A draw for the new year

by Jason//Uncategorized

I recently wrapped up a long-term collaboration that was very significant to me, and was the basis of my spiritual life and work for the past seven years. It was time, maybe a little past time, so I don’t regret the ending exactly, but I’ve been feeling a bit adrift in the time since that decision was made. So on the 1st, I pulled out my Rider-Waite-Smith deck and did a little 4-card spread for clarity, asking the following questions:

  • What do I mourn the loss of?
  • What is most recently behind me?
  • What have I made space for now?
  • Who is my unacknowledged ally in this work?

What do I mourn the loss of? Here I drew the Three of Cups. This card has such a sense of joy for me, the image of the three women coming together in what looks like ease and celebration. It’s a perfect card for what I am mourning, because when it’s working just so, that’s precisely what both collaboration and spiritual community feel like to me – a coming-together of people, in joy, and for a common purpose.

What is most recently behind me? I pulled the Nine of Wands for this position. The image in this card feels to me like the aftermath of a conflict, with the bandaged person holding onto a staff for support (or out of sheer stubbornness) while looking back toward several others that appear to be arrayed against them. If I’m being really honest with myself, this is also how collaboration can feel sometimes. That’s particularly true when it’s about something important – something that one brings their self, their beliefs, and their passions to. When the ease and the joy feel distant, but the importance is still there, conflict and challenges can arise. It’s not that one or the other is “real,” of course. They’re both real, and that’s the magic and the challenge of it all.

What have I made space for now? Here I drew The Hermit. So this is interesting in a vacuum, because hey – there’s one figure, seemingly out in the wilderness, lighting their own way with that lantern. It’s a pretty natural image as a counterpoint to collaborative efforts. I think it’s even more interesting in the context of the previous card, though. It’s another 9, for one thing, the ruler of the other 9s in the deck. And there’s also that staff, again, not clung to stubbornly but held in one hand, for stability and balance. There’s certainly a sense, in this context, of the Hermit being a model not for loneliness, but for exploring and valuing what’s uniquely mine to offer for a while. That feels both emotionally and pragmatically resonant for me right now.

Who is my unacknowledged ally in this work? The last card I pulled was The World. This is a big card about transitions and vulnerability and that edge between “being fearless” and “doing it afraid.” It’s aspirational, which feels like a good characteristic in an ally. I could say a lot about the card and what it symbolizes for me generally, but the context of this draw, it simply comes down to a reminder not to dream small.

It’s interesting. I can’t remember a time when each card in a draw has felt as “perfect” as they did this time around. Usually there’s a challenge, somewhere, in seeing how a card resonates for the question at hand (and I love that, actually – I really enjoy the process of stretching my mind and interpretation in that way), but this time it felt more like a draw in a movie or a book, where everything seems almost too on the nose. When that happens, I think it means that the clarity I was seeking was probably already there, and I just needed a framework to allow myself to feel it.

On aging, gift-requesting, and receiving

by Jason//Uncategorized

One thing about getting older is that I really don’t ask for gifts very often. It’s rare that there’s a thing that I absolutely must have, other than a book here and there, or a game I probably won’t find time to play, or an experience that I’d really rather be a part of planning for anyway. This year, though, I had an opportunity to ask for a very specific, completely impractical, and logistically complex gift, and after a bit of waffling, I finally worked my way around to making the request.

See, a long time back, in the mists of time Before Jason, my grandfather acquired a manual typewriter. Specifically, an Underwood Model 5, a true workhorse of a machine that he was rumored to be able to use at some obscene rate of speed. After my grandparents passed, the typewriter found its way to my family’s house, where it remained for a very long time, remaining still and very occasionally being played with by yours truly. I don’t remember if either of my parents used it or not, but my memory is that it eventually wound up in the attic, was later moved into town when we left the house in the country, and largely gathered dust. When my mom moved to St. Louis this year, I had the opportunity to bring it to Chicago, which I jumped on in about 0.0005 seconds.

Before the application of a whole lot of effort by Chuck the Typewriter Guy

It was, understandably, in pretty rough shape. That’s what happens, of course, when a device that was functional outlives its function. There are very few reasons to use a typewriter of any sort, much less one of this vintage. And it takes quite a while, doesn’t it, before something moves from “obsolete” to “ancestral”? A few decades, a couple of deaths, a handful of moves. Still, at some point it HAD reached that state, and it seemed important to have it restored, and I asked my beloveds to make it so. As you can see, they did a fantastic job fulfilling a more-than-challenging request.

I am absolutely in love.

So it is, then, that I am the proud owner of a beautiful and functional 1920s vintage Underwood Model 5, along with spare ribbons (those alone are no easy feat to track down) and very soon, a handmade cover to protect and display it. I can confirm that it works wonderfully, although I already miss having access to spell check.

I doubt I’ll ask for, or receive, a better gift for a very long time indeed.

Tarot Stories #78: King of Pentacles

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

 

There once was a king who inherited both his family’s crown and their proclivity for acquisition. There wasn’t an object of beauty that they wouldn’t seek to buy, nor a marker of success that they wouldn’t find a spot to display as prominently as they were able. Theirs was an abundant realm, but more important than the abundance of the realm was the royal family’s abundance (or so the family believed, at any rate).

 

Now, this was certainly bad enough, but the family – and thus the king, as well – were absolutely terrible when it came to getting rid of things. So much so that there came a time when the king looked around the castle and realized that he could no longer hold court inside it. Every room – the throne room and the dining hall and even the attic that leaked when it rained – had been filled to bursting with beautiful art and family heirlooms and symbols of wealth that his family had cultivated and that he had contributed to. Obviously something had to change, and so he moved his throne, and the court, outside.

 

For years, then, the king continued in this way, conducting the business of the kingdom in castle ground. Eventually the grounds, too, were overrun with the abundant clutter of the king, so he doubled the guards on the walls (all the better to make sure that nobody came by to steal anything, and moved his court still further away, to the very edge of the ancient woods. He placed his throne there, right on the border between the clearing near his keep and the outskirts of the forest itself.

 

Now, this sounds like a story about a king, or perhaps a king’s family, but that’s not really what it is. What it is, is a story about the world.

