Category: Writing

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 their 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 their 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 their 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 their 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 their agreement, and returned their 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. It 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.

Tarot Stories #60: Knight of Cups

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once there was a knight who was dedicated to the wind. They were swift and clever, cold and calculating, and above all they were decisive in their actions. The knight was dedicated to the wind and may as well have been created from the wind, considering how well their gifts matched their dedication. They knew what they were best at, and what came naturally to them, and those two were entirely the same thing. The knight was proud of their skill and purpose, and wore a winged helmet to demonstrate both what they were and what they were dedicated to.

 

One day, not in a battle but on the outskirts of what might become a battle should one person or another make the wrong move or say the wrong thing, the knight saw a famed magical chalice, half-buried in the earth. The knight knew the chalice was important, and – being clever and decisive – dug it up at once. And in so doing, this dedicant to the winds who may as well have been of the winds became an avatar of something very different. In that moment, the knight knew they had taken up a symbol of open, diplomatic speech, of vulnerable leadership, and of nourishing connection. They held a symbol of the heart that would change the world, and their heart, forever.

 

Now, it would be nice, or at least convenient, to say that the knight was changed immediately by taking up the chalice, but they weren’t (this magic didn’t work that way, or at least it didn’t work that way for the knight). The knight held virtues within that had served them well, and those virtues were almost completely unsuited to the duty they had assumed when retrieving the chalice from the earth.

The knight turned from the skirmish, suddenly feeling no taste for battle, and let their horse go where it wished for a while, furiously thinking about how to get out of this mess. All of their training and dedication and being had been in preparation for one thing, and now they were faced with something wholly different. Important, and holy, yes, but even that felt almost insulting to the knight. Imagine meeting a god and being told, “This is the divine purpose that I charge you with. Do it, but use none of what you already know, and none of the gifts you have honed your whole life.”

 

The knight seethed as they rode aimlessly for what felt like a long while. After enough time had passed for them to just start to wonder whether they could find the way home, they entered a valley, and at the bottom of that valley was a stream. The knight rode on with uncharacteristic caution, and as they neared the stream they began to think back to what they had learned from the wind as their dedicant, servant, and champion. More, they thought back to the feeling of that learning, and the sense that there was more to know than they could possibly consume, and they began to feel a little spark of interest. If the winds had taught them to be swift and decisive and clever, what might the waters have to teach?

 

At length the knight spoke to no one in particular. “I’ll probably wind up being grateful for this opportunity one day,” they muttered as they swung down from the horse and began to approach the stream, “but for now, the best I can do is `willing.'”

 

And somewhere, whether in their heart or their ears or their bones, the knight heard the response from the chalice (or the stream, or the horse):

 

“That’ll do for a start.”

Tarot Stories #59: 4 of Swords

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

 

There are moments, of course, where no story can be told without pain, and when that happens there are three choices:

  • Tell the story anyway, and let the pain season the tale as it will.
  • Tell a story about something else related to that moment – the light through a window, or how a sword was earned, or the quality of the body’s arrangement on the slab.
  • Tell no story at all, now, and instead sit and observe, or comfort others, or leave.

There is a wisdom in each, in pushing through and in dancing around and in enduring, but know that others will tell their own stories about that choice. If you can, strive to be as unbothered by those stories as the one whose story you do or do not tell today.

And remember, if you can, that all stories end (though moments of them may be timeless) but story is eternal, and there will always be time to tell the one that’s most needed. Even if, someday, you won’t be the one telling the story.