The solitary act of wishing upon stars
Had a potluck-style dinner at my friend Sam's newly renovated house two sundays ago.
Someone in the gang had suggested that everyone come out with a dish they never tried before. Turned out that evening around the table that all of us had terrific chef materials hidden inside. No culinary boo-boos committed except for Sam's self-confessed egg and potato tortilla, which still tasted fantastic with his secret soy sauce.
After dinner we gathered around at Sam's poshed-up living area sipping wine and playing a few rounds of In-between, which is fast becoming my favorite card game after some modest winnings at Damai Lagoon.
And it wasn't until late and some in the party had split that someone (I forgot who) suggested a star-gazing session in front of Sam's house, presently a darkened neighborhood. So we pulled up some chairs, Sam lit up some tea candles and mozzie repellent coils, and everyone started gazing skyward.
It was a very still night with an arched, deep sky bursting with stellar mysticism. We discussed the constellation Orion and other random stuff that crossed our fancy. Then I startled. That's from spotting a meteor shooting across too short a distance of the sky before disappearing again. The guys asked me if I made any wish. I said I did. But I didn't say it was a vague, namby-pamby sort of goodwill-ish wish.
Come to think of it, I don't really believe in wishing upon stars -- or for that matter, wishing upon a birthday candle. Aren't they both one and the same thing? Only that we pretend to have plucked a star from the sky and fix it on the tip of a candle above a cake and then make a wish on it. Then we blow it out as if we have exercised the power to dim a star after commanding it to materialize our desires. It's much too solitary an act and much too romantic a gesture to warrant credibility.
It is a modern myth straining for reason, yet we do it all the time.