Superstitious – Stevie Wonder
Very superstitious, writing's on the wall
Very superstitious, ladders bout' to fall
Thirteen month old baby, broke the lookin' glass
Seven years of bad luck, the good things in your past
Very superstitious, wash your face and hands
Rid me of the problem, do all that you can
Keep me in a daydream, keep me goin' strong
You don't wanna save me, sad is my song
Very superstitious, nothin' more to say
Very superstitious, the devil's on his way T hirteen month old baby, broke the lookin' glass
Seven years of bad luck, good things in your past
When you believe in things that you don't understand
Then you suffer
Superstition ain't the way, no, no, no
Every evening the last four days, literally thousands of seagulls and geese have crowded the land behind my home until the ground has transformed into an ocean of feathers. A kestrel falcon has adopted my backyard, and barely notices when I approach, so intent is it on the mice scurrying from shelter to shelter. My hibiscus flowers still bloom, and the tomato, eggplant, and pepper plants are heavy and ready for harvest. The pear and apple trees are loaded, and my basil plants are pungent in the crisp air. It's time to gather and prepare for the snow.
The Fall Equinox ushered in the new season this week: the earth is heading into the time of the bear, the season of hibernation. I'm not ready for the sun to fade, or for the rituals of Fall, the honoring of the dead, or the coming west winds. Even so, the darkness is coming, and this year, instead of looking for portents, railing against the shortening days and lessening sunlight, or flinging myself into a slate-colored depression, or worse, succumbing to a host of superstitions, I plan to spend the sunlight and the waning hours working on my novel. The novel. The novel that every time I begin writing in earnest, close to two weeks to the day, someone I love heart attacks, strokes, and so on, times ten. Bullshit? Well, yes, and no. The logical Danna knows this is coincidence, knows written words scribbled in a journal do not have the power to maim or kill, knows that there aren't supernatural forces working against writing this novel. Yet, the tribal Danna knows otherwise, knows that an ancestor/s must be placated and acknowledged, knows there must be an offering, knows that the dead must have their say.
What I know for certain, is that in order to write this novel, I must say no, and loudly, and as Joanna Smith Rakoff, author of
A Fortunate Age advised in the July/August issue of
Poets & Writers:You must make your book the absolute center of your life. Doesn't matter if you have kids, aging parents, a demanding job. The novel has to take precedence. The novel has to take precedence. Yes. I hereby contract with the logical and tribal, and vow that I will make Superstition my friend and companion, that I will give myself permission to make the time to write, and that I will absolutely enforce this boundary, and, that I will give the dead, my dead, a voice. No matter what happens, I will finish the novel this year.
An Augury: The best way forward The Magician (Significator): Mastery over word, mind, and matter. The ability to turn ideas into actions, handle problems, and control one's life. The initiation of new projects, great works, or a new way of life. Eloquent and moving communication. Arcane and eldritch technologies.
Seven of Pentacles (Assessment): A pause to check on the progress of your labors. Making difficult financial decisions. Exercising patience and perseverance. Evaluating the status of your work and your options for the future.
Superstition (lights) the way, yeah, yeah, yeah