 

A thing you need to understand about the world is that it can be slow to take notice of something, and slower still to take action. Slow as it may be, though, the world does notice, and slow as it may be, the world does, eventually, act. The forest noticed, some time ago, that the king had conflated his personal abundance with the abundance of the kingdom. Every painting or tapestry or jewel or piece of gold that he could hoard for himself, he did. And the forest noticed, too, that when this became untenable, the king expanded from his castle to the grounds, from the grounds to the walls, from the walls to the clearing, and soon enough into the forest itself. The king was, the forest knew, treating the wide world as a mere extension of his own gallery, a place to store and hoard and show off his wealth and power.

 

Forests don’t move, much, or at least they don’t move quickly, but they do move quietly, and when the king placed his throne within reach, the forest sent a few tendrils, a few roots, a few vines in the direction of that throne where the king sat. And when the king remained on his throne, contemplating his own wealth and his own possessions, the forest wrapped those tendrils and roots and vines around his legs, holding him fast. And when the king still took no notice, being so enamored by what he owned to open his eyes to the wider world, the forest bound him in place, there, and waited.

 

Now, you may assume that at this point the king would realize that he was trapped, and demand that the forest let him go. But the king did not do this.

 

You might expect that the king ranted and raved, and threatened and screamed. But the king did not do this, either.

 

If you possess a more generous spirit, you may assume the king, realizing belatedly that screaming and demanding obedience from a forest was not a winning strategy, asked kindly for the forest to reconsider its actions. But the king did not.

 

No. What the king did was sit, in his throne, looking out over the trees and the vines and the ripe fruit and the beautiful flowers, all of which he believed were his rather than belonging to the earth, and he imagined how many more treasures he could fit in that space, once he ripped all of that nonsense out of the ground. And he sat there, and he imagined that, even as the roots dug into his throne and cracked it into pieces and slowly, patiently, drew the king into its cold, quiet embrace.

 

The king is there still, sitting in an inherited throne, held fast by the world that he fancies belongs to him, somehow. And as for the world, and the forest? Well, they’ve long since forgotten about the king and his illusions.

Tarot Stories #77: Two of Cups

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once there were two people who had long kept their hearts hidden from the world. It wasn’t a conscious thing, mostly, just the sort of decision that gets made after a bout of heart-bruising, and then a little extra caution intended to help avoid that happening again, thanks, and then a shifting from intentional choice to ongoing habit, and there you go. Two people, hearts carefully hidden away, wondering why they had so much trouble finding friendship.

 

Simultaneously, these people each had a treasure that they were completely unaware of. They were watched over by spirits that wanted what was best for them, and in spite of what you may have read, that’s a pretty rare thing. One of the people was watched over by a great cat, full of passion and imbued with the sort of magic that drew others to them like a magnetic pole. The other person was watched over by twin serpents, who could slither unseen through the grasses and emerge transformed and radiant.

 

Now, two people who were connected to such magical spirits might have magic of their own, should have had magic of their own, but they had, unknowingly, locked themselves away from that. Say what you will about the working of magic, which may come with gestures and grimoires and incantations and (very occasionally) cauldrons and carefully selected children, the source of magic – or nearly all of it at any rate – comes from the heart. The same hearts that the people had locked away and kept hidden held that magic of the great cat with its magnetic pull and of the twin serpents with their stealthy, impossible transformation.

 

So the spirits had these gifts to share, and no avenue through which to deliver the gifts. Naturally, having no other realistic option, they cheated. You see, spirits of this sort are expected to work through the person to whom they are connected, or not at all. They’re not supposed to go acting as free agents, conspiring with one another in corridors and scheming together in corners. That’s simply not done, you understand…but still, desperate times, and besides, what’s the point of being a magical being if you can’t break a rule from time to time? The spirits spoke together and they realized that while they couldn’t act upon “their” person’s heart (they had tried, the snakes attempting to transform walls into open gates and the great cat working overtime to draw armor in on itself until it cracked and collapsed), perhaps they could work on the other one, just a bit. It would be difficult, and possibly illegal, but they resolved to try anyway.

 

At some point, then, a day or a week or a year later, one of the people was walking down the street when their heart fluttered and pounded a little, and at the same time they felt as much as heard a deep rumbling purr and a murmuring voice that said, “Around that corner is someone who will captivate your imagination, and in whose company you can bask.”

 

Within that same moment, the other person was also walking down the street and they felt a constriction in their own chest, just for a moment – startling, but not painful, and at the same time they heard a whisper in each ear, twin voices that said, “Around that corner there is someone, right now, who has long been hidden from you, and their friendship will transform your life if you allow it.”

 

Without knowing why, each of the people acted on the mysterious voices from the spirits of one another’s soul. As they each rounded the corner and met, they held their own hearts and beheld the other’s, and so they began to build a friendship and to rekindle their own magic.

Tarot Stories #76: The Tower

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

 

Once, upon the highest peak of the tallest mountain, there stood a tower that had been crafted – brick by brick, stone by stone – by all the moments of the builders’ lives. Every day they woke, and every action they took was in service to that construction. Often, these actions were good and thoughtful. They measured carefully before placing the next brick of a well-spoken compliment, or they considered the implications thoughtfully as they laid the stone of a shared joy. All of these things and all of the beauty and love of the builders’ lives went into that tower.

 

Other times, naturally, the tower was constructed of less perfect stuff. The day’s work might be a brick of petty annoyances, or a stone filled with unaware distraction of a sense of nihilistic resignation. But these bricks and these stones fit into place as well, and they made the walls of the tower just as surely as the small joys and great sacrifices.

 

Now, the builders did something that is very common among people who construct towers of this sort. They began to see the tower not as a thing that they were building, but as a thing that they were. It happens a lot, I think, because it becomes easier to see the tower as an almost inevitable construction than to imagine life without it. And that sense of inevitability, too, went into the construction of the tower. On the days when the builders didn’t imagine a life that wasn’t centered around that construction, the new bricks contained no imagination. And on the days when they didn’t ask why they were building the tower in the first place, they placed stones that were strong and certain, but also inflexible and unyielding.

 

(A small truth: There is a reflection of us in everything we make. But also, what we make is reflected in us.)

