There is no such thing as luck

there is only the Self being

and the Self waiting to be once more

the quality of both is not up to chance

though mind will tell you otherwise

I have a friend who rolls the dice over and over again, his waiting is disappointment

I know a woman who laments her waiting as lost opportunity and so it is

still another  seeks comfort through unachievable control , in her waiting she becomes a whisper

My waiting can be all of these and none of these

Sometimes it is beautiful and fine

and the waiting slowly fades into being

almost unnoticed

and then

then I notice

and remember not to grab the moment greedily.

like trying to remember a dream upon waking

only to have it slip beyond any possible retrieval

once when I was young

my grandfather took me to the casino

where we played bingo for hours and hours

in a room too bright, lined with too many tables to count

and more people than seemed safe to collect in any one place

my waiting became a study

and a meditation

we won nothing

not one game between the two of us.

He called me unlucky

and said he would never take me again me

I could only be glad,

my waiting had given me that

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