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.

Tarot Stories #58: King of Swords

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

There was once an adventurer who had been traveling for a long, long time. It was a journey that felt even longer than it was because they had finished their adventure already, and this was the journey home. They had won the great war, or defeated the mighty serpent, or healed the heart of the lame god, or outraced the swift cheetah, or built the tower or torn down the tower or composed the perfectly exquisite song…the point is, what the adventurer had set out to do, they had done. Now it was time for celebration, recognition, and above all, rest.

So all in all, it wasn’t the best thing ever when the giant with the 15-foot sword and the 40-foot throne and the enormous golden crown appeared out of nowhere, right in the middle of the adventurer’s path.

“Who dares to challenge my domain and my rule?” the giant asked with a voice that boomed, and all the sounds of the world nearby fell silent in response.

The adventurer glanced around, just in case someone else had arrived while the giant was talking. Seeing no one, they sighed and said, “I’m not here to challenge anyone. Just passing through on my way home.”

“I am the sovereign of the air and of the winds,” the giant continued, “and I do not suffer liars here.”

“I’m not lying!” the adventurer insisted, looking a bit more closely at that very large sword and calculating how fast it might move. “I am not here to challenge you, great sovereign.”

The giant made a scoffing noise that sent the birds in distant trees flapping away in startlement. “I am the ruler of insight and of thought, and I can see deception and misdirection the way you can see the clouds and the grasses. Do not lie to me.”

The adventurer was getting exasperated by now. “Listen,” they said, “I’m done with my adventure. I finished the quest and am simply returning home. I have no quarrel with you, and I am not here to challenge anyone.”

The giant’s nostrils flared and the giant’s grip tightened and the giant’s gaze sharpened. “I am the keeper of stories and the cultivator of deeds,” they said, and somehow these titles seemed even more ominous than their others, “and I ask you one final time. Who challenges my dominion over these things? Name them!”

The adventurer looked around once more, and there were still no allies arriving at a conveniently fast pace to save the day, and no clever escape path revealing itself just in the nick of time. They thought about all they had done to get here, to the point where “home” was a place they might actually survive to see, rather than an idea they used to trick themself into taking on one more task. They wondered if news of their death here, still far away but at least heading in the right direction, would reach their loved ones.

They thought about the serpent, or the war, or the race, or the song, or the god’s heart. And they thought, too, of the air they had breathed and the insight they had been forced to gain and the stories they had written with these deeds. And these thoughts made them stand up a little straighter with the knowledge that whatever their intent, perhaps they had challenged this ruler, after all.

And, taking a breath they suspected would be their last, the adventurer met the giant’s gaze with all the calm they could muster, and spoke their own name.

The giant’s eyes narrowed further and, though they were sitting still, they seemed to grow even taller, looming over the earth itself.

“I’m a big fan,” the giant said, inclining their head and motioning, slightly, for the adventurer to continue. “Can’t wait to see what you do next.”

Tarot Stories #57: The Hanged One

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once there was a man who feared complacency above all else, and was aware enough to know that it was a real possibility for him. His life was fairly comfortable, and he noticed himself starting to assume, from time to time, that things did – or could – work as easily for everyone. So he counted himself very fortunate when he stumbled across a god one day. Here was the man’s opportunity to ensure that he wouldn’t fall prey to that complacency that he feared! The man reached out to pluck at the passing god’s sleeve, saying, “Hey, I need a favor!”

The god was a bit nonplussed by this, as you might imagine, but they smiled sort-of-pleasantly and sort-of-dangerously and asked, “What sort of favor do you seek?”

The main replied, “I need to know how to avoid becoming complacent. You have so much power, and are worshiped by many, and yet you still listen to humans with our tiny concerns and needs. I think you may know this secret, and I could be a better person if I did, as well. Will you share it?”

Here the god paused, and considered the man’s words. They weren’t exactly traditional, but they did follow one form of a prayer, complete with praise, and awareness of the god’s power, and request for intercession. The god rethought the “smite” plan and shifted gears into “be careful what you ask for” mode instead. “By all means,” they said, and snapped their fingers.