 

When the lightning struck, it was easy to see it as a great and random tragedy. This tower on the tallest peak of the highest mountain – the work of years and in fact lifetimes – was turned to rubble in an instant, after all. Yet it is in the nature of lightning to strike, and it is in the nature of towers to fall. They all do, the perfect ones and the flawed ones and the ugly ones and the beautiful ones and so too, the ones that are all of those things at once.

 

If there is a tragedy in the tower’s fall, it comes in the years before, when imagination or good questions are drained from its construction, or in the moments after, when the builders or their descendants resolve to reconstruct the tower exactly as it had been.

Tarot Stories #75: The Hierophant

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

There were once two friends who set out to discover the meaning of life. They were young, and therefore quite certain that this endeavor might take them a month or so to accomplish. The friends began by looking around their hometown, and then by asking the librarian, and then by conversing with the travelers who were passing through, but in spite of these efforts, they didn’t discover an answer.

 

After a while, they reasoned that the meaning of life was a very large thing, so maybe they would have to travel more than a couple of miles from their homes to find it. The friends set out immediately, traveling to the largest city they had yet heard of, and they looked around that city and asked the librarians there and made conversation with the travelers in the taverns. Some time later, they compared notes and had to admit that they still felt no closer to the answer than they had been in the beginning.

 

Eventually the friends agreed that if the meaning of life wasn’t to be found in the largest city they could think of, and it wasn’t to be found in the town where they had lived their whole lives, then surely it must be waiting for them in the remotest wilderness. So they set out to the forest at the furthest edge of the largest map they could find, and once there they looked around the clearings and the hills and the valleys, and they asked the owls (who seemed the closet to librarians of all the animals, somehow) and they conversed with the travelers they found at the tavern (which is to say, they talked with one another at the edge of the stream near their campsite). Still, if there was a meaning of life, it continued to elude the friends.

 

And then one day, at the edge of that stream or in their rooms above another tavern in another city or while atop a mountain where a wise witch (who really might have once been a librarian) was supposed to have been, the friends had a vision. In the vision they found themselves in an impossibly beautiful cathedral, before a crowned being who somehow looked at both of them at once. It was hard to tell for sure, but the being didn’t seem quite human or quite not-human.

 

“You have been seeking something, I understand?” the crowned one said without moving their lips.

 

The friends exchanged glances, then one of them spoke. “Yes, we’re looking for the meaning of life.”

 

“Right,” the other friend put in. “We’ve asked around a lot, and no one has had a good answer for us yet.”

 

The crowned figure nodded. “That’s a good thing to be looking for, I suppose,” they said. “I hope you’ll let me know if you find it.”

 

“Hang on a second,” the first friend said. “You’re the one with the crown in the cathedral inside of a mystic vision. I should think that you’d know that already, and that you would let us in on the secret!” The second friend nodded, began to speak, and then closed their mouth, having nothing else to add.

 

The being with the crown in the cathedral inside the mystic vision shrugged helplessly. “I joined the church because I wanted to do something positive,” they said, looking more human and less not-human. “I suppose I felt a calling, or else I just figured it was a better option than any I’d come up with. I like to think I’ve helped some people and done more good than harm, but meaning?” They laughed, in equal parts amusement and bitterness. “I’ve never met a person – holy or not, young or old, mortal or divine – who was doing anything more or less than making it up as they went and hoping it turned out okay. So, like I said. If you figure it out, come back and let me know. I may have a job for you.” They smiled, starting to look less human and more not-human once more. “Or, who knows? Maybe I’ll ask you for one.” With that, the vision (if that’s what it was) faded away, leaving the friends alone once more.

 

And speaking of the friends, they may have gone home then, or they may have found another home, or they may have resigned themselves to making it up as they went along. I like to think, though, that they’re out there still – searching, talking to travelers, and questioning every librarian they happen to meet.

Tarot Stories #74: Queen of Pentacles

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once there was a queen of a minor nation who had, over the course of her reign, made a few powerful enemies who conspired against her. They managed, after years of scheming and plotting, to have her banished to a place far, far away from the land that she had once ruled. The queen was rather unceremoniously dropped into the middle of the meadow, and as far as the conspirators were concerned, that was that.

Now, the queen was – as far as they knew – a woman of cities and of palaces, of court dinners and of grand gatherings. That’s all they knew of her because they hadn’t bothered to learn, or to care, about the queen’s life before she became the queen. In truth, however, the queen had, long before, spent her youth as much outdoors as in, as the youngest daughter of a minor house that had few prospects for advancement. The precarious nature of her lineage didn’t matter much to her in general, and didn’t matter at all when she was outside, exploring and running and adventuring. In those days she learned the joys of the sun, and had to be dragged inside almost by force.

Her parents, those minor nobles with ambitions that were anything but minor, despaired of their daughter, but knew how they could gain something from her. They married her off to a petty king, sent her her away as quickly as they might, and immediately set about counting (and spending) the dowry she had earned them.

So as you can see, the queen was twice conspired against, twice betrayed, and twice misunderstood. First by her parents, who took her from her beloved wilds for their own benefit, and then by the nobles, who sent her back to them as a punishment.

Of course, it’s not the same thing, being alone in the woods always when you’re used to being there as long as you wish and then going back home to eat and to sleep. Then again, the queen herself wasn’t quite the same as she had been back in her youth, either. She was capable, now, of not only enjoying the joys of the sun, but of learning the secrets of the moon as well. It took time, and time, and time, but eventually the deposed queen of a petty court, victim of conspiracy and banishment, became a queen of the wild corners of the world, with creatures as her councilors and incantations as her companions.

In short, she became a witch, and that suited her much better indeed.

Tarot Stories #73: Knight of Wands

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

There was a horse, once, who with each of their lives was sent to Earth to be a teacher Sometimes the horse was there to teach a fool to be more thoughtful about the risks of taking up a firebird’s feather, and sometimes the horse was there to teach their companion to be polite to witches, and sometimes the horse was there to remind a rider to trust their mount when it came to the question of how wide a gap they might clear with a leap at the end of a day’s ride. The horse was a teacher, an advisor, occasionally a friend in each of their lives, and this suited them well.

 

But this story isn’t about any of those lives. It’s about another one altogether.

