Seven years bad luck.
And then I thought, Seriously Angel, get a grip. You know that is all bull hockey.
And I do.
I really think Friday the 13th is bogus. I’m not a bit afraid of that day. I’ve successfully survived too many for it to concern me any longer. Then there is the black cat crossing the path thingie. I’m always tempted to turn around. It always crosses my mind to change course. I always look for a speck of white on its tail or ear. But I normally continue on my path. Unless I’m feeling unusually skittish that day.
Do I really believe that all superstitions are bull hockey?
Then why do I throw a pinch of salt over my left shoulder when I spill it? Or never walk under a ladder? Did I inherit this from my dad who is a superstitious guy, or my Grannie Silcott? She said it was bad luck to change a calendar before it was time, or open an umbrella in the house, my brother won’t eat cherry pie on a drilling rig, and I’ll only pick up a penny if it’s on heads. I heard one time of someone who, if found on tails, would turn a penny over to heads so someone else could have good luck. That’s nice. I doubt it works, but it is a nice gesture.
I guess I’m more superstitious than I thought. But mostly I’m upset about the mirror, the sentimentality of it all. That some things are irreplaceable. That people are irreplaceable. That time is so valuable and yet we squandor it.
My dad sent me a forwarded email with a note that he thought I’d like the last line. It read “Enjoy every moment of every day.”
And so is my prayer for you.
Treasure the moments.
Cherish the people.
Forget about the possessions.
Take time to tell others they mean the world to you.
To you: You Mean The World To Me.