Seven seems to be an important number. There are seven days in a week, seven wonders of the ancient world, seven colors in the rainbow, seven continents, and lucky sevens. Ladybugs commonly have seven spots, the periodic table has seven rows, and the neutral value between acidity and alkalinity is seven. Breaking a mirror is rumored to bring seven years of bad luck. Snow White hung out with seven dwarfs, James Bond's alias was 007, and baseball has the 7th inning stretch.
Seven is significant in many religions. In the Old Testament, Jericho's walls fell on the seventh day after seven priests with seven trumpets marched around the city seven times. Jesus told his followers to forgive those who offended them seventy-times-seven times. There are Seven Virtues and seven deadly sins; Catholics pray the Rosary of the Seven Sorrows of Mary.
Recently two friends and I discussed the number. We agreed turning 21, an age divisible by 7, is a big deal. One noted the approach of her 49th birthday - another year divisible by 7 - was more traumatic than her 50th. The other commented that all our body cells turn over every seven years (or something to that effect.) I found that piece of information comforting since it implies - visual evidence to the contrary - my body was entirely new last year, and will be again in 2019.
My personal connections to seven are limited. At age 7, I got the black transistor radio on which I listened to CKLW. Seventh grade stunk. I graduated high school at 17. I've been an educator at seven different schools. Boots No. 7 serum is among my skin care products. My favorite boy toy will celebrate his big 7-0 this year. And I can now add that on the 7th week of my resolution to blog weekly, I didn't post.