 

The horse knew that the knight was afraid as they approached. It wasn’t that the knight looked fearful or smelled fearful or sounded fearful. It was all of those, and more – a simple abiding certainty, in the knight’s bearing and movements, that screamed to the horse’s senses: I Am Quite Frightened. Now, the horse had dealt with nervous riders before, and sometimes taught them to trust and other times taught them not to approach any horse until they had conquered that fear, thank you very much. The knight, however, for all that they were afraid, showed no clear sign of needing either of these lessons. They continued to approach and the horse continued to watch, and to consider what lesson might be imparted.

 

It was a slow process, the knight’s walk to the pasture, and still the horse was no closer to an answer. Finally, at something of a loss, the horse did something very uncommon. It said, “Look, I’m here to teach you, as I always am. But I don’t know what you need to learn.”

 

The knight showed no sign of surprise at having encountered a talking horse. After a moment, they replied, “I appreciate the offer, but teaching is not what I require.”

 

Now this was an odd thing, perhaps a unique thing. The horse had been around many times, many lives, always with the same calling, and while many companions had ignored their lessons, refusing them was something else. Perhaps, then, the knight needed to learn something about arrogance and false certainty? The horse considered this, and at length knew that no, that wasn’t the thing. The horse observed the knight closely and sensed that beneath the fear lay both pain and memory, and other things that were the knight’s to share or not as they chose.

 

Finally, the horse said simply, “What do you require, then?”

 

The knight said, “Things happened to me – things were done to me, and to people I love. I…withdrew for a time, because the things that were done and my memory of them were horrible, and because I needed time to plan my next actions.” The knight smiled a thin smile, in spite of their fear and their memories. “Now I think those things that were done require a response, and I would like very much to deliver it.”

 

The horse was quite out of their element with this knight who did not need their lessons. But one thing you can be sure about a good teacher is that they’re also a good listener, and so the horse could hear the unasked question, the request for assistance that the knight hadn’t thought or didn’t dare to speak aloud. “Well,” the horse said as their nostrils flared, “as I said. I’m usually here as a teacher, but I can still carry a rider into battle, should the need arise. As we go, if you’d like to talk a little more about what happened, I’m not going anywhere except where you ask me. And if you’d rather not, well, that’s just fine.”

 

The knight swung up into the saddle and took up the reins. “Perhaps later. For now, there is a lesson that we can deliver together,” they said, and with no further words needed, the frightened but determined knight and the eternal horse charged ahead.

Tarot Stories #72: King of Cups

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

 

Once there was a ruler who had been at the job for a good while, long enough that they felt confident in their decisions and their ability to lead. This confidence was hard-won, as it is for most people (even those of us who don’t mete out justice or set trade policies), but the ruler had eventually gotten the hang of it and assembled the tools they needed. They held in one hand a large cup, to remind them to be open – to take on some of the burdens of their subjects, but also to take on only so much and to remain only so open (a cup is a useful metaphor for boundaries because it simply will not hold more than it is capable of holding). In their other hand, the ruler held a scepter, as a reminder that the decisions made were ultimately their responsibility.


So. Openness and power, boundaries and responsibility. It worked out perfectly – one tool, one reminder, for each hand. The ruler had figured it out, at last, and they felt very good about themselves.


Naturally, then, the next morning they awoke upon their throne, floating in the middle of the sea. “Well,” the ruler said, “now I know what happens to people who feel like they’ve cracked the code.”


The ruler could see, off in the distance, a ship turning in their direction. It was flying no colors, so it was impossible to tell if it came from an ally or enemy, but when you’re in the middle of the sea floating on a throne, it matters less who is making their way toward you in a position to lend aid, and more that someone is doing so.


As the ship approached, one of the sailors hailed the ruler. “Ahoy!” the sailor said, rather nautically, and then paused as they took in the situation. “What, um…well, what are you doing there?”


The ruler called back, “I am either learning about overconfidence, or I am dreaming a very strange dream.” They sat there calmly enough on their throne, waiting to see what would happen next. Now the sailor, strange as this might sound, was put at ease by this odd behavior. Being a veteran of their craft, they had encountered more than a few people driven mad by the sea, and this person floating on a throne in the middle of the ocean was clearly one of those. And in any case, the sailor’s task was clear. Helping a fellow seafarer who was in need (no matter how unusual their vessel) was as much a part of being a sailor as knowing how to work the rigging or to read the stars at night, so the sailor threw down a rope.


Now, here was a quandary. In order to climb to safety, the ruler needed their hands free, but of course they were occupied with the cup and the scepter. These were the tools they had found through seemingly endless trial and error, and which had served the ruler well in all their pursuits. Perhaps worse than the prospect of leaving them behind was the prospect of acknowledging that those tools, while excellent, were not correct for every task. Still, while the ruler valued their tools, they also valued their life. So, with some reluctance, the ruler set aside those hard-won tools (though not the lessons that had accompanied them, because those require no hands to hold), and began climbing the rope to the safety of the ship.


As they sailed off, the ruler looked over the edge of the ship and down to the throne, slowly sinking beneath the waves with the cup and the scepter, and they thought about two things: The value of releasing what no longer serves, and the prospect of having some pockets sewn into their robes.

Tarot Stories #71: The Lovers

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

 

Once there was a god who knew all the things that were in the province of gods, and nothing at all of what was in the province of humans. Which is to say, broadly speaking, that the god understood creation of something from nothing, and of nothing from something, and of events that hadn’t happened yet being a prerequisite for a choice about breakfast, and of all the impossible things that first year philosophers bring up to make their mentors’ heads turn around backwards. And it means that, broadly speaking, the god was absolutely without a clue when it came to knowing the right thing to say to defuse a moment of unexpected tension, or when it came to being truly gobsmacked by the feel of an autumn breeze that was frankly very like all the other autumn breezes, even the one from yesterday, that hadn’t made an impression, or when it came to being so in love with one or three or ten other beings that a look from them could feel just as amazing (or at least almost as amazing) as that autumn breeze that the god was, as we have established, really hopeless at understanding.

