Thirteen is an unlucky number. It is bad luck to put a hat on a bed. Watch out for black cats crossing in front of you. Don't walk under a ladder. If your nose itches, someone is talking about you. Two on a match. Not good. Step on a crack, break your mother's back. Spill the salt, toss some over your shoulder. Break a mirror, ten years of bad luck.
Thirteen is a number to be avoided.
High rises rarely have a thirteenth floor.
Airplanes have no row marked thirteen.
Hotels do not have a floor or a room marked thirteen.
People who are afraid of the number thirteen are called an unfortunately long winded and hard to spell nickname...triskaidekaphobes.
I am not superstitious.
I am not a triskaidekaphobe.
I am NOT afraid of numbers.
Until very recently, I did not believe in magic. The Tooth Fairy. Santa Claus. Witches or potions or brew.
I did not believe that Yard Yetis exist.
So here, in the middle of the thirteenth chapter, having avoided all black cats, stepped around all ladders, piled my
hats in the closet, skipped over cracks, and used the glass on the front of the microwave for a mirror, I must truly confess.
I believe in spiders.
Seeing a spider in its web in the middle of the afternoon munching on a cicada, means you are about to take a trip.
Now if you get too close, or try to pet it, or put it on a leash for a walk around the block, the trip you make will be to the emergency room for anti-venom or to the pharmacy for a case of Benadryl.
That is why, in this the thirteenth chapter of the journey from HERE to THERE, I wear yellow wellies up to my knees. I expect the unexpected when I venture into the wild. The wild wilderness that Yard Yetis love.
I believe in things you cannot see, or touch, or scientifically confirm.
The unimaginable. The undefinable.
The Yard Yeti Women of Lore.
The Yard Yeti women didn't come TO me. Their stories came THROUGH me. All of the girls, the gals, the wild women of the garden are everyone I want to be. All of the women I hope to become. All the women I aspire to be like. Each pinprick of light is merely an opening where their spirit shines through and down on me and you.
It's like playing catch.
First, you have to look up. Then you have to be willing to see, to believe in the ball of light hurtling toward you.
If you stand still, the ball will land at your feet. If you have your hands in your pockets, the ball will whiz past your head.
If you try to anticipate the arrival, you will miss.
You have to focus, gather your courage to move, adjust your stance, get into position, cup your hands, focus solely on
the light as it plops right into the palms of your hands. You may miss the first time. Drop the ball. Think it's too hot to
handle. That is simply your conscious mind toying with you. You are in unknown territory and these women, these elusive
pinpricks of light are not playing with your head, they are Heart Seekers. Seeking the very center of you. The target. T
he bull's eye. Waiting. Wide open. Accepting. Trusting. Hoping. Eager. Ready and willing to play. To hit it out of the park.
You don't need a catcher's mitt. Garden gloves will do. Better yet, bare handed, so you can sense the warmth upon your skin.
Are you ready?
To hope that your luck, your life is about to change?
The ball of light is resting in the palm of your hand. Close your eyes and in that moment between eyes closed and the coming of sleep, the Yard Yetis will appear. One by one, until YOU are surrounded in a field of tall grass...
Spiders hiding in your pillowcase...bad luck.
Spiders in a web on a sunny afternoon...a good day to travel.
Chapter 12 | Chapter 14