The man hung upside down, bound by one foot, wondering just what he had done wrong. His voice was hoarse from shouting and empty threats by now, for it had been…well, he wasn’t sure how long exactly, but it certainly felt like a very long time. Eventually, after a period of quiet, the man, asked, more politely, “Would you please come back so I can speak with you?”

The god strolled out from behind a sapling as if they had been there all along. “I knew someone once,” they said, conversationally, “one of my kind, of course. Hung up on a tree like that one for nine days, and gained a lot from the experience.”

The man licked his cracked lips, moistening them just enough to respond, “And that didn’t kill them?”

“Welllll…..” the god replied, “that’s complicated, for us. They might’ve died, in a manner of speaking. But we don’t really have the knack of it, you know? Let’s say this. My colleague sacrificed themself. And they were transformed both by what they gave up, and by what they earned.”

“Is that what I’m doing up here, then?” the man asked.

The god laughed. “Oh, no. You, you’re getting a lesson. An answer to your prayer. That’s not the same thing at all.”

“I’m not really sure what I’m meant to learn,” the man admitted, “but I’m in rather a lot of agony right now, so I’m not at my best.”

The god shrugged. “You’ll figure it out, I imagine,” they said, and disappeared for a while.

Time passed, as it does. Since the man had sort of shouted himself out of shouting and spoken all the threats he could imagine, he began using this time a bit more efficiently, and took the opportunity to think. Eventually the god returned to find the man still in place. “Have you figured it out?” the god asked.

“Have I worked out what I’m meant to learn?” the man replied. “Well, not quite.” As the god turned to leave, he hastened to add, “But I have learned something else! You put me here in response to a prayer about avoiding complacency. Here, in a position like that taken by a god – another one, I mean. So I’ve been trying to figure out how I’m like that friend of yours, the god who sacrificed themself to this fate.”

The god nodded. “And how are you similar to my colleague, then?”

“Not at all,” the man replied. “They chose to be put up in this position with at least some idea of what they had to gain. I didn’t, so I don’t see that we have anything in common.”

The god waited, saying nothing.

“But I wonder,” the man continued after a time, “would you say that this other god was comfortable while they were up here?”

The god shook their head, the faintest twinkle sparking in their eye. “Most assuredly not.”

“Well, I’ve noticed that my complacency comes when I’m most comfortable,” the man went on. “So maybe if I make a point of sacrificing my comfort, I’ll be able to answer my own prayer?”

The god paused, considering this, and eventually snapped their fingers again, releasing the man from the tree. “I was going for ‘Be more polite to passing deities,'” they said, “but your lesson works, too.

Tarot Stories #56: The High Priestess

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

There was once a woman who wished more than anything to be of service to the people around her. They were in need of many things, among them food and shelter and care of all sorts, and she dedicated herself to being of use. There was just one problem.

Well, several problems. She was an atrocious cook, a worse handyperson, and while she cared deeply about people she didn’t have the knack for bringing calm into a situation the way a good nurse or caregiver could. Each of these tasks she applied herself to seemed to go worse than the last, and she was sad to discover that she lacked the gifts that people needed.

Eventually, with something like despair, she turned away from what she had imagined her life to be, and instead joined a temple that was focused on study and contemplation. Almost immediately, she felt a voice inside her – quiet, but insistent – rumble, “It’s about time.” She took this as a sign, because this seemed more pleasant than assuming that she was going crazy, and she stuck with those studies and that contemplation.

Now, this was hard, because that’s hard work, but more than that it was hard because she still desperately wanted to be of service. Knowing that she wasn’t capable of doing any of those things well didn’t make her any less aware of the need to have them done, and so each day of study at the temple and each night of contemplation with the spirit carried tension that simply would not resolve.

This went on for years. She learned and she worked and she opened herself to the divine and over time, she began to glimpse something vague and shadowy, a form whose edges seemed to ripple and sway, and she set her sights on that form with her very soul. She dedicated herself to it, whatever it was, because it called to her in a way that she had never before known. And that same voice from before, said, “It’s about time,” just as quietly and as rumbly as before.

