Why I Made 1,000 Paper Cranes For A Friend
And why I shouldn’t have
There’s many legends about wishes.
And with that, there’s a lot things you could wish on. You could wish on shooting stars, four leaf clovers, wishing wells, birthday cakes, and turkey bones.
And if you’ve heard of a certain Japanese legend, you might also choose to wish on 1,000 paper cranes.
2 years ago, that’s what I did.
There was 2 weeks until Steph’s birthday, and I was determined to give the best birthday present for my best friend.
I’ve always believed that a gift should either be of use or of meaning to the recipient. That’s why I rarely give cards, especially store bought cards, because it’s just lazy and meaningless. Anything special about the card is gone when you realize that hundreds of people get the exact same card with the same-ish scribbled in message.
It’s probably also why every time I need to gift someone, I have a mental breakdown trying to think of something plausible, but meaningful.
This time, I had 2 weeks to create something.
There’s a lot of presents you can make in 2 weeks.
You could write a mediocre book for your friend, make a chair out of plastic tomatoes, or of course, you could always wait until the last minute and buy a birthday card (personally, I think I would rather receive the plastic tomato chair).
In a surprising moment of brilliance, I thought of making 1,000 cranes.
It’s from a Japanese legend, saying that whoever folds 1,000 cranes would be granted a wish. I don’t think I ever believed it, but part of me still wanted to take on this challenge. It’s perfect: Me and Steph both love origami, and 1,000 cranes sounded like an interesting and meaningful gift, doable in 2 weeks.
At first, it was exciting. I made sure every crease was neat and crisp, every crane folded to perfection.
But before long, it started feeling like this:
I folded a crane.
I folded a crane.
I folded a crane.
I folded a crane.
I folded a crane.
And then later on, it became:
I folded a slightly sloppy crane.
I folded a slightly sloppy crane.
I folded a slightly sloppy crane.
I folded a winged monster. Oops.
Damn, it was getting tiring. Everyday, my fingers were rough from folding, hands were colored from the paper, and I was constantly bored.
I started wondering if it was worth all the trouble.
Folding hundreds of origami cranes on the floor of your living room isn’t exactly something that goes unnoticed by your parents.
So when my dad asked, I told him about the plan.
And guess what?
He laughed and said, “It’s not possible.”
Great.
No, seriously, that was non-sarcastically great. Sure, I was pissed off in the moment, but later on, it became some great motivation.
Because now, I wasn’t doing this just for my friend, but also to prove my dad wrong.
As the days passed, pieces of paper passed through my hands into cranes, until it was the night before Steph’s birthday.
And thank god, I had finished in time.
After double counting the cranes one last time, it felt like all that work was worth it. I was tired, but satisfied. I couldn’t wait to give it all to Steph tomorrow.
The next day, I put all the cranes inside 2 paper bags, and brought them to school.
As we were lining out to go home, I gave Steph the two bags of cranes.
“Happy birthday.” I say.
She peeks into the bags, and looks surprised.
“Yup, there’s exactly 1,000 cranes.” I smile.
“Wow…thanks, Rachell.” she says, “I’ve heard of the Japanese legend about making a wish on 1,000 origami cranes, but…doesn’t the maker get the wish?”
Ohnononononono.
Nope. Nada. Not cool.
Don’t tell me 2 weeks of blood, sweat and tears is going to be wasted because I didn’t read the god damn legend properly.
Under pressure, some people find that they think more clearer, while some find that their brains pretty much turn to mush. And then there are some who find that both could happen, depending on their situation.
Luckily for me, I actually managed to think of a comeback.
I said, “I could wish for you to have the wish, so you’ll still get the wish.”
And that was the end of that.
Or so I thought.
A few months later, when I was talking to Steph, I found out that she didn’t have the cranes anymore. I don’t know what happened to them.
Maybe it rained, and they became a soaking pile of paper pulp. Maybe they were mistaken for a pile of surprisingly-crane-shaped trash. Maybe her cats ate them. I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter.
Because when I reflect on this event now, I realize that I was wrong to give her those cranes.
There’s a reason that the legend says that it’s the maker who gets the wish.
Because in the end, only the maker can truly appreciate and understand the effort they put into their work.
Only the maker truly sees the imperfections and perfections on every crane, and the beautiful art they are when together. Only the maker can care enough to remember to store them in a dust-free box, away from water and grime, and remember to check on them every once it a while. Only the maker knows the memories and thoughts those cranes hold.
When I gave the cranes to Steph, I thought it would be meaningful because I gave her a wish, because I gave her a symbol of friendship and loyalty through the work I put into the cranes. But in reality, she just couldn’t appreciate it as much as I could.
It’s not her fault any more than it’s mine.
Today, we’re no longer friends.
It’s no one’s fault; we just drifted apart, as friends do sometimes.
I miss her, honestly. But I just can’t quite find that same spark between us that was there before. We’ve gone down our own separate roads, and having those golden memories to keep me company on my road will have to be enough.
