In the absence of superstition 

Idon’t remember when I started knocking on wood, I only know that over the years the habit grew louder, more insistent. At first, I did it after I jinxed myself out loud — a quick rap on a desk (always three knocks in a row) or the floor. Then it expanded to my thoughts, until even imagining a good outcome required the protective tap of knuckles. It got to the point where I began carrying a piece of wood — gifted to me years ago from my mom’s deeply spiritual friend, intended for burning but adequate for knocking — in my bag so I’d never be caught defenseless. If I was half asleep under my covers but an anxiety-inducing thought crept into my mind, I would wake up to complete what I deemed to be a necessary action. It became extreme, a burden, an inconvenient obligation. So this past week,