Now, we’ve heard stories like this before, and so had she. But when you’re in the story, all of those things you know about how the story works – all the shortcuts that are so obvious when you read or hear or tell the story about someone else – tend to fall away, and so they did for the woman. She had to go the long way round, through years of tension and study and contemplation. She heard the voices of the world around her calling out for aid, and she heard – very occasionally – that rumbling internal voice speak its one phrase, when she seemed to be on the right track to that shadowy, shimmery form that her soul knew and her dedication drew her closer to.

Eventually, one day, that image she pursued dissipated, not because the woman had left her path or failed in some way, but because she was right on top of it. Just before it evaporated, though, she caught a glimpse of it in greater clarity than she ever had, as if in a perfect mirror. A woman, seated. Filled with such knowledge that it may as well be bursting forth from her mind. Possessing a soul so rich that it emanated from her, touching those around her who needed that richness. Poised between – perfectly between – the voices of the world without and the voice of fulfillment within. A woman, in short, full in her power and her authority, in service to the world and to her soul with those same gifts.

And in seeing that image, which she had been pursuing for longer than she realized it even existed, and which now simply waited for her to claim its truth, the woman smiled just a little and murmured, “It’s about time.”

Tarot Stories #55: 3 of Swords

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

There are those who will counsel you to avoid heartbreak, and it’s understandable enough. Heartbreak is awful, and painful, and can call into question all that one has done or believed or trusted in the past. Avoiding that feeling, for many, seems like the most reasonable goal one can imagine. What they fail to acknowledge, those who offer this advice, is this:

All hearts are broken. All hearts are scarred. All hearts labor to work in spite of the damage done to them by careless words or by intentional betrayal or by unforgiving circumstance.

Those who say “avoid heartbreak” are really saying, “Don’t let it happen again.” They’re saying, “Stop the bleeding.” But the heart’s purpose is to bleed. Its duty is endure, and to demonstrate resilience. Its function is to open again and again and again in spite of the wounds inflicted.

A secret: If the heart can open, then the mind can open. If the mind can open, then the soul can follow suit. For the mind has to be convinced, and the soul has to be taught, but the heart? The heart fulfills its destiny with each opening. It is not itself when it is closed off, however tempting that closure may be.

All hearts are broken. All hearts are wounded. All hearts long to persevere. Hail to those scars, and to our hearts that endure.

Tarot Stories #54: 3 of Wands

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once there was a person who had created an entirely satisfying life, full of good work and pleasant friendships and a little more of what they needed than they needed (which is, it must be said, a very good spot to be). They were aware of their comfort, but also of a growing sense of unease. Because for all the things of value that they possessed, they also possessed a sense of wanderlust, and their feet were itching for the feel of the ground passing beneath them. So it was clear, in the end, that they needed to go someplace, and this meant that they had to decide what to take along with them.

 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was very difficult to begin deciding what to leave behind, because all of those possessions really did have meaning. There were the books the person had read over and over again, and the art that had drawn their attention each morning, and the table they had saved up for months, around which their best friends had gathered for so many meals. So it was no wonder, really, that the traveler-to-be was having so much trouble getting started.

 

“Well,” they eventually said, thinking of how long the road before them was and how tired they might get even without extra things to carry, “perhaps I’ll take two things. That seems quite enough to carry,” but even as they said it they felt a twinge of sadness so they continued hurriedly, “or three, maybe?” The tension eased, for somehow the idea of taking three things felt abundant in a way that two hadn’t.

 

Now, the three things that the traveler took may be different from the ones you or I might. But they took with them what was most meaningful to them, which means that they knew what was most meaningful to them. They considered all that they had gathered to them in their years of living in that place, looking over their home and the closet and the shed out back, and eventually they chose three important-to-them things, and carefully packed them up.

 

So, armed with the lessons the books had taught, the passion the art had inspired, and the stories the table had witnessed, the traveler set out.

Tarot Stories #53: 3 of Pentacles

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once there was an artist who sculpted in stone, and had spent their life dreaming of a project worthy of the skill they believed that they possessed. It was an article of faith for the artist that they were capable of more than they’d been allowed to attempt in the past, if only the opportunity came about. The artist waited, patiently, for that opportunity, for their muse to appear.

