Rational people are used to being (at least in private) distinctly merciless in their mockery of the superstitious; the cohort who cling to the hope that the alignment of Saturn and Jupiter might presage an upswing in their romantic fortunes or who pray to an ancient god for help with a medical diagnosis or who close their eyes and will that — by the power of thought alone — they can influence the minds of others.
How utterly and unremittingly daft, the rational will say; what knuckleheaded naivety to suppose that such manoeuvres can actually influence the course of reality.
They may well be right.
There's very little evidence that human events can be shaped by the movements of the planets or the interventions of airborne spirits or the incantation of wishes.
But this isn't the point.
What the self-congratulatingly rational are missing is that their rationality is not, and never was, an achievement of the intellect; it's no sign of logical superiority or hard-won ratiocination.
It's the result of something they seldom wish to acknowledge or express appropriate gratitude for: luck.
It's their background good fortune, nothing more nor less, that means they have never been tempted to fall to their knees and implore an angel or to send someone a letter telepathically or to gain comfort from reading what could be in store for a Sagittarius with an ex they pine for this month.
It's because their child isn't dying of cancer, their beloved didn't leave them without explanation after five years of marriage, and their mortgage payments aren't in arrears that they can calmly step back and trust in the orderly and ineluctable unfolding of the principles of science.
They should display greater imagination towards those whom they so coldly scorn.