 

So the god wisely (or foolishly) created a place where a few of these people could live, providing the god with a front row seat to observe these things, and to begin to understand them. It was a lovely spot, full of everything the people needed to survive and to live well. Naturally, it took barely any time at all before the whole experiment began to come apart at the seams.

 

“So here we are in this beautiful place, with all the food and comfort we could want,” one of the people said to another. “What I want to know is, what’s the catch?

 

Another person agreed. “Right! Whoever brought us here wants something, that’s for sure.”

 

They went on like this for quite a while, until finally the god arrived to set the record straight. “No, you’ve got it all wrong,” they said. “Just do whatever you want! This is your home, and you’re free to use it how you see fit.”

 

If the people were impressed or intimidated by having met a god, they gave no sign of it. Indeed, having the god there seemed to make them more skeptical. “But what are the rules?” one of them asked. “This sounds like a good deal and all, but there must be some rules.”

 

The god said, “No, that’s the whole point. I want to learn more about you, and I can’t very well do that if I go putting rules in place, can I? Really, anything you want.”

 

“What about food?” another person asked. “Can we just take anything?”

 

“Yes, of course!” the god replied. “Help yourself.” With that, the god disappeared, hoping that this would be the end of the questioning.

 

It was not, in fact, the end of the questioning.

 

“What about that tree over there? Or this fruit? Or those berries?” the person who had asked about the food in the first place (or maybe it was a different person; the god found it difficult to keep track sometimes) was walking around and pointing out every single edible thing nearby and demanding confirmation that it was permissible to eat it. The god played along for a while, but eventually they tired of the experience of following and saying, “Yes, certainly,” and, “Of course, feel free,” and after a few days of this the god had an idea. It was a very simple idea, and not necessarily a good idea, but desperate times called for desperate measures. The god would give the people exactly what they asked for.

 

“All right, everyone,” the god called out, and the people – both of them, or the ten of them, or all million of them (certain details such as the census were a challenge for the god) – looked up expectantly. “I am here to tell you the rules of this place.”

 

“Finally!” one of the people said, and the others nodded and muttered their agreement.

 

“Yes, well,” the god continued, “there is only one, so listen up. Everything here is yours to do with as you please,” here they paused, looked around, and picked one solitary and unremarkable tree at random,” except for that tree. All else in this place is fair game, but that tree is off limits. That is the rule, which you’ve all been asking about for some time now, so I hope this settles things.”

 

It did settle things, at least for a while. The people went about their business, and the god observed them as was the plan all along, and everything went swimmingly. Until one day – not so long after that one rule had been set, all things considered – the humans’ eyes began to turn away from all of the things they could have, and toward that one…solitary…tree. And they began to ask themselves, “Well, wait a minute now, why can’t we have that one? Are its roots not within this place that was created for us? Are its branches not within the boundaries of our home? Its fruit should be ours by right, shouldn’t it? And anyway, who is this god to establish rules for us in the first place?” Some of the people agreed with this point, while others said that one rule wasn’t too much to follow and they ought to leave well enough alone, while still others said that the rule wasn’t truly the only one, and they had discovered several others that they would be happy to reveal very soon (once they had worked out what they were).

 

And so it was that the god who had set out to learn things that were within the province of humans began at last to receive their education.

Tarot Stories #70: Six of Wands

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

 

Once there was a man who went off to a great battle, not because it was a cause he believed in or because he felt called to defend his loved ones or even because it was his job to do so. He went, instead, because he felt it would look good if he did, and he was very, very interested in looking good. His participation was not beneficial to his side, and in fact may have charitably been described as something between pointless and an unmitigated disaster.

 

However, what the man lacked in martial prowess and ethical choices, he made up for with a sense of timing. And so he managed to leave the aftermath of the battle a little early, and as he did so, he immediately began fashioning crowns of laurels to signify a victory that he had not earned, and stories of that victory to support the signifiers. Because he was the first to return to the city, the man was in a position to declare victory, and that is exactly what he did.

 

Now, the citizens to whom he made this claim had – at first – no real reason to doubt him, and so they not only believed his stories, they celebrated his victory with a parade through the streets. Everyone, it seemed, believed the fiction.

 

Everyone except his horse, that is. The horse had been at the battle, after all, and had carried the man back from it and had heard him practicing his stories and had seen him fashioning his own laurel-crowns (these are rather like nicknames – they’re not really something you get to bestow on yourself). If this were a different kind of story, the horse would be able to talk and that would be the end of the ruse. But alas, this horse hadn’t bothered to learn how to speak to humans except through baleful looks and occasional affection, and so the man was able to get away with his story for rather longer than he ought to have.

 

The trick of it, beyond the man’s gift of timing, was this: He knew how to tell people what they wanted to hear, or at least what it was difficult to argue with. He seeded the ground with stories of victory, and also claims of the enemy’s inhumanity, and when other facts began to come to light later that ran counter to that…well, let’s say that there were those who were already predisposed to thirsting for victory, and who were already predisposed to projecting inhumanity upon others.

 

Not everyone believed him, of course, but enough did. A rather frightening number did, in spite of (or because of) the mounting evidence to the contrary and the increasing outrageousness of his claims.

 

This is a story with many endings, or with no ending at all, because it has happened many, many times. The man is eventually disbelieved and turned out of the city, or he is made king and his crown of laurels is exchanged for one of gold. His supporters turn on him when enough of his lies are revealed, or they support him all the more strongly for them. He delights in his deceptions and continues them indefinitely, or his conscience makes an unexpected return and he slinks away into the night.

 

Or the horse learns to speak, in the nick of time, and makes its voice heard.

Tarot Stories #69: 2 of Wands

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once upon a time, before there was time, a person stood upon the top of a wall, looking out over all that was theirs to survey, and also looking within the depths of a planet they held in their hand.

 

Now. This is one of those things that sounds quite impossible (and so it is) but is also something that each of us can do every day (and so we do). This person did it a bit more literally, granted, but that doesn’t make what you can do or what I can do any less true.

 

Consider: We can, and must, observe what is around us, and observation is done best with a bit of perspective. To step back from the world that surrounds us isn’t to be removed from it, but to gain a critical bit of clarity. To be able to say, “Oh, that stream runs to that larger river there,” or, “The birds that fly south are seeking warmth, not escape.” Stepping back, up, away, allows one to see what is happening not in a truer way, but in a different way, than being right in the thick of things.