 

Once there was a priest who dreamed of a church off such beauty that all who entered would be inspired by the experience. Inspired by god, or by what humans could accomplish, or by their own impossible divinity. The priest had never seen a place like that, but took it as an article of faith that it could happen, and they were resolved to manifest it if they could. The priest, too, waited patiently for that opportunity, for their deity to provide.

 

Once there was an architect who awoke one morning from the same dream they had each night – of archways and walls of stone, of practical structure and delicate beauty forged together somehow, as if by magic. They set about for a walk (as they did each morning) looking for a spot where their dream might fit perfectly, prepared (as they were each morning) to set the dream aside for another day so they could get back to the work that paid their bills. That walk, though, was important. It was the architect’s way of showing that they were open to the dream being true. Each step was a manifestation of their faith, and each step held the potential to open a door.

 

Once there was a Coincidence who had been working a lot of overtime. It saw the threads of dreams, but could only affect the dreamers when they woke. So the Coincidence knew the priest and the architect and the artist intimately, because their dreams were equal parts of a whole, and it was Coincidence’s purpose to throw equal parts near one another to see what happened.

 

One morning, then, the architect’s walk took them down a street with a small Cafe where a very hungover artist was nursing a cup of coffee and a headache. And it just so happened that a priest was across the street, visiting a friend who was leaving town later that week. Now, the architect just so happened to be carrying rough sketches of their dream, and the artist just so happened to glance over at the right moment, and the priest just so happened to be near enough to an open window to hear the artist’s exclamation as they saw that the architect was carrying around a copy not only of their dream, but of the artist’s as well. Not knowing why, the priest made apologies to their friend and hurried over to hear why a stranger had cried out in such a startled fashion.

 

Months later, the three of them would marvel at the divine intervention that had brought them together. It was Fate, obviously, or the artist’s Muse, or the will of the priest’s Deity, or the will of the universe that ensured that they would meet, and that this work would happen.

 

Meanwhile, the Coincidence had moved on to another project, so never heard this conversation. Their purpose was fulfilled the moment the three dreamers were in the same spot, after all.

Tarot Stories #52: 3 of Cups

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once, a long time ago, the world was a difficult and challenging place. There were wars and there was hunger and no matter where one looked, it seemed like there was another problem that had to be solved or endured. In that way, perhaps, the world wasn’t all that different from what we might encounter today. And in the midst of the problems to be solved and endured, and in the midst of the disasters to be navigated and avoided and worried over, there seemed little time for anything but that.

 

Still, there were a few people who recognized another important truth: That while the work of the day and the struggle of the hour and the battle of the year were all critical, so too were the celebrations, both small and large. Not necessarily to mark the vanquishing of an impossible foe (let’s not kid ourselves – some foes are impossible), or the end of a struggle (most of these struggles don’t end, not really), but having made progress, even when that progress was marked by kindling a little hope, or making some amount of progress, or simply surviving the day. And so celebrate they did, and more than that – they looked for those opportunities to celebrate, to honor work done and goals accomplished and days survived, not just for themselves but for others. They raised a glass – of water, or wine, or whatever was most needed – to toast the work and the struggle and the survival, and invited each other person to do the same, as they were able.

 

Now, there were of course those who saw this celebration as inappropriate, when there was still so much work to do. And there were those who saw it as pointless, in the midst of so many other setbacks. And there were those who saw it as frivolous, particularly when there were others who had less to celebrate in their own lives.

 

Perhaps those skeptical others had a point, but the celebrants knew something very important. The act of celebration is also an act of connection, and community, and it can be sacred work. It is a reminder of one purpose of that other, ceaseless work. But more than that, those sacred celebrants knew that bringing people together is never pointless, sharing a moment of respite is not inappropriate, and inspiring joy is anything but frivolous.

Tarot Stories #51: 6 of Pentacles

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

There was once a place called the City of Scales that valued fairness above all other virtues. As a result, when there were people in the city who needed help, there were programs to offer aid, which was all to the good, and those programs had many rules associated with them. After all, it would be unfair for the city to be swindled or taken advantage of by someone who claimed to need help but in truth was doing just fine, or could be if only they made different, better choices.

So help was available, with conditions. Some of those rules were:

1. In order to receive help, the person in question must work (even if there is no work) but not too much (even if the job pays little enough that they are still in need of assistance).

