A wish is a curious thing. Making a wish does not guarantee that it will come true. Writing it on a tanzaku, wishing upon a star, or joining our hands in prayer does not make the future obey us. And yet, human beings have always wished. Why? Perhaps a wish has another purpose besides changing the future. Perhaps it helps us discover which future matters to us. The moment we say, “I hope this happens,” something that was vague inside us can become a little clearer. What do I want? What do I hope to become able to do? Whom do I miss? Whose smile do I hope will remain? Our wishes often reveal what we value. And wishes do not have to be only for ourselves. Even when we gain nothing directly, we can still think: “I hope that person stays well.” “I hope they return safely.” “I hope they are happy.” There is something remarkable in this. Human beings can care about a future that belongs to someone else almost as deeply as they care about their own. Of course, wishing alone cannot accomplish everything. If we wish to learn something, we may also need to study. If we want someone to be happier, perhaps we can speak kindly to them or offer a helping hand. A wish is not a substitute for action. But it can tell us which direction we want our actions to take. Because we have a wish, we can choose a step. Because we have a wish, we may keep going. And when there is truly nothing we can do, wishing can still be a way of keeping someone close within our thoughts. Two tanzaku hang from the girl’s bamboo branch. One carries a wish for her own future. The other carries a wish for someone else’s. Neither has come true yet. And still, both already matter. Perhaps a 願 is like a small hand of the heart reaching toward the future. We do not yet know whether it will reach what it seeks. Still, we extend it. “I hope this happens.” “I hope you will be happy.” And in the moment such a wish is born, perhaps a small connection is created between the person we are today and a future we cannot yet see.

One summer evening, bamboo leaves rustled softly beside the veranda. The girl tied the tanzaku she had written to a branch where she could see it clearly. “Finished!” She stepped back, admired it, and nodded with satisfaction. “Do you think my wish will come true now?” “I hope it does,” Grandmother said with a smile. Then the girl noticed something. Grandmother was holding a tanzaku too. “Are you making a wish, Grandma?” “I am.” “What did you wish for?” Grandmother turned the paper over and smiled. “That’s a secret.” “Aww.” The girl sat beside her. “I wrote something I want.” “I see.” “Do you want something too?” “Hmm. Mine is a little different.” Now the girl was even more curious. “Then what is it?” Grandmother looked beyond the garden. The colors of sunset were slowly fading, and the first star had begun to appear. “There is someone I hope will stay healthy and happy.” The girl tilted her head. “So it isn’t a wish for yourself?” “It is my wish.” “But it happens to somebody else.” Grandmother thought for a moment. “That’s true. But someone I love being well and happy is something that makes me happy too.” The girl became quiet. The tanzaku hanging from the bamboo moved gently in the wind. Perhaps every one of them held a different kind of wish. Something someone wanted. Something someone hoped to learn. Someone they wanted to see again. Someone they hoped would remain safe and well. The girl looked at her own tanzaku. A moment ago, it had seemed like nothing more than a piece of paper carrying something she wanted. Now every little strip around it seemed to contain someone’s precious feeling. “Grandma?” “Yes?” “Can I write one more?” “Of course.” The girl picked up another tanzaku. Grandmother did not ask what she intended to write. The girl thought for a while. Then she began writing slowly. When she finished, she tied it beside her first one. One wish was for herself. The other was for someone precious to her. Beneath the deepening summer sky, the two wishes swayed together in the same evening breeze.

Collecting this kanji brings these jukugo closer ✨