It rained most of Monday and continued drizzling Tuesday morning. I had decided to forgo my walk as it looked gloomy and cold outside. However, by noon it had warmed up and the rain had stopped, leaving a persistent foggy mist. It was a damp and dreary world out there, but I put on my best bib and slicker, and tooled my way up the hill for my regular twenty-minute mile. To my surprise, it was anything but dank and dreary out there. And, as luck would have it, it turned out to be a memorable walk filled with a host of beautiful rain clad images.

Great piles of leaves had been cleared from nearby courtyards and sat awaiting collection. The crews were on their lunch break and the ever-present leaf blowers were temporarily quiet, leaving a heavy silence. Wet leaves were plastered together on the sidewalks making their own unique music as the trees dripped watery notes and percussive acorns beat a random syncopation of their own. It was a soothing sound. A delicate leafy symphony played by Mother Nature for an audience of one.

Around the corner the lawns were an intense soft green and the tree trunks stood like black sentinels guarding the grass. But the golf course, glimpsed through the trees, was a bright Granny-apple-green. Like a river of contrasting color, it was as if a broad brush of iridescent lime had been used to paint a new horizon. Against the gray sky it was a striking image.

Throughout my walk, pine needles cascaded like flashing lights from the wet evergreens, brought down by the sheer weight of the rain sodden branches. Forgotten Hosta waved ghostly green hands from under blankets of leaves. The last of the red geraniums punctuated the railings of upper decks. And the dull boring grey of the spreading junipers became soft fleecy mounds, like elfin thatched cottages protecting secrets.

But best of all were the delicate silver patches of tiny clover leaves holding the last of the raindrops. They showed up at a distance as some sort of irregular crop circles in the grass, and were visible only on the part of my walk that took me past stretches of open lawn or the edges of the golf course. On closer inspection the clover resembled tiny little Tiffany jewelry pieces, each leaf holding a perfect crystal drop of moisture reflecting pale sunlight. I was tempted to stop and snoop. After all, who would miss it if I should happen across a four-leaf clover to steal. I would only take the one for good luck. But couldn’t bear to mar the artistry of Mother Nature. So I walked on, and instead contemplated how luck had brought me a life filled with good fortune.

My good fortune began with a mother who taught me the concept of making my own luck. I can remember her instructing me on how to find four-leaf clovers. We would carefully save the little green treasures by pressing them between the pages of our favorite books. As a child I spent hours scrunched down in our scrappy well-trodden yard, fingers at the ready. The quest for elusive good fortune took dedication, and strong knees. I can clearly picture my childish fingers separating stems and leaves looking for treasure whenever I found myself beside a bit of grass, and time allowed. As a consequence, I got to know the terrain of our yard in intimate detail.

Now, all these years later, I continue to come across the fragile bones of my diligent searching … the ghostly remains of clover leaves left sleeping in books taken from my mother’s house. They carry with them the whiff of childish faith in a world where wishes are granted and good luck will bring you good fortune. So, whenever I come across one of the lacy gems tucked away in the bookcase, I re-save it just to be sure, in case someday I might need an extra bump of good luck. And next time I am out for a walk I may after all, stop, stoop, and search out a fresh green bit of good luck. After all even Lady Luck might need an occasional booster shot in these tricky times.

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