Magic potion under the bed
I live with a child who has a lot of ideas. That's how I would describe it. So it happens that I lie down in an ordinary Ikea bed in the evening, which I find out the next day was part of a magical experiment. My daughter occasionally puts homemade magic potions under my bed.
These are plastic cups containing a brownish broth with dried leaves floating in them. Or small bowls of clear, slightly pinkish liquid with a gummy bear at the bottom. Smelly potions are poured into sealable gumball tubes or into lunch boxes. Of course, this is no joke; these potions are all meant to fulfill certain functions. Once, my daughter wanted me to fall in love. Once, she wanted me to cook better. Once, she wanted me to give up an unloved activity for the coming weekend. As is the way with magic: some things came true, some didn't.
Recently, she offered to mix a potion for me to suit my needs. For money, of course. I was supposed to specify what purpose the new potion should serve. My child then wanted to base the preparation on that. I don't know exactly what that means. Whether she stirs in more coriander from the fridge when I wish a squirrel would come running to us, whether she collects dead animals in the park and soaks them when I want wrinkle-free skin, or mixes in the numerous creams and tonics she's recently started lugging around from the drugstore when I long for more money? It could be anything. And that's kind of the beauty of it.
So I tried not to dwell on feasibility and logic, nor to think about where she would set up her witch's kitchen, what it would look like afterwards, which kitchen utensils she would use, and who would clean them all up later. That wasn't easy at all and led me to a possible wish: less consequence-oriented thinking. Because this way of looking at the world has come over me over the past few years without my consent. When someone suggests something to me: be it a personalized potion under the bed, a ferry ride, sex after midnight, or buying a silk blouse, I immediately think of the potential problems: How long will it take? How expensive will it be? What time will it be? Do I have to iron it? Will it make a mess?
I find that a bit annoying. I can see from my daughter how many consequences the brain can block out when you focus entirely on the positive. For example, after a shower, which she enjoyed while singing, she is annoyed that her hair is wet. She is excited about her vacation, the train ride, makes a million plans, but as soon as we sit down, she realizes she can't go out for five hours. She sets up a huge painting landscape: watercolors, colored pencils, an armada of Stabilo pens. Oh yes, wax crayons, a bit more Plaka paint, a cup full of water, brushes, leaves, cardboard. Then she paints for an hour. Oh, so it's time to clean up now? Oh no! She always tumbles into the consequences.
I, on the other hand, often keep a safe distance from anything that costs time, money, and nerves. The only problem is that at my age, I can already calculate the cost of so many things in one of these three currencies. What's still worthwhile, if you think so soberly?
So I wished for a potion that would protect my good impulses from being thought through. I hope the potion doesn't grow mold under my bed.
süeddeutsche