2. The person must not have any possessions that could be seen as luxuries. Even if, say, a good pair of boots is a necessity for getting around the city in the winter, anyone who can cover their feet properly may not really need aid. Note: The same goes for objects shared with or given to the individual by a friend or family member.

3. The person may be ill or injured in some ways (heroic struggles with lost limbs from war are acceptable) but not in others (turning to strong drink to dull the horrors of that same war is not acceptable).

4. When in doubt, ask this: How much shame does the person feel? If they seem properly ashamed of their circumstances, they they may qualify.

 

When all the rules were followed and the aid was given to the proper people for the correct amount of time and no longer, the people of the city nodded in satisfaction. Not that help had been granted, or that hunger had been abated, or that needs had been met, but that it had been done properly, with no chance that they had been fooled in the process. For you see, the City of Scales truly valued fairness above all virtues, including compassion. And so they created for themselves a world of perfect fairness and almost no humanity at all.

Tarot Stories #50: 2 of Pentacles

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

There was once a juggler who stood by the shore and dispensed advice to anyone who asked for it. Very few people did ask, because jugglers aren’t necessarily known for their wise counsel, but on occasion someone would ask, and the juggler would share what they knew.

 

One day a young sailor – or, as they had never actually sailed before, a soon-to-be sailor – approached. “Juggler,” the protosailor said, “I have come to you for advice.”

 

“Great juggler,” the juggler said.

 

“I’m sorry?” asked the almost-sailor.

 

“When you ask someone for advice, it’s customary to flatter them first. It’s part of the exchange, you see. you fawn over me a bit, I give you a nugget or two that turn out to be oddly prescient, and you go on your merry way. Easy enough, yeah?”

 

“I suppose. So, ah, great -”

 

“That was free advice, right there,” the juggler interrupted, “but you should still thank me for it.”

 

The young sailor to be pinched the bridge of their nose, then remembered all the times they had seen their parents do the same thing when particularly vexed, and they stopped immediately. “Thank you for that…wisdom,” they said. “Um. Anyway. Great juggler, I have come to you for advice. I am about to begin my first ocean journey, and I am very nervous.”

 

“Why are you nervous?” the juggler asked.

 

“Because I might be swept off the edge of the ship and drown. Because I might be killed by pirates. Because I have a weak stomach on dry land, and I might be seasick all the time. I could go on,” the almost-sailor said, “but I think you get my point.”

 

The juggler nodded sagely. “But in spite of that, the seas in your heart, is that it?”

 

“Oh, god no! I just need to get out of this town, and it seems like the only way.”

 

If the juggler was surprised by this answer, they didn’t show it, and forged ahead. “Well, sailing’s a bit like juggling, isn’t it?”

 

“Is it?” the reluctant sailor asked, rather skeptically.

 

“Look, the secret to juggling is to pay attention to what’s important in the moment, and what’s important in the moment is the next ball to catch and to throw. That’s it,” the juggler (who had been juggling through this whole conversation) said. “The ones in the air don’t matter. They’re not here yet, and when you start to think about them and forget about what’s right in front of you…” a ball brushed the juggler’s fingertips, flew off to the side, and the almost magical cascade of flying objects fell to pieces in an instant. “You see?”

 

“That seems all well and good for juggling, but on a ship there are a hundred things to do! Trim the sails and keep watch for other ships and keep the decks clear and take the heading to stay on course and cook the meals – ”

 

The juggler interrupted again. “Does one person do all of that? Or is it a whole crew?”

 

The close-enough-to-call-them-a-sailor admitted, “It’s a whole crew.”

 

The juggler kicked one ball into the air, caught it, threw it up, caught it with their other hand, then repeated the process. Catch left, throw left, catch right, throw right. So simple to see with one ball, or two, and magic with three or five or seven. “So. When you’re on watch, be on watch. When you’re trimming the sails, trim the sails. And when you’re sleeping, by all means, sleep. Worry about what’s to come when it comes, and if you make each throw with care,” by now there were nine balls in the air, somehow, and the juggler continued chatting as if there were only two, “you’ll make that next thing easier to handle. So, like I said…sailing’s a bit like juggling, isn’t it?”

