pass the mojo, I'll put some in my tea.

Yes, this tiny guitar is hanging by my front door. I will try to fashion an explanation as to why. A book I recently finished is The Wishing Year by Noelle Oxenhandler, in which she explores--in theory and actuality--the effect of wishing, or purposeful intention, on a life. You’ll have to read the book yourself for the details of the author’s various interesting projects and outcomes. Meanwhile I have been at least inspired enough to think about what life factors I feel deficient in, and how I might make a wishful statement about them.

I am inclined to utterly toggle back and forth, like funky wiring, about whether I accept that intention can add up to effect, or whether the world is random, but it’s been demonstrated in the past that the very practical-minded Executive Function aspect of my brain does not always win tugs-of-war, and there’s little to be lost by at least being clear with oneself about what one would like.

So here’s what the guitar means: It’s a sort of talisman whose intent is to attract music to my house. I want to jam with people. A couple weeks ago I attempted to put a bit in the community e-newsletter, asking if anyone else might be up for an acoustic jam, but either it got lost in the tubes, or someone thought the request was stupid compared to “house for rent” or “babysitter available,” so that effort has not paid off. But my little guitar might just carry its own mojo, and send out a sort of homing signal for people who like to make music. That’s why it’s there.

I have another wish. For company. I watched “Hope Springs,” the Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones movie, last night, by myself. And thank goodness it was by myself, because it was not an easy movie for me to watch. I’m just going to be honest: As much as that old Exec. Function is still pushing the idea that singlehood is something I can and must learn to enjoy, my dog-brain isn’t buying it. I recognize the problems. There are statistics and all that. There is the fact that I’m not unmarried, and I am Jeff’s #1 care-minder, visitor, and supporter. But seriously, I don’t believe anyone thinks there’s a split-hair of danger that I would ever abandon that life duty, and they are correct. Since my secret crush died, and I’m pretty sure the piano tuner is married, I find myself looking around going “no, no, no, probably not, maybe,” as I mosey along, doing whatever it is that I do. Right, alright, I know. I’m dumb. But I don’t like looking at another (maybe) 3 decades, and thinking that was it. It’s all over. I’ve had the good parts. And they were good parts. No complaints there.

So, maybe I’ll outgrow it and realize I love being solo. Could happen. And maybe there will be enough good parts completely unrelated to having a person in my life who makes me laugh until I cry that it’ll be a great 3 or so decades anyway. And maybe I won’t have 3 decades. Who the heck knows? But I made both wishes. Depends on which way I’m toggled at a given second whether it’s worth a bean, let alone a hill of beans.