A decade ago, a friend taught me how to read Tarot cards, and my perspective hasn’t been the same since.
I don’t give readings to others as often as I should, as often as he would've liked me to. But I sit with the cards he gave me in times of deep reflection, in quiet rooms, still and peaceful. I cradle them, shift them about in my hands, and they speak to me in meanings as they spill out seemingly at random.
Their edges are soft and worn. The cloth they're kept in is saturated with memory, heavy with the weight of decisions and surprises and longings and struggles and love.
There is an unexplainable, irrational aspect to Tarot that I admire. Although I consider myself to be a rather objective person—preferring to hold and feel things, to take notes and observe—I choose not to ignore what I hold and feel inside, those imperceptible wisps of intuition and awe.
I believe in the romanticism of coincidences, often taking them at face value, especially when their chances for existence are slim.
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Put simply, the language of Tarot is spoken through archetypes. There are the major archetypes, otherwise known as the Major Arcana (e.g., "The Sun," "The Moon," "Justice"), and there are the minor archetypes, otherwise known as the Minor Arcana. These are divided into four suits, similar to those of modern playing cards: the wands (clubs), the cups (hearts), the pentacles (diamonds), and the swords (spades). Each suit contains cards numbered ace through ten, followed by the royal cards: page, knight, king, queen. Within each suit lies degrees of meaning unique to that suit.
Together, these cards work together to describe the myriad elements of life and experience. Put into simple patterns and drawn in a particular way, they tell you a story. They hold a mirror before you; not to your face but to your soul. They do not show you the future, but instead your direction and momentum.
However, Tarot is not just a story-telling device. To me, it is much more. It informs my perspective. Its various elemental structures multiply in complexity when combined. And, since life is complex as well, Tarot's simplicity helps me to understand, to slowly disassemble the incomprehensibles.
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Imagine the entirety of your life as a tree growing in a forest or field.
To live you must have soil to sink your roots into, from which you gain stability and nourishment. There must be water present for you to grow, to provide further nourishment as well as comfort. There must be gentle breezes to circulate about your leaves, bringing you fresh air, taking away the old. With these simple needs met, your roots plunge ever deeper, and your branches thrust themselves up and out, yearning for the sun.
As you grow, some of your branches flourish. Some lose their life and strength, growing hollow and brittle.
One summer, a strong wind comes along and shakes your leaves. The strongest of your limbs remain intact, your weakest do not. But there's no need to fear! You're still growing, and now have more energy to give to what hardship has left you.
One summer, the water doesn't come. There is no balance in the cycle above and below. You are starved and shaken by its inconsistency. The sun beats down; the air is hot and stale.
One summer, the water comes so quickly that it nearly knocks you down, robs your roots of its dear soil. You survive, but barely. You live to grow on and up and out.
You endure and survive, until one day you don't.
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It seems fitting that in Tarot there are four elements, just as there are four in nature. This is a matter of design, I believe, rather than coincidence.
When I think of the cups, I think of water and, therefore, emotion—that ebb and flow within us. There must always be balance for us to be healthy and thrive. We must let whatever we feel pass through us, unjudged but respected and appreciated for what it is.
The pentacles I associate with earthly existence, representative of a solid foundation, a tangibility, a cornucopia of nourishments which make life possible. Our desires, both needed and wanted, come from pentacles.
The swords I pair with wind and also with the unmistakable force of truthful communication, with ourselves and with others. The truth can take us apart, especially where we are weakest. The power of spoken and written truth often highlights the truths in us, and breaks down the lies we've let grow inside.
The wands bring to mind growth itself—spirit, some might say. This is our will to live, our yearning towards the sun. This is our accumulation of experiences, our wisdom. It is a beautiful thing to grow wild and free, and though all our efforts may not be successful, to simply engage in them is enough.
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