follow it. To sit in a chair because it is comfortable and the light is lovely, and stay there long enough to notice both.
I would like more room for curiosity.
What happens if I try this? Where does that little road go? Could I write something strange and wonderful just because it delights me?
I want to laugh so hard I lose the story I was telling.
I want to use the beautiful journal instead of saving it for thoughts I have decided are worthy of the paper.
I want to recognize myself in the life I am making—and feel welcome there.
The genie might scratch his head.
“That’s a complicated wish.”
“I know,” I would tell him. “Have a seat. I’ll put the kettle on.”
And while the water heated, I might open that journal.
There would be something satisfying about making a start before the magic arrived.
One Quiet Question
If you had one wish entirely for yourself, what would you finally ask for?
There is room for you here—and for the wishes you have barely let yourself say aloud. The porch light is on.
One Wish, With a Few Clarifications
