Fingers-crossed-and-knock-on-wood
I’m notoriously superstitious, and I’m always begging people to please, please, please avoid telling me about their superstitions, because I will inevitably add them to my own endless list. Some of it comes from a Catholic upbringing. Believing in woo woo, obsessively checking your co-star app, pulling out a tarot deck to finish off a bottle of wine at the end of dinner or hiring Etsy witches might seem blasphemous, but growing up religious in an environment where the rituals of Catholicism were imbued into my routine, primed me for my superstitious antics. I haven’t given anything up for Lent in recent years, but I still always make the sign of the cross whenever I step into a church. I avoid going in during mass, preferring to sit at the back and take in the silence, comforted by feeling small under high Gothic arches, the familiar scent of oak and incense. At the beginning of the month, I had a long layover in New York. I had recently gotten news of a friend’s parent having health issues, my mom had projects up in the air, and another friend was waiting to hear back from a job. Naturally, I marched down Fifth Avenue and dipped into St. Patrick’s Cathedral for a quick one-on-one with the big guy.
On New Year’s Eve, I rinse my body with saltwater to wash away bad energy. If a dip in the ocean on the last day of the year isn’t an option, I’ll add a couple of teaspoons of salt to a mug, bring it into the shower with me and awkwardly tip it over my head. I always wear white, a Brazilian custom inherited from Umbanda and Candomblé, afro-Brazilian religions whose influence permeates many traditions. Different colours of underwear also promise different things: red for love, yellow for money, green for luck, though I’m not sure where those came from. My hardest year to date was prefaced by a black minidress on New Year’s. Coincidence? Maybe, but I wouldn’t risk it again. This January, I wore white and tied a thick red cotton string to my wrist ahead of the Year of the Horse for prosperity.
My dad might be the only person I know who can rival my level of superstition. My mother, one of the most logical and level-headed people I know, still managed to absorb some of it via osmosis over the course of a twenty-five-year-long marriage. She’ll never walk under a staircase, and always wears white on Fridays. I’m obsessive about hats on the bed and upside-down shoes. The easiest way to get me to do something is to tell me it’s good luck! I’m surprisingly fond of black cats, and have no particular aversion to the number thirteen, though I had something important coming up and scheduled it for the fourteenth lest we tempt fate.
Turns out you CAN have it all!
I don’t discriminate. When it comes to good luck, I appeal to every deity; the contents of my bag and bedside table will tell you that much. Rosaries blessed in the Vatican, a Bhutanese prayer wheel, a shamrock tucked inside an envelope, picked on a sunny day in the middle of nowhere in Ireland. A small army of darumas, Japanese wishing dolls, some missing an eye. Buddhist scrolls, a small woven bag filled with Guatemalan worry dolls, a ceramic scarab given to me by the man behind the counter in a spice shop in the Souk in Aswan, a plastic figurine I bit into whilst devouring a Galette de Rois, an olivewood cross gifted by a Franciscan Friar with whom I beefed with and subsequently befriended over a summer in Florence spent learning Italian. A friend once told me she feels very safe travelling with me; my collection of good-luck charms means no flight I’m on is going down.
God, the universe, delusion, call it what you want
I used to say I grew up Culturally Catholic. I wasn’t super religious; Sunday school was first and foremost a social place. My relationship with religion has ebbed and flowed over the years, but my faith in something has always been present. It was a comforting thought, the idea that there were things beyond my control. Letting go was an exercise in restraint for a compulsive control freak. Letting things play out, hoping that it will all make sense in the long run. I’m a big believer. I believe in signs and fate and kismet and karma. I’m forever entangled in a dance with the universe, a tango between us, a healthy mix of letting things happen and nudging things along.
I’ll do everything in my power to optimise luck. Knocking on wood and crossing fingers has become an involuntary reflex. I try to give everything meaning, even though I know some things can’t be explained. This past weekend, I had friends visiting and got to redistribute my wealth of luck as I handed out free drinks I’d gotten by chance. Whenever something good happens, I tend to see it as good Karma. Finding money on the floor, the barista accidentally making your drink hot instead of iced and then letting you have both, the bartender mishearing and handing you a free pint, an airline upgrade, a complimentary pastry because the cashier was in a good mood. I told my friend about my theory, and she quickly disagreed. She said that believing good things happen to people who do good means that if something bad happens to you, it’s the consequence of negative actions. As a chronic optimist, I’ll be charmed by lucky coincidences, but refuse to believe I’m being punished when I’ve been dreaming of a latte and wake up to find out that my milk has soured and the shops are closed.
Pavlov-ing the universe into making you lucky
Kismet, serendipity, luck, chance, all firmly entrenched in my personal lexicon. Through positive reinforcement, I have conditioned the higher powers to keep sending good things my way. I’ve turned strangers into friends after bonding over our mutual love of indoor cycling in the queue outside a club, or dishing out recommendations to a girl picking a bookseller’s brain. I’ve met authors I admired at parties, and since last names were not exchanged, I failed to connect the dots, and proceeded to send them gushy texts telling them how much I love their work once I got home and realised who I was talking to for most of the night. I make a point of reaching out and am a notorious DM warrior. I believe enthusiasm is rewarded. At the Oscars red carpet, Ethan Hawke was interviewed by Amelia Dimoldenberg, and the video has been all over my social media feeds. On being asked for advice for people dealing with unrequited love, he says the one who’s in love always wins. The sentiment resonated, and the clip went viral. Whilst most people reflected on the experience of romantic love, I believe the statement applies to all areas of life. Loving your friends, your work, having zest for life makes it worth living. The same friend told me maybe I’m just luckier than most, that luck is evenly distributed amongst the population, and I just happen to be on the far end of the bell curve. I’m not sure if I believe some people are luckier than others; talking about privilege here would be a different conversation entirely. I’m considering the little things: your favourite chocolate being on sale, spotting a double rainbow, finding the book you’ve been meaning to read for a pound at a charity shop, running into a friend you haven’t seen in ages on a day you’re both free and can spend the afternoon catching up. Lucky moments seem to show up more and more once you start looking for them.
Lucky me to have you in my life ❤️