My Wordle score sets the tone for the day. A good one, and I feel a surge of mojo. A bad one, and I brace myself—as if I’ll have to scrape my way through spiritual sludge. It’s a daily practice that blends luck and skill. Unlike a crossword puzzle that’s all skill or a slot machine that’s all luck, Wordle hits the sweet spot. I’m grateful for both. Skill I can work on. Luck? That’s a mysterious gift—one you can’t buy.
You can increase your odds at achieving what you want. Take the classes, study, train, practice. But when luck edges in from a dark corner—like sunrise cracking gray dawn—I bow my head and give thanks. That’s part of the ritual.
I’ve always been drawn to the magic behind superstitions—the curious power of a talisman, the wisdom passed down from a mishmash of belief traditions. I sent my grandson a dreamcatcher the minute he described vivid, frightful dreams. My porch ceiling is painted “haint blue” a Lowcountry Gullah practice to trick evil spirits from flying in the front door. I have a thimbleful of dirt from Pat Conroy’s grave, a bundle of sage that’s cleared bad mojo across the country, and a collection of religious medals, lucky rocks, found feathers, and powerful roots. I only use my powers for good—though I’ve been known to stick a pin or two in a doll.
I know what’s superstition and what’s not. I know the difference between magic and metaphor. But I still wear my worn-out Snoopy “dark and stormy night” T-shirt when I write. And, I’m not about to take a chance on a haint floating through my front door.
I’m also the Mimi who slips a dreamcatcher in the mail and tucks a juju pouch into her grandson’s pocket before a golf game. I say, seriously but with a twinkle, “This might help the ball fly a little straighter.” When he makes the shot, I see him pat his left pocket.
When another grandson was given his team’s game ball, he snatched it and ran, later hiding it in his room like treasure. A talisman. At four, he already knows: some prizes are too powerful to leave out in the open.
I want to pass on my appreciation for the unexplainable and come from a long line of quirky rituals.
There is my dad. A Navy Captain, Catholic to the core, no-nonsense man. The last person you’d expect to suspend belief—except when the Dallas Cowboys played. Our poor dog Taffy was banished to the backyard, rain or snow, because once—during a legendary Hail Mary pass—Taffy happened to be outside. Logic never stood a chance against a winning ritual.
My grandmother didn’t pass down dreamcatchers, but she did wear jewelry to ward off the evil eye. Whenever we put a house on the market, we buried her small St. Joseph statue upside down in the yard, then dug him up to send to the next family member who needed him. Dirt always intact.
Sure, I don’t believe any of this works. But I do believe in love that slips something into your pocket and whispers, “This might help.” I believe in family stories passed like heirlooms and traditions wrapped around the newest generation like safety blankets stitched from hope.
A cardinal came by yesterday—bright red against a gray sky. I’ve always believed cardinals are visitors from the other side, reminders from those we’ve loved and lost. Do I actually believe that? Not exactly. But I smiled and whispered to my grandmother bird, “Hi, Gigi.” And let myself feel watched over.
I don’t believe in magic.
But I practice it anyway.