 

And consider, too: Where we can observe, we can act. Each person has some agency – many of us less than we ought, and some of us far less than we ought, because neither this world nor any other has yet been perfected (let us all keep working to perfect it), but still some. With agency we can shape, and shaping is an act of creation and of faith. The world held in our hands is not as tangible, perhaps, as the one that surrounds us, but it has the benefit of being of us, imbued by its creator with that same faith and that same creativity. Shaping and holding something that is impossible and that may never be is, in effect, to dream consciously. And when dreams end, and the dreamer awakes, perhaps those swirling mists of mystery are set out into the wider world, to shape what is into what may be, if only a little.

 

Once upon a time, on a day very like this one (or any other one), a person stood back, for a moment, to take in the world as it was, to see it in all its beauty and all its imperfection. And then, this person who shared your name or my name or the name of every person any of us have met before, did the sacred, faithful work of shaping a world that was a dream and yet might, one day, become more.

Tarot Stories #68: Queen of Wands

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once there was a traveler who came upon an imposing throne in the midst of their journey, where desert met stone. Upon the throne sat an even more imposing crowned figure, with a robe the color of the sands and a cloak the color of the endless stone. In their hands were a large sunflower, and an even larger staff, and at their feet sat a rather scraggly cat. The traveler, who wasn’t blessed with an abundance of caution, approached the throne in curiosity.

 

The cat spoke, because of course it did.

 

“What lesson do you seek from the sovereign?” it asked, and the traveler was at a bit of a loss, not having expected a challenge at all and particularly not from a cat. Still, they knew an opportunity when they saw one, and said, “Well, I’d love to know how i can get a beautiful gold crown like that one.”

 

“Really?” asked the cat. “Middle of the desert and the stone, a throne and ruler pop up out of nowhere, and you want to know about acquiring a crown, and for what? So you can sell it when you get to where you’re going?”

 

The traveler, who had been thinking at least somewhat along those exact lines, had the decency at least not to lie about it. “Well, when you put it that way,” they muttered, and then asked, “Can I try again?”

 

“I think you’d better,” the cat replied in the way that cats do, where whatever their appearance or circumstance, it’s clear that they expect proper behavior from all those around them.

 

The traveler, who was sometimes imprudent but not a fool, took their time, walking around the throne and the figure upon it, looking closely at each. Finally the spoke, and said, “I suppose I’d like to know what the sovereign had to work the hardest to learn, so that I can benefit from that experience.”

 

The cat started to bristle again, but then paused. This question was rather cat-like, after all (few cats relish the idea of doing work when someone else can be counted upon to do it instead) and was therefore quite wise. They nodded, and turned back to the figure. “If it pleases you to answer?” they said in a surprisingly deferential tone.

 

The sovereign looked off into the distance for a while, then turned to the traveler. “For a long time,” they said, “I worried that I was unfit to rule, that the gifts I had were of no consequence.” They gestured with the staff in their right hand. “And eventually, I came to realize that that which was within me – what I carried everywhere, no matter the situation or the place – wasn’t just worthy, it was necessary. And so at last I sat upon the throne with utmost confidence, certain that I could rule effectively.”

 

The traveler nodded. This was exactly the sort of thing they were hoping to hear.

 

The sovereign continued, “I had all my gifts, and brought them to bear on each situation, many times to good effect. But I came to learn that while what I had was necessary, it often wasn’t sufficient. Indeed, sometimes it was exactly the wrong thing for the moment. And so I learned – slowly, painfully – that what I didn’t have already would have to be cultivated.” They gestured with their left hand, raising the sunflower for the traveler to see. “Sometimes those gifts come easily with a bit of internal attention, but other times they need to be imported from elsewhere.” Here the ruler paused, and the cat purred. “The local soil needs to be worked, and tended, and even changed, over time, so that it is hospitable to the seeds that need to be grown, to eventually become the tools that are needed to face the world as it is.”

 

The traveler nodded again, more slowly. This lesson seemed like a lot more work than the first, and it had the ring of hard-won truth. “And what’s the secret, then?” they asked. “How do you know when your own gifts are the right ones, and when others must be cultivated?”

 

The cat purred, again, in an almost anticipatory way.

 

The sovereign didn’t laugh, but they smiled very, very slightly. “Well, that’s why you’re here, my friend, to help us figure that out. If you’re willing, that is. My advisor here will show you to your quarters whenever you’re ready, and we’ll get started tomorrow.”

Tarot Stories #67: 9 of Pentacles

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

 

Once there was a woman who lived in an abundant valley, full of beauty and good food and perfect sunshine and luxury. She was happy there, or happy enough, and why not? She wanted for almost nothing, and who else in the world could say such a thing?

Now, there were rules that had to be honored in the valley, and chief among them was this: Remain in the valley, and ask as few questions as possible. For a long time, this seemed reasonable enough to the woman, because here was a place of plenty in a world with little enough of that. So the woman lived for many years – who can say how many? – in comfort and contentment.

She had friends among the creatures of the valley, and her closest was the falcon she had taught to hunt with her. The bird was good-natured and submitted to the hood and the woman’s instructions most of the time, but within its chest beat the heart of a creature who knew freedom and valued it above just about anything else. While the woman had agreed to follow the rules and remain in the valley, the falcon had not, and it often left to explore and return with stories about what it had seen and learned beyond the borders. Towers of glass and steel, cities beyond measure, mountains that reached toward the skies and seemed to touch them, and so many creatures and people and adventures to be found.

The falcon always returned, though, and the woman always asked, “What did you see in your travels?”

The falcon answered each time, but after who knows how many journeys, the bird began to hear the question underneath the question: What would I find if I left? And *that* answer, no matter what the falcon had seen in its travels – mountains or oceans, tiny villages or swollen cities – was always the same.

“Those who need what you have, and those who have what you need.”

Now this answer was rather vague, it’s true, and the woman dismissed it at first. The valley provided what she needed, after all, and of course there were those rules to consider. Even so, the falcon’s words stayed with her between their conversations, and she began to wonder – slowly, a little bit at a time – not just about what she needed, but about what might be needed of her.

