Luck. Lucky. Luke.
Isn’t it funny how the mind wanders, prompted by the word of the day luck? Luck; in my mind it’s a fickle but also glowing notion. Sometimes its there, sometimes – pouf – it’s gone.
Why is it, that some seem born under lucky stars where nothing ever seems to harm them? Living in a bubble of lucky glow that creates sunshine and warmth as they float through life.
Why is it, that others try to run after luck and just never quite manage to grasp it? It eludes the edge of their fingertips just when they’re reaching for that bubble. Swish, and it’s gone. It makes you wonder why luck is elusive for some and sticky as bubble gum for others?
Maybe, in honour of yesterday’s Saint Patrick’s day, the answer lies in the Luck of the Irish. The land of poets and musicians, perched on an island away from the mainland and with a yearning vision across the ocean, is blessed with rainbows and emeralds.
Maybe the answer lies therein: that luck is found in the most wonderous of places. It’s found where light and dark meet, where hardship meets hope, where inspiration conquers fear, and where courage lights the way. Maybe, just maybe, luck flows where courage lives and where patience meets contentment. Where ideas are shared and opinions voiced.
Maybe, luck is not so much a bubble of good luck, but also self-invented armour to ward off bad luck. Maybe, it’s believing in miracles and allowing time to work. Maybe it’s trusting in one’s own strength and imagination.
Luck, lucky Luke, was probably lucky, because he ventured off with a straw in his mouth and a whistling tune on his lips. Not knowing where the road would lead.