I opened the front door, fumbling with the key in my haste. As it swung open I dropped my bag with a clunk and pelted towards the kitchen. Throwing open the pantry door I searching frantically. There it was, on the middle shelf next to the curry powder and cinnamon sticks. I tipped a fistful into my right palm and then, with eyes closed, I threw it over my shoulder. I stood completely still, staring at the pantry door, a dusting of salt at my feet.
I wouldn’t ordinarily call myself a superstitious person but that afternoon I was stuck by a premonition so powerful, that I felt drastic cosmic action needed to be taken. I had spent the afternoon having good-bye coffees with friends when I had the idea to duck into borders bookshop to pick up a travel book on Holland. With my head tilted sideways to read the colourful spines, I was so absorbed that I didn’t notice the ladder until I was walking under it. Bang, seven years of bad luck right there. Or was it 5. I wasn’t bothering with the specifics, I just knew it was bad. Of course the feeling of unease that came from walking under a ladder was compounded by the fact that I was about to leave on a six month foreign exchange and was standing in the travel section.
I did a bit of research to find out the origin of this particular superstition. Turns out there are two theories about why people avoid walking under ladders. The first comes from similarity of a ladder against a well to a yee-olde type gallows. The theory goes that by walking underneath a ladder, you are signalling your own execution. The other theory is that by leaning against a wall, the ladder creates the Holy Trinity and walking through the triangle desecrates God and leaves you prey to Satan.
So there you have it. Not wanting to take my chances with Satan before a major European jaunt, I decided to forgo the traditional “spit three times through the ladder’s rungs” and headed home to throw salt over my shoulder instead. Spitting in Borders is not my scene.
That was over four years ago and time has marched on. I made it back from my overseas exchange in once piece (although somewhat heartbroken) and the Borders bookshop chain has since gone into receivership. My susperstitions however remain unchanged.
A black cat crossing my path gives me the ‘heeby jeebies’. I refuse to open an umbrella inside and feel uncomfortable when other people do. If I ever utter a sentence I do not want to come true, I will make every effort to touch wood – and this often means reaching under the table to find some unlacquered exposed wood, risking the globs of used chewing gum that might be stuck there.
Superstition is everywhere. Most people believe that breaking a mirror is a bad omen. Children often refuse to walk on cracks in the pavement. I have a Swedish friend who won’t put keys on a table top. My mother believes that if you give the gift of a knife, you should also gift coin, or your friendship will soon be cut/broken. For this reason a few Christmasses ago I was unsurprised to unwrap a bread knife with a 50c piece sticky-taped to it.
According to the dictionary, superstition is an irrational belief arising from ignorance or fear. I agree with the fear part but not the ignorant part; Far more ignorant are those who open umbrellas inside and tempt fate.
But I have to admit that superstition can be stressful. Touching wood is often difficult in today's plastic world. Black cats are everywhere and if you tried to avoid every crack on the pavement you wouldn't leave the house. Perhaps that's what Stevie Wonder meant when he advised, “when you believe in things you don’t understand, you will suffer”.
Maybe I will try and grow out of my superstitions. Maybe nothing bad will happen to me. Touch wood.
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