A Wish Come True

A dreamy sunrise hike in Cappadocia, Türkiye, with my girlhood friend and environmental journalist, Halle | Photo: Halle Parker (IG: @thehalparker)

When was the last time you made a wish? A tenderly-held desire packaged neatly into a single, full-faith request. Do you picture a birthday party? Flames flickering atop your favorite cake as loved ones sing affectionately and off-key. Maybe a golp! accompanied your last wish as a coin sunk to the bottom of a local mall or Italian Renaissance-era fountain.

This is Eva -- a fellow kindred spirit and wish-come-true!

Several months ago, I made such a wish.

The curtain is closing on my twenties, and I’ve yet to outgrow the wholesome superstition that says blowing the seeds of a gray dandelion will make one’s wish come true.  I could be out hiking, power walking along the sahil here in Antalya, picnicking with friends – if I see one of those delicate globes, I take the opportunity to pause–imagine what would make life better–and make a wish. God, please send me someone to write with. 

And then, I met Eva Miller.

Eva’s been living in Türkiye for 10 years with her husband, Kurt, and four kids. She grew up in the States–a fellow diaspora baby with Mexican heritage–and, eventually, moved to Istanbul as a coffee entrepreneur. (Check out Homestead Coffee's beans + cafes!) Her family recently traded the labyrinthic magic of Istanbul for the big village, seaside vibes of Antalya. We first met at a local women’s football match (one of the few of its kind here). She emanated warmth and sincerity – time spent with Eva leaves you feeling peaceful, safe, seen, and smiling. Once we realized how much the other loved to write (and missed having a buddy to share it with), a weekly writing club commenced!

Something that’s always been a dream of mine is getting all of you–kindred spirits, dear friends, surf sisters, patient confidants–together. Y’all know I love a friendship crossover, and there are far too few in a world this wide. 

Introducing everyone isn’t possible (yet!). So, today, I invite you to experience a moment from our first writing club meeting. Imagine a wall of magenta and white bougainvillea behind you and a thriving lemon tree shielding you from the intensity of the Mediterranean sun. There’s a light, salty breeze coming off the sea. Are you there? Next, grab your favorite beverage, a sweet treat or favorite fruit. You’re all set – Welcome to the Antalya chapter of our tiny but mighty writing community! 

For today’s session, we’ve written letters to our present selves from our 2045 selves. The letters are first drafts and capture our tender hopes for today and tomorrow. The marvelous, Camila, of Mareia Coaching gave me this prompt as ‘homework’ one week, and it inspired both Eva and me. Eva generously agreed to share her piece on the blog. 

It's stone fruit season, and the local markets are bursting with their fresh flavors and sweet aroma.

May this window into her world soften how you step through the day. It certainly has for me ~

I slowly open my eyes and notice soft shadows dancing on my wall. The sun is just starting to spill through the trees, and birds are starting to softly sing. This is one of my favorite ways to wake up now. In times past, it wouldn’t have been unusual to awaken to crying babies, little siblings fighting over who gets to pour the milk or my husband’s jarring alarm clocks. I’d have to wrestle down my nerves just to face the dark hours and see the morning through. Although I still have moments of wanting to return to those mornings, I’ve come to love these mornings, too. Waking up this morning, twenty years later, I feel.. still. I want to reflect and remember. I think this morning is wanting to speak. 

The sun on the walls and the birds’ songs in my ears…this morning has started the same way it did all those years ago, but it seems like I can actually hear it…feel it now. What if I would’ve let myself hear it and feel it more back then? That thought makes my heart ache a little. 

An Antalya summer sunrise -- rivaled by few.

Time is like those shadows on my wall. When I was younger, I would desperately try to pin them down but could never quite catch them, those shadows. And how I wanted to. This morning I feel the ache, and it makes me want to go back and catch them all, putting them in a locket to rest next to my heart. Those shadows of my memory. I wish I could open it up now and revisit them. Hold them, kiss them. I wish I could dance with them like they’re dancing on my wall and now in my mind..

The sounds of my children laughing. Their little hands. Dinners with friends. Feeling alone. Tears being shed. Fights with people I love. The mist hitting my face as I feed seagulls on a ferry. The sound of coffee grinding and milk steaming. Neighbors bringing me food. My husband’s voice as we talk late into the night. The feeling of all those hugs he gave me on hard days. Stringed instruments and drums. So much music. Busy streets and the bustle of tea shops and bartering. The sound of people praying; their faces. The smells of chestnuts roasting and fish markets. The ringing of train whistles. My girls singing in a different language. The murmur of hearty conversation with pauses of “şerefe” in between with glasses raised. These shadows of my memories. They seem so immaterial and so fleeting. But I can still feel the warmth of them in my soul, just as I feel the sunrise on my skin this morning, all these years later. 

What I’ve come to learn about the sun these past years is that its rays come with its shadows. The sun has come to teach me not only of joy, but also of grief. You know that feeling of wanting to hold on to the sun’s light and warmth but not quite being able to keep it? Do we ever talk about the grief of aging? And how grief isn’t just dying but it’s also what comes with truly living? That old friend that is carried on the backside of every sunrise— on its sunset. An old wise man once said, “the end of a thing is better than its beginning….do not say, ‘Where are the former days?’” Laying in my bed this morning, allowing that proverb to settle into my soul, will require tears and courage. A letting go of what was. Letting it slip away. With life comes death. With age comes the shadows. 

Blue Hour in Kaş, Türkiye | Captured during a sunrise hike of the Sleeping Giant (Uyuyan Dev)

Grief is a dance of sun and shadow. Warmth and cold. Life and death. We pretend like we can rewrite life’s canon, but what can we do but accept and surrender to its flow of beginnings and endings? I’ve learned its rhythm: fall into its shadows and the faithfulness of the sun will bring you back into its light. Embrace the dark and, just like this morning, its rays will wake you up in due time, with the gentle kiss of its warmth on your cheek, reminding you that joy is found here, too. Let the night take you and heal you. You can trust the song of the morning to come for you. Grief is a friend, but so is joy. Joy is the friend that helps you face the shadows. Do you truly know his name? His hands are strong and his heart is fierce. He’s stronger than we think. He can bear the weight of our grief. 

I’m pulled from my thoughts at the smell of coffee brewing this morning. My husband is making his Saturday-morning pancakes. His eyes softer and hair grayer. And the laughter of children, my children’s children, starts bursting into my room. Joy is in this home, I felt him walk in just now. The sun is peeking through. I’m wiser now and know I can’t catch these shadows that joy brings…so I will dance with them instead, as I feel the rays of the sun’s presence today, I remember…Today, there is life. The sun is shining. Joy is here, I’ve welcomed him… along with his shadow.

Whatever you wish or pray--may it come to be in a more joyful, warmer, truer, fuller way than you'd imagined.