When sorrow spills out on the earth, a river of tears gushes through the valleys. Birds sing a requiem, and the sun turns black. A blue moon rises in the sky, remembering, and the forest gets darker and darker. Dusk falls, while the cobalt rays of the lunar aura, glow down on a world engulfed by sadness.
A while back I read an interesting article about superstitions. If I recall, it was from the Wall Street Journal, or the Washington Post. Anyway, the ideas have come back to me. The article, defined superstitions as associations made with habits, or the acquisition of objects, for a desired outcome, or to prevent an undesirable outcome. When we hear of a habit, that could bring good luck, we might say, “Oh, I think I’ll start doing that.”
Why do people develop these habits and superstitions? Well, the article suggests that these ideas give us the illusion of having control over a situation, or give us meaning, and psychological comfort. Sometimes they can even boost our performance. The discussion eluded to the negative aspect of having superstitions, and that is, that people who acquire them, are perfectionists, have a sense of helplessness, and a high need to feel in control. For example, many of us have good luck charms, and are not willing to part with them, for fear we have bad luck. The article also suggested that emotionally secure people tend not to have superstitious beliefs, and are able to cope without creating a system of habits, that run contrary to reasonable thinking.
Now, I will be the first to admit, that I do have habits, things I do, the way I think, and even a few good luck charms, which I want to keep around. On the other hand, it would be liberating to shed these things from my life, to adapt a more carefree and secure sense of being. Becoming a minimalist seems like one way to approach this way of being. Another is to begin to look at good personal characteristics within myself, to lean on, instead of these mental crutches, whether it be a thought pattern, or an object to have in my possession.
But really, do we want to throw the rabbit foot out into the garbage, or take away the upside down horseshoe over the doorway? All these symbols of good luck are like religious icons donning the churches. Which brings us to another topic of ways we think to cope. Well, maybe we want to keep the horseshoe up there to rust away, but trimming down anything that gets into the way of sound thinking and stability in life, sounds like a good idea to me. “I think I’ll start doing that.”
…pick a daisy in the grass
by the creek at the dam
chasing butterflies.
Homework assigned!
Capture the crickets
and their friend
the grasshopper,
a problem, this was not.
But to stick a pin in the thorax, well…
it seemed barbaric at the time!
Spinning dreams in the sunshine
with the breeze at my neck,
running fast
my feet would carry me,
seemed more sublime!
The civilized ruled
an F was divine.
As mother told me:
“It doesn’t matter!
That grade is not of thine
but of those who seek a feather
to put in their scholastic hat,
and say:
‘The best collection was done by a student of mine!'”
And so I got an A for living,
for freedom,
to inhale fresh air,
while others worried about growing up,
I thought, “I never will!”
And better yet,
the horse I ride
out to pasture to dine,
where it dawns on me that having the right answer
is a mistake…
and wish it not to be mine!
There is no solitude like that of the heart when it looks round and sees in the vast concourse of human being, not one to whom it can put forth its sorrows or receive the answering sigh of sympathy.
Elizabeth Y Garrett New Lisbon Feb. 8th 1829
If we could tell a tale, in the glimmer of the ice,
what tale would we tell?
What story would suffice?
Would it be a story, of love, or of war?
Would it be a sad soldier, knocking at the door?
Or a fine maiden, all aglow with delight,
to see that her loved one, made it home
without strife.
Love would endure, in this tale in the ice,
and heal the wounds, in the heart of the knight. GRB
Use your mind, but never sacrifice your heart.
Decease of winter.
Decay left behind.
A lonely house, in darkness lies!
Surviving,
brooding,
in moon light’s shadow.
Mourning, in silence,
better days,
gone by.
By Georgianna Rivard Bravo
On Tiffany Creek 