I’d like to say I am not a superstitious person. I’d like to say that I am logical and clear-headed and capable of reason beyond all else.
But, then, anyone who knows me would call me out, screaming in that way of children, Not it!
I’m more superstitious than I would like to admit. I write with a certain kind of pen–always longhand, unless editing–and I throw spilled salt over my shoulder, and I avoid putting shoes on tables, and I knock wood, and I believe in signs, and I think I have a couple of guardian angels, and I don’t walk under ladders, and…..and….and…..
So when my grandmother’s bracelet broke tonight, I wondered what this meant. A break from always looking to the past? A reminder that she is here with me, as I write? A moment to consider the long line of women in my family [the line not yet broken, three generations and counting of baby girl daughters, only]? There are so many options, that my mind momentarily paused: omen? Good fortune.
In the end, I decided it meant that my grandmother was near me, reminding me to do the things she most wanted me to do: write stories, take pride in my work, be honest even when no one else wants to hear it. And so I stare at my stack of papers, my newest novel, and believe in honesty and, most of all, the spirit sitting at my wrist, urging me to write.