Today in my cultural anthropology class, a Lakota man named what translates to English as "Backwards Elk" gave a lecture about ritual. He then invited the class to go outside and smoke a peace pipe with him. We stood in a circle, each taking four puffs of a special and delicious blend of tobacco as we thought silent prayers and wishes, sending them towards the heavens in our smoke. I wished for better luck. Up drifted my breath, and away it disappeared. We all shook hands, said thank you, and went home.
I got out of the car in my driveway a few minutes later. The yard is covered, every inch, in clover. In the first spot I looked down at was this:
My Celtic ancestors gave me a sign that they were listening.
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