Very Superstitious

"Superstition ain't the way," says Stevie Wonder. I disagree.

I wasn't raised with religion. I mean, it was there, but in the same way that there are fast food restaurants on every corner. McDonalds, Burger King, Quiznos, Subway, Wendy's, Papa Ginos... they're all there, readily and frequently available, but they only become relevant when you decide you want to indulge. Religion in our house was kind of like that. It just wasn't something we did all the time.

In place of baptism, confirmation, mass, or confession there was ancestry, four leaf clovers, lucky pennies and blowing out dandelion seeds.

When I crashed my car driving home from a long shift of inventory-taking one night, I had to make The Phone Call. The phone call to my soundly sleeping mother. The phone call I knew would wake her, and scare her. I had to tell her that I had hit a car on a nearly deserted 95 South, spun off the highway, and was awaiting the state police and a tow truck. I stood in the tall grass of the interstate; it was wet with early morning dew, and it soaked my nylon covered legs, which were still shaking with the impact of the collision. I was scared and alone, the car I hit had driven away, but I knew I had her. Seven digits and two ring tones away, she was there.

"Hello?"
"Mom?"
"Katie? What's wrong?"
"I've been in an accident - but I'm okay."
"An accident?"
"Yes, Mom, I crashed on 95. I'm on my way home from work. But I'm okay."
"Oh my. Grampa Young was watching you. He kept you safe."

There was no God in her version. There was no prayer, no overseer, no angel, no religion. There was my Grampa Young. My grandmother's father, my great grandfather whom I had never met, but who had made such an impact on my mother that it was him who she thanked. And, I didn't doubt her. I didn't doubt him.

My grandmother, the daughter of Grampa Young, had a knack for finding four leaf clovers. She found them everywhere she went. She would dry them between the pages of her Fanny Farmer Cookbook. It's the copy my mother has now, with a broken binding and missing hardcovers, and there are still clovers taped to the pages.

One morning, I woke up and something was just... wrong. I felt sad. More than sad. I felt like walking, talking sad. I asked my boyfriend to drive me home, and he obliged. But, before we got into his car, before I stepped off the grass, he stopped to pick up the mail. While I waited, I looked down, between my feet, and staring up at me was a four leaf clover. I plucked it from the earth and it was official. She was there. It was okay. I was okay.

My parents bought a plot of land for their retirement. At the time, it was nothing more than a campsite. No electricity. No well. Nothing. But they were hopeful. Then, in the midst of one particularly difficult day of self doubt, my mother happened upon a four leaf clover. It was meant to be.

She still sends them to me; clovers she has pressed between the pages of my grandmother's Fanny Farmer. She tapes them to index cards and sends them along in the mail, writing things like "this should 'do you' for a while" on the cards.

My grandmother's maiden name, the same name Grampa Young carried, is my middle name. She's closer to me that way. She is who I remind myself of when I'm in need of ethereal guidance. Her love, her kindness, her hopes. I have her blue eyes. Piercing and small, when I see myself in the mirror without eyeliner or mascara, they are her eyes that look back at me. Some of my tattoos bear her name, her memory, and I'm sure more will follow.

This lineage, this is my religion.

And then, there are the more trivial superstitions.

I can't pass up a heads up penny. I can't not pause when the clock reads 11:11. If I do, I feel guilty. It's nothing like Catholic Guilt, but it's guilt nonetheless. What if I missed out on something vital? Relevant? Lucky?

Tonight when I got home from work, I sat on the porch while the dog expended some pent up energy in the yard. I looked out into the glow of the flood light and suddenly, one single dandelion seed floated down towards me from the pitch black abyss that hung above where the light could reach. It's fluff glowed like a small light bulb and it floated ever so slowly and ever so directly right towards me, eventually landing in one of the potted plants on the stairs.

It's probably something most people wouldn't dwell on, but I wondered about it. Did someone, somewhere, blow a dandelion stem's seeds away and make a wish?

If that dandelion seed grows in the soil of that potted plant, I'll let it live. Weed or not, it's a superstition I'm willing to employ. Sorry, Stevie.

-k.