Lucky Cloud

I used to say, half in jest, that I was born beneath a black cloud. That nothing ever landed easily for me, no prizes, no windfalls, no lucky breaks. I told the story so many times I could recite it as my own folklore: “I never win anything. I’m just unlucky.” The proof was handy enough—like the one raffle I ever won, a bottle of sour wine that couldn’t be swallowed. My evidence sat neat and tidy, waiting to confirm my tale. And yet, in the same breath, I would call myself blessed. I had healthy children, a roof that sheltered us, and neighbors who waved at me from their porches. Somehow, these things never counted toward luck, at least not in the way I had defined it. My mind separated the blessings into one basket and the losses into another, keeping the black cloud narrative alive.

Over the years, though, I’ve come to wonder if there was ever such a thing as luck at all. Perhaps there is only energy, neither dark nor light until we dress it up with our feelings, paint it with our expectations, and call it by a name. What we say again and again—like beads on a rosary—etches itself into the grain of our days. My own mantra was bad luck. So that’s what I saw.

I think of my middle son. People have always said he has good luck, as if it follows him around like a golden retriever. He expects things to go his way, and somehow they do. I remember one evening at a swim club raffle. I handed him ten dollars for a sleeve of tickets, just as the other children’s parents did. But his numbers were called again and again. He marched up for prize after prize until one mother leaned toward me, exasperated, and asked me to tell him to hush about yet another winning ticket. Her boy had three times the number of tickets, but no prizes.

I didn’t ask my son to be quiet. How could I? He wasn’t smug. He simply knew he would win, the same way he knew the sun would rise tomorrow. It never occurred to him to doubt it, or to question whether his wins meant someone else had lost. He expected abundance, and the world obliged.

Would I have done the same for myself, I wonder? Or would I have hidden the winning stub in my pocket, too embarrassed to believe the tide had turned?

Even as I write this, my mind slips into old patterns. A small voice whispers that it is selfish to wish for abundance, selfish to hope for more than my share. That it would be too much to win all the time. And there it is—the trap I’ve lived in. Not only have I believed I was unlucky, but I have also believed that to have too much would somehow make me guilty of taking from someone else.

But that is the deeper misunderstanding. What I know—and what I would tell my son—is that there is plenty for everyone. Your winning does not take away from another’s winning. The universe is not a pie with finite slices; it is a river that runs wide enough for every thirsty soul. To say “it’s too much” is to push the cup away. Better to say “thank you” and drink deeply, with gratitude.

And when someone looks at you with envy, believing you’ve been handed too much, let them in on the secret. Tell them abundance is not rationed, it multiplies. The more we believe it, the more we see it.

I often think of a tree. A great, old one, with roots that drink from deep places. The more abundant it becomes, the more branches it unfurls, the more shade it casts for wanderers, the more fruit it offers to birds and passersby. No one begrudges a tree for growing large. No one says, you ought to be smaller, so the saplings may thrive. It is precisely in its flourishing that it becomes a shelter, a giver, a blessing to all around it.

So perhaps it is time to imagine myself as that tree. To let go of the black cloud story and stand tall under the open sky. To grow into the belief that abundance is not selfish—it is the most natural thing. A sunlit crown, rooted deeply, giving more and more as it reaches higher.

And maybe one day I’ll look back and say that my birthday is the lucky day after all—not because the stars shifted, but because I finally believed it so. And maybe then I’ll be the one sitting at the table, sleeve of tickets in hand, smiling as the numbers are called in my favor, realizing they always were.

And here, a caveat worth adding: today happens to be my middle son’s birthday—yes, the lucky day to be born on. Happy Birthday, Mingo, to my most blessed and “lucky” son. Love you dearly. 🙏

Hari  Om  Tat  Sat