 

I get the feeling you say that about everything people ask you for advice about, the sailor thought. But, remembering the earlier lesson, they nodded and said only, “Thank you, great juggler, for the lesson,” and then they went off to board their ship.

 

 

(with a hat tip to Joel Rosenberg, who wrote a couple of amazing stories about a juggler who was somehow also a magical investigator.)

Tarot Stories #49: 4 of Wands

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

There was once a group of friends who hadn’t gotten together for a long time. They hadn’t drifted apart, exactly, but each of them had some set of problems and challenges that made it difficult for them to reach out and connect with the others. Some felt that their jobs were something to be ashamed of and since they knew that the topic of work would come up if they got together, those friends stayed away. Some others had been sick, and when they did feel up to socializing, they felt awkward about how long it had been so they didn’t call the others. Some of the friends weren’t in a good relationship, and were feeling embarrassed about the choices they had made, others had children and felt like they would bore those who didn’t, still others had no children and worried that they would bee seen as frivolous by those who did.

So all of the friends had some reason to assume that the others wouldn’t want to hear from them (though not necessarily a good reason), and this went on for quite a while. Finally, though, one of the friends decided that the risk of hearing “no” or hearing nothing at all was worth the possibility of hearing “yes,” so they sent out an invitation. It read:

You are cordially invited to a celebration of nothing in particular. In lieu of gifts, guests are asked to bring one (1) story about their lives to share, and zero (0) shame about how long it has been since we all saw one another.

*Light hors d’oeuvres and drinks will be provided.

Now, not everyone came, of course, but a surprising number did. The opportunity to share and to celebrate for celebrations’ sake was welcome, and if a few of them brought a little bit of shame at their long period of disconnection, well, that was to be expected. Someone always goes off registry, after all, even when their intentions are good.

Tarot Stories #48: The Emperor

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

There is a land far from here that was once ruled over by a man whose beard had grown long and whose heart had remained softer than was probably wise. He had become the ruler of this land because he was born to it and because it seemed that no one else who wanted the job was suited to doing it. The old man was cursed in two ways. First, ruler of a mountain kingdom though he was, what he loved more than anything was the sea, which he had glimpsed only once, longer ago than he cared to think about. And second, he was cursed with wisdom to know the truth of things as they related to duty, and through this wisdom he knew that the people of his lands would suffer if a lesser ruler sat in his place.

And so, the doubly cursed ruler took the scepter and while he could not harden his heart, he wore armor to protect it and served as well as he could, presiding for a long, long time indeed.

Then, one day he was visited by a god. The old man knew it was a god because of their shifting eyes and their silvered tongue and the fact that they appeared out of nothing, without noise or preamble. Just one moment, the god stood before the old man and said, “I know your secret.”

The old man sat back on his stone throne warily, knowing enough about gods to know that he needed to tread very lightly now. “What secret might that be, honored one?” the old man asked, carefully, carefully.

“I know what you have not revealed, what lies under your strong armor and your fine cloak. I know why your throne is near the stream and, too, why you face away from it,” the god said, their eyes gleaming with sudden intensity and shifting no more, instead locking onto the old man’s.

Now, a clever thing to do might be to deny the god’s claims, and a wise thing to do might be to speak around the truth and while not quite lying, maintain the fictions that often serve humans and gods alike in their polite endeavors. But while the old man was passing clever and cursed with wisdom, the god had spoken words that had been held away for too long to deny, and the old man’s tongue was lacking cleverness and his heart would allow no wisdom. So he said only, “What of it?” and his voice was heavy with bitterness and pain as he did so. For while the old man knew his own secrets as we all do, he had also kept them out of sight for so long that it was almost like learning about them for the first time.

The god said, “I will trade you. Three secrets of my own for the ones you carry.”

The old man laughed. “The secrets you already know, Divine One? That seems a poor trade, and I think this is some trick.”

The god heard the old man’s words, and being a god, also heard what the old man actually said in that moment, which was, It hurts, please don’t make me say it aloud. And the god, being a god, had very little sympathy. “We will trade,” they said with just a hint of power that gods carry within them, and the old man answered the command in a way that he could not bring himself to answer a request.

