I found this week’s prompt from here.
Start With a Title
My parents are superstitious people. They carry talismans, bring four-leaf clovers, and scour the skies for portents – especially when they go gambling, which is nightly. To my knowledge none of these things have particularly worked for them; just the sheer money and time they put into the machines brings them some return on investment. I mean, come on, for every thousand dollars they put into a machine something has to turn up, right? (A thousand dollars is an exaggeration. I hope.)
I don’t have those things. I might carry something that helps to ground me – a tumbled piece of stone; a tiny figurine; a ring, but anything that brings me luck? No, that I don’t do. There’s nothing emotional connecting me to it. That tumbled piece of stone? A gift from my cousins when we went to an aquarium. That tiny figurine? Something that made me laugh. That ring I wear around on a necklace? A gift from my husband that’s too large for me to wear.
I’d call them touchstones, but as I recently researched that’s not what I thought it meant. So, not touchstones…but reminders? I don’t know. I’m not getting the right word, since I’m twenty straight minutes of stream-of-consciousness writing and all.
Where was I?
Oh, right. Luck.
I don’t feel particularly lucky. But maybe the luck that I do have just keeps me from experiencing the really horrible things in life? Is it cleanish living, maybe? If one believes in reincarnation then maybe my past lives weren’t so bad. Maybe I really am kind (refer to yesterday’s post about kindness and you’ll know what I mean) and I don’t need luck. Or perhaps luck is a human concept and doesn’t really exist at all?
I’m no philosopher. I’m not debating the concept of luck, thanks so much.