Last year I finally got round to reading The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion. Joan’s tender account of her husband’s death and the year that followed has lingered in my mind ever since. Her reticence to give away his shoes, because he might need them again might seem to those not touched by grief as bizarre. But for those who know, well, it just makes sense.
This way of thinking has been a constant companion of mine since childhood. A desire to feel in control in some way, to make something happen – or more likely – to try and prevent something bad from happening.
I have reflected on what has influenced this style of thinking in me. Where and when did I learn that you should never, ever, put new shoes on a table? Since when did knocking on wood become the language of immunity, the key to preventing a catastrophe from occurring? And woe betide anyone who happens to open an umbrella indoors.
Was it growing up surrounded by stories of mediumship? Having my tarot cards read on a Saturday afternoon visit to my grandmother. Regularly looking to a crystal suspended on a piece of string for an answer to a question (circular motion for yes, straight line for no). All fond memories, but ones that probably influenced my ways of viewing the world then. Maybe even now.