My fascination with tarot reading started in an undergraduate elective class taught by a rather eccentric instructor who had a penchant for communing with spirits. It was a communications course woven with spiritual meanderings and the occult. In between lessons we would interpret dreams, work our chakras and foretell the future.
So I bought a deck of tarot cards during a trip to Hong Kong a few years back. I only had but one concern when I made the purchase then – the illustrations had to be nice. No campy medieval images. Just really nice drawings and maybe a guidebook that’s easy enough to follow.
I never read for other people because I don’t think I’m “gifted” enough. To do so would be a great disservice to those who do. I use my deck to stimulate me creatively. I like how the cards unfold themselves, revealing plots and twists. I become both storyteller and listener. Truth becomes relative. It’s almost like iterative fiction. If there’s such a thing.
But today was different.
Maybe I was looking for answers from beyond. Maybe I needed something to focus on. But whatever it was, I didn’t take out the cards to amuse myself.
I lit a candle and sat down. I shuffled the deck cautiously, hoping that the way they’re rearranged can influence what I’ll be seeing.
And so I read.
Trial. Objectivity. Strength. Love. Surrender. Time.
The cards unfurled what I state I was in and what I needed to do. Whether it was something I already knew, there was no doubt that I had to move on and set myself free.
With all the noise around me, sometimes it’s hard to recognise which signs are actually relevant and real. Call it an over stimulation of the senses, but it is becoming increasingly difficult to listen and see what really matters. A curse and blessing of the times.
At the end of the day, you just need to be quiet enough to hear your own voice.
In a dimly lit room. November 3, 2005.