March 30, 2025

I’ve found only 2 four-leaf clovers in my lifetime. I found my first on a grassy hill outside of my Montessori school when I was 7 or 8. An older boy had been looking for them, inspiring me to follow suit. He wound up finding 3, yet I don’t remember what happened to mine. I found my second on the overgrown soccer field behind my high school in sophomore year. I had abruptly interrupted the post-practice stretching to snatch it up. After a week or so of watching it wilt on the dashboard of my Honda Accord, I eventually threw it out. Looking back, I wish I had pressed it between the pages of a book or tucked it into a memory box, but at the time, it was just another thing, taking up space. I didn’t realize how rare it was—not just the clover itself, but the moment. I was outside, stretching after practicing a sport I no longer play, surrounded by people I haven’t seen in years. Back then, it felt like life would always be that simple, like I’d always have time to lie in the grass searching for small, lucky things.

Now, I couldn’t tell you the last time I even tried. As lovely as it sounds, I don’t spend my afternoons on grassy hills, or staring at clover patches anymore. I struggle to even spend time outside unless I’m walking with a destination in mind. Somewhere along the way, as I grew up, I traded curiosity for convenience and playfulness for productivity. In doing so, I wonder how many four-leaf clovers—rare, beautiful, fleeting moments—I’ve walked past without even looking down. If I had joined my friend Charlotte to work on the Lawn when it was sunny, even though I knew very little work would be completed or if I had sacrificed one night of sleep to climb Humpback Rock with my friends, I may have a few more memories to cherish.

A four-leaf clover isn’t just a unique find - it’s a reminder of how often we overlook some of the best moments in our lives. We get caught up in schedules, responsibilities, and routines, forgetting to make the effort to slow down or do something outside of our comfort zone. It’s easy to stick to what’s familiar, to stay inside instead of watching the sunset, to turn down last-minute plans because they weren’t on your Google Calendar. But just like finding a four-leaf clover, experiencing something special usually takes effort. You have to be willing to look for it and step away from routine.

The odds of finding a four-leaf clover are about 1 in 10,000. It’s easy to assume that luck is random, that some people just stumble upon it while others never do. But the truth is, you rarely find a four-leaf clover by accident, you find one because you’re looking. You have to be willing to slow down, to crouch in the grass and peer through each clover while everyone else hurries by. The same idea is true for so many of life’s best moments. The sunsets we forget to watch, the songs we’re too busy to dance to, and the spontaneous conversations we cut short because we’re rushing to the next class or in a hurry to check the next box off our to-do list. How often do we miss something beautiful just because we’re not paying attention?

This St. Patrick's Day, I want to start looking for four-leaf clovers again. I don’t know if I’ll ever find another four-leaf clover, but I do know this: the more I look, the more I’ll see. Luck isn’t about stumbling onto something rare—it’s about learning to notice the small sensations tucked in between the ordinary moments - a warm conversation on a cold day, a song playing at just the right time, an unexpected kindness. Maybe if I start looking for four-leaf clovers again, I’ll find more than just a lucky stem. I don’t expect to find another anytime soon, but if one’s out there waiting for me, this time I won’t miss it.

Finding Four Leaf Clovers

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