Eventually, after a very long time, another of the woman’s friends arrived. The snail had been on a journey for months (or years – time was difficult to understand in the valley), and the woman delighted in its return. “How wonderful to see you again!” she said. “What did you see in your travels?”

Where the falcon had heard that question many times, answered it many times, and eventually came to understand what lay beneath it, the snail was both more swift of thought and less patient than the bird. So it approached, slowly, looked up at the woman, slowly, and after a long pause, said (slowly), “What are you doing here, my friend?”

The woman was, understandably enough, surprised. “This is my home! Where else would I be?”

The snail shook its head. “That is not the purpose of this place. This is a haven to return to for rest, not a place to remain forever.”

“But there are rules!” the woman protested. “I cannot simply walk away.”

“Well,” the snail asked, “which is it? Your home, or a place that you are not allowed to leave?”

As the woman paused and thought about this, the snail looked up at the falcon reproachfully. “Why didn’t you tell her?” the snail asked.

“I can only answer the questions I am asked,” the falcon replied. “And I did try, you know.”

The snail nodded in agreement, and returned its attention to the woman, who was looking very thoughtful indeed. After a few minutes, the woman sighed. “I’ve been resting for too long,” she finally said. “And the rules that keep me here are in my own handwriting.”

At this, the falcon and the snail both nodded. “That is true,” said the falcon. “But also,” the snail said, “this place? You created it, and it will remain. You may return, when you need to, when the work outside is too much and your heart needs to rest.”

The woman nodded this time, a little absently, already walking toward the boundary of the valley and the wider world beyond. She had waited a long, long time, time enough that she had forgotten for a while what work she was capable of. Now, as she began to remember, she felt a need to move, though not to make up for lost time (there is no changing the past, there is only choosing the present and making the future.)

“Well,” she said decisively, “I have it on good authority that I am needed, out there.”

And with that, the woman left, to find those who needed what she had, and those who had what she needed.

Tarot Stories #66: 8 of Cups

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once there was a person who hated leaving things unfinished. Whether it was a task like cleaning the house or something more fun like telling a story, they felt uncomfortable until the end, as if a part of their soul was missing and wouldn’t be made whole again until everything was put to rights. This made the person an excellent coworker, because they could be counted on to finish their projects, but a frustrating person to host a party with, because they simply could not leave cleaning the silverware for the next day.

 

Now, from time to time the gods or the universe or the fates would conspire to send a mortal out on some quest or other – sometimes for a noble goal, and sometimes for entertainment purposes. Seeing this person’s focus on completing a task, the gods (or the fates, or the universe) perked up and said, “Ah! Here is our champion to find the holy chalice! Many have failed, and they may as well, but at least we know they will never quit.” So the fates or gods or universe sent a dream to the person and planted the seed that they could not resist.

 

Once that seed was planted, the person left for their task almost immediately, beginning by doing all the research they could. They learned about the history of the artifact in question, its properties, and where it was seen last. It took a great deal of work, as you might imagine, but eventually they listened to all the rumors and read all the legends and ultimately found where the chalice had been hidden away. They brought it back to the shore that their dreams had shown them, placed it reverently on the ground, and nodded in satisfaction.

 

…And then they swore, quietly and creatively, because that sense of unease that came from a job left undone, a task left incomplete, was still there. Thinking that perhaps they had somehow retrieved the wrong chalice, the completionist left once more, returning to where their search had branched off, and following that other path, investigated clues and explored caverns and spoke with myth-spinners and eventually found another well-hidden chalice, imbued with holy power, and they brought it back to the shore where the other one still rested.

 

There was less swearing this time (though not much less), and still less the time after that, until eventually it was a simple sense of resignation that came with returning each holy chalice. What had happened, of course, was simple enough. The universe (or the fates, or the gods) didn’t make the chalice holy, but rather the belief that people had in the chalice and what it represented. And upon hearing a legend like the lost holy chalice of the fates (or the gods, or the universe), who wouldn’t imagine it to be hidden away nearby.

 

There wasn’t only one holy symbol. Perhaps there is never only one.

 

That mortal, they say, continues the work even now, leaning on a stout walking-stick and moving more slowly than they once did. They’re acting true to their nature, and the gods (or the universe, or the fates) chose their champion well indeed. So if you happen to come across an old traveler looking for a hidden, holy chalice, you might do well to aid them if you can, as a kindness.

 

And if in your own travels you come across a quiet shoreline under a bright moon, filled mysteriously with golden cups that glow with a holy light, leave them where they are. It’s taken more work than you can imagine to assemble them, and the questor’s labor continues.

Tarot Stories #65: The Fool

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

 

“Well!” the Fool said, “Thank goodness that’s over. It was quite an adventure, and there was plenty of fun along the way, but I’m ready to rest and be still for a while.”

 

Oh, thought the dog, it’s going to be like that, this time.

 

There is something comforting about being an archetype, a perfection that humans cannot reach and that gods rarely bother to attempt. If you’re looking for a gig where you know what’s expected of you, see if “Eternal Archetype” is available. You’ll be honored and appreciated, and all you need do is follow your nature to make things work out right.

 

“You know, maybe a little walk would be nice today,” the Fool continued. “Let’s go see what things look like from the top of this hill.”

 

Of course, there are certain expectations, too, that can’t be avoided. Opportunities that must be explored. Questions that will eat away at you until you find an answer. It’s a good job, but reading the fine print is, as always, recommended.

 

The Fool picked a flower, as they always did. They carried an extra pair of socks, as they always did. They walked with their best friend, as they always did. They didn’t know what was coming next, because they never did.

 

Not sure what to do next? The universe has a way of putting archetypes in the right place. Relax, and things will simply…arrange themselves.

 

The dog barked. The Fool stumbled, and fell, and about halfway down, forgot all that had come before. they twisted and twitched and turned the fall into a dive, beginning a journey that was just like all the others and yet unique to itself once more.

 

The vacation policy, it must be admitted, is not very generous.

Tarot Stories #64: King of Wands

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

 

Once there was a king who had two important virtues – one that was very obvious, and one that was not. The virtue that came easily was the king’s decisiveness and readiness for action. It was apparent to all who saw the king – the way he leaned forward in his throne, eyes narrowed, ready to spring forth to defend his lands, argue an important point with a member of the council, or lead the way to lunch. It was a virtue well-matched to the king’s family crest, which included a lion mid-leap, caught in the moment of action and movement.

