My family thinks I’m nuts. They’re loving and supportive but 99% of the time they shake their heads in amused pity whenever I share my revelations.
For instance, if you’ve ever met me or seen my image somewhere on the web, you’ll notice my hair is long. It falls down my back about even with my shoulder blades. At one time, it was much longer but I had to chop it off for safety reasons. I kept catching my braid in the car door whenever I slammed it shut. Don’t think THAT won’t jerk you right off your feet. Whew! Anyway, I relented a bit and now keep it trimmed to the safe “can’t get caught in the car door” length.
One day, while brushing my hair, my granddaughter asked me why I didn’t cut it. At the tender age of six years old, she’d already formed the opinion that OLD people were supposed to have short hair trimmed well above their ears. I told her I couldn’t cut my hair. If I did, I’d never be able to write another story because my hair held the magic of words.
My daughter snorted and shook her head. “Mom. You are crazy.”
I shook my finger at her and reminded her of Samson and Delilah. Crazy? Maybe. But I won’t cut my hair short –just in case.
And then there’s this thing I have about dreams. My family tends to fuss at me about my health –or they used to until I informed them that I’ve got a pretty good idea of when I’m going to die, stop fussing over me, I’ve got it covered. THAT stalled their nattering about my should and shouldn’t “do list”. My oldest daughter took the bait and asked how I knew when I was going to die and would I mind sharing the date with them?
I informed them that I have a recurring dream that is more real than any other dream I’ve ever had. In the dream, I’m about eighty-seven years old. (And I might add that I look GOOD) The way I know my age in the dream is because it always starts with a picturesque wall calendar opened to the month of January in the year 2048.
Deep snow covers the ground and I’m upset because I can’t find my little dog. I bundle up, grab a walking stick and forge off into the woods, determined to find my four-legged friend. I’ve walked those woods many times, both in reality and in my dreams, but this time seems much more difficult because of the brutal cold. I finally find my yapping little dog at the base of a sprawling oak. The massive tree grows alongside a washed out gully, its roots exposed and hanging over the creek bed like long arthritic-knotted fingers. The dog won’t come to my call. Not unusual. Every dog I’ve ever loved has always tested my patience. Anyway, there’s something up under those tree roots that’s much more interesting than me. So, I start down the slippery embankment to retrieve the hard-headed little scamp. Yep. You guessed it. The snow and ice layered atop the clay embankment ignore the pointy end of my walking stick and sling me to the base of the gully. I can’t get up. I vaguely remember a painful throbbing in my right hip. It’s funny. Anytime I have the dream, my right hip is always sore the next day. Anyway, I manage to roll myself up against the washed out wall of the embankment because huge fluffy snowflakes have started falling again. First, I’m cold and shivering but then I suddenly feel a delicious drowsy warmth and exhale one last soul-releasing breath with my little dog clutched to my chest. Then I wake up.
Yep. She informed me I was crazy –again.
I told her that if I’m wrong and I die sooner or later than age 87, she can do the “I told you so” dance.
Combine all of the above with the fact that when I write I always wear amethysts and my silver Celtic bracelet. I firmly believe the amethysts help me focus and my bracelet brings me luck. In fact, I usually wear my Celtic bracelet every day. When I don’t, I seem to always end up having a bad day.
So, what do you think? Am I superstitious or just plain crazy? Do you have any quirks…*ahem*…superstitions you’d like to share?
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