On Luck, Colour, and Breathing First

Good morning, dear ones.

Welcome to the Bog Blog. That is what the younger residents have started calling it, and I find I do not mind at all.

I have been asked to write a little something about luck. I am happy to do this. I have opinions about luck, collected quietly over many calm mornings, while gliding through the bog.

The bog, as you may know, has plenty of opinions of its own.

I breathe first, and then I consider them.

Fresh, salty, in-between — breathe first.

That is always where we begin.

Now. Black mollies and bad luck.

I am a black molly. A lyretail black molly, to be precise — my tail is shaped like a lyre, which is a small ancient musical instrument of considerable elegance.

It does not make me a liar.

I mention this because the subject comes up more often than it should. I have developed, over the years, a very patient smile for when it does.

As for bad luck — I ask you to consider this.

You may have heard that black cats bring bad luck. And yet, when you watch a black cat step on a thorn — which I have observed, because Yechiel's cat visits the bog edge occasionally — the bad luck lands entirely on the cat.

Very contained. Very personal.

I find this entirely exonerating, for both of us.

But perhaps you are wondering — do black mollies bring good luck?

I think about this sometimes, while gliding.

I am one of the few creatures on this farm who moves comfortably through fresh water, salt water, and everything in between. I do not panic when the water changes. I simply adjust, breathe, and carry on.

(I will not mention who does call emergency meetings about the salinity reading. George knows who he is.)

If steady, reliable calm is not a form of good luck for everyone nearby — I do not know what is.

Now. There are many kinds of mollies.

Orange ones. Green sailfins. Silver ones. Gold dust ones. Marble ones. A green sailfin molly of my acquaintance recently pointed out — at some length, in the shallows — that she is green, a four-leaf clover is also green, and therefore the logic speaks for itself.

I listened with great warmth.

Then I said: “Fresh, salty, in-between — breathe first, dear.”

She is still thinking about it.

One last thing.

I noticed Sir Bubbleton at the surface this morning, holding what appeared to be a teacup.

This is not unusual. Sir Bubbleton has a small extra breathing chamber in his head — a labyrinth organ — that lets him breathe air directly at the surface. He does this with a great deal of ceremony.

Tea can also be green, I thought, watching him.

Green tea. Green molly. Four-leaf clover.

The logic continues to hold.

Fresh, salty, in-between — breathe first.

That is all from me today, dear ones.

The bog is calm. The water is doing its work.

Everything is, for the moment, quite alright.