This virtue served the kingdom well, but it also could be used against the king by those who might seek to entice him to rash action and hasty decisions. And so, like many of us, the king found that he needed to temper one virtue with another.

The second virtue the king possessed was keen sight. His sight was so keen, in fact, that he could see a companion nearby who no other person could. It was a small lizard, barely a shadow, and even though it never spoke, it was the king’s most trusted advisor. Like many of its kind, the lizard spent a great deal of time taking the sun, drawing energy from the world around it for when it truly needed to act. The king, having seen the lizard behave this way day after day after day, came to realize that he might similarly take some time, sometimes, and soak in the wisdom of his councilors or of simple patient thought before taking action.

Now, this didn’t come easily to the king, because that lion’s heart within him was still restless indeed. Still, while action always called to him, the king was determined to act in service to the people and the lands, so he set about giving himself reminders of the lizard’s wisdom. He had a symbol of the lizard stitched into his favorite cloak, so he could put it on as a reminder. He went so far as to have that same symbol added to the family crest, above and around the lion that had always been there. And finally, the king had his court moved outdoors whenever he could to give his shadowy, unseeen-except-to-him advisor some extra time under the warm sun, to thank it for its lessons. In this way, the king cultivated the lizard, to balance the lion, and went on to rule with a bit more wisdom than he might otherwise have had.

Tarot Stories #63: 10 of Cups

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

 

The thing you need to know about stories is that they have no beginnings and they have no endings, not really. Nobody lives happily ever after, nobody was a blank slate before their moment of initiation, and it’s always a little more complicated than what can be written down or drawn or told around a campfire.

 

And yet, there’s story and there’s Story, see? And if story is complicated, Story still has its rules, and one of those rules is that it reaches a point of conclusion. It ends. Knowing that rule is important, because the Universe, sometimes, arranges convenient moments for us where an outsider might cringe, nod in sympathy, and close the book pensively, or (perhaps more rarely) let out an involuntary noise of satisfied envy, smile, and do the same. Points where the Story may end, the conversation round the fire may turn to other matters, the book may be put back on the shelf for a later date.

 

Now, it’s good to keep an eye out for those moments in your own life, those Story moments in your story, if you will. They’re harder to notice than you might imagine, because stories are full of context that Stories lack. The gathering of loved ones happens after a week of cleaning and errands. The perfect rainbow comes after the storm that had you worrying about a flood. Your knee hurts a little, always, for no particular reason. But if you can get the knack of it, you’ll start to find them, and you can perhaps appreciate their beauty a little bit more than you would already, feel a little of the reflected satisfaction of a Storyteller, -reader, or -listener in the small moments of your own life.

 

And if that’s a good moment for a Story to end, well, you’re just a breath from a beginning, too, aren’t you?

Tarot Stories #62: Justice

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

 

There was once a being who woke for the very first time and knew with that first waking, with that first breath, that their purpose was to manifest justice in the world. This may seem a strange thing to have as one’s very first thought, and indeed it would be strange for you or for me, but this being was something different from mortal folk, and something different from gods, too. They were an archetype, an answer to a need that wasn’t conscious enough to be turned into a prayer. The world needed justice, and so this being set out to try and determine what that was, so they could provide it.

They began by speaking with kings, who explained that justice was an expression of their will, and then they spoke to priests, who said that justice was divine, and couldn’t be perfected by humanity anyway. They spoke to animals, who told them that justice was survival, so things tended to work out in the end anyway, and they spoke to merchants, who outlined the financial benefits of a just world (but had few concrete steps for how it might come about).

They spoke with children, who said that justice and fairness were equivalent, and with lawmakers, who pointed out all the complicated factors that made that equivalence too simple to rely on. They read books, too, and listened to debates, and studied art, and for a good while simply observed the world – the way it worked, the ways in which it didn’t, and glimpses of what it might someday become. They took in all of the lessons, both overt and subtle, and discarded most of them.

In fact, after everything, as Justice took their aspirational spot among the archetypes, there were just three things that they kept from all of their study and discussion.

First: Justice must be aware, always, of what has happened and of the impact of those happenings, so they hold scales to measure.

Second: Justice must be mindful of its own power and the power of its thoughts and decisions, so they hold a sharp sword to remind and – if necessary – to cut.

Finally: Justice must occur in connection and with compassion, and not hide behind the comfort of distance, so their eyes are open, always, to see.

Tarot Stories #61: 9 of Wands

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once, a man went to run a couple of errands, and while he was on his way, he heard an argument taking place in the town square. He realized rather quickly that the people involved were very, very wrong, and he decided to stop by – just for a few minutes, you understand – to help educate them. In point of fact, the man was more than a little upset by the thoughtlessness and incorrect assumptions he heard there.

So he fought and argued and rebutted and pointed out contradictions and uncovered fallacies and then took a short breather and dove back in for another round. He wielded his words with passion and cleverness, and he was right, and it felt good to be right and to show others (both those with whom he was arguing and those who passed by) exactly how right he was.

An interesting thing happened, partway through the day. The man’s vision began to blur, and he started to see the arguments of the people there in the town square, their words and their passions and their (wrong) beliefs, but not the people themselves. They didn’t quite disappear, exactly, but they became shadowy forms, irrelevant except in that they were capable of giving voice to those incorrect beliefs and faulty arguments.

It took a while for this to feel like a problem. At first, in fact, the man found it easier to argue when he didn’t really see the people he was arguing with. But eventually, as the day drew to a close and the man knew that he really ought to be leaving, he realized that once the faces became shadows and the argument itself became all that he could see, the idea of convincing anyone of anything had flown right out the window. It became an exercise in engaging argument-to-argument, rebuttal-to-rebuttal. That had its uses, of course, just as sparring was useful in becoming more skilled at self-defense, but it wasn’t what he had set out to accomplish that morning at all.

So at last, the man stepped away from the town square, still holding his own beliefs and passions and truth, and walked on to the market to pick up the eggs he had been planning to make for breakfast so many hours before.