“Beneath my armor and my fine robes lies a cracked heart, pumping seawater through my veins where blood used to flow. The seawater came when I saw the open ocean but once, and the heartbreak when I realized that my duty would keep me from it.” Each word came out as if it was clinging to the old man’s throat, reluctant to emerge.

The god nodded. “That is one secret. The next, now.”

“My throne is near the stream because that is the closest thing we have to an ocean in this rocky land,” the old main said, “and I cannot bear to be far from it.” This secret came out more quickly, but the old man looked ashen as he said it all the same.

“And the third,” said the god.

“I face away from the stream because I can’t stand to look at it, because if I do I know I’ll show my people what you in your divinity can see so easily. That while I am of use here, each day spent among these mountains opens the cracks a little wider.” The old man was sweating with exertion as his final secret (though it was known to both himself and the god already) was spoken aloud for the first time.

The god’s gaze softened a fraction, almost imperceptibly. “I honor my bargains, and so here are my secrets in return. First, I am the god of these mountains that you have ruled for your whole life, and I have seen your sacrifices. Second,” and their eyes lit up with the sort of amusement that the gods can’t help but carry with them when they treat with mortals, “I would sit upon your throne for a time, and serve the people as you have done, and I would do so as wisely as I am able.”

The old man, for his part, struggled to focus on the god’s words and their meaning, but he managed to say, “And the third?”

The god’s smile was as gentle as a deity of rock and mountain can manage. “Third,” they said, “all streams run to the ocean, eventually, if you will follow them long enough, and all those with seawater in their veins are welcome there.”

There is a land far from here, ruled over by a man with a long beard and a soft heart, and if his eyes shift around more than they used to and his words are a bit more silvered than once they were, well, nobody notices that too much. And off on a shore, another old man approaches the sea at the end of a long journey. He wears no armor, and so his cracked heart is exposed to the air, and the seawater that flows through his body sings as he returns to the home he has only seen once.

Tarot Stories #47: 9 of Cups

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once there was a merchant who took pride in cornering the market in whatever they happened to be selling that day. It made for some interesting trades before the marketplace opened. Swapping a fine horse for every button another seller owned seemed like a foolish bargain at first, but as the merchant had also traded for every other button that was for sale that day, they were able to turn the stock into enough coin to outfit half a dozen horses by the time the market closed for the night. The merchant recognized the value of a monopoly, and if it took a lesson for others to do the same, well, so be it.

It went like this for a long while, with the merchant capturing the market on feathers for quills or laces for shoes, or needles for sewing, and turning those innocuous items to great profit when it became clear that anyone who wanted to buy them found only one supplier. The merchant was never tossed out of town, exactly, but no town was ever sorry to see them leave, either.

One day, the merchant arrived in a new village and decided to be even more ambitious. Rather than corner the market on something that only a few people needed (like feathers for scholars) or something that may not be needed for a good while (like laces for shoes) the merchant decided to become the single purveyor of something that each person needed to use every day. So the merchant set about trading for every cup available at the market, and in every home, and at the local tavern as well. Gold chalices, earthenware mugs, simple wooden cups, all of them eventually came under the merchant’s control. It was expensive, and took all of the merchant’s money and all of the merchant’s other stock and, memorably, all of the merchant’s clothes except for their pajamas, their second-best hat, and their favorite slippers. But eventually, the last deal was done, and the merchant giggled at the thought of what they would make when the market opened. Everyone needed to drink, after all, and if the merchant had the only mugs or cups or glasses available, everyone would have to pay what the merchant demanded for them.

At first business was slow, but that was to be expected. Eventually, though, a group of townsfolk gathered around the stall, slowly realizing that indeed, the merchant had gathered up every cup and mug and glass in the town. The merchant smirked. “Sure does look like a hot one out there, doesn’t it? A fine day for a cool drink, I’d say. Now, my prices may seem a bit…extraordinary, but I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s the best deal in town!”

A few of the townspeople muttered, but there wasn’t the uproar followed by resignation (followed by reluctant payment) that the merchant had expected. After a moment or two, someone from the crowd said, “We could always drink wine right from the bottle, and pass it around, eh?”

The merchant’s smirk froze in place and began to grow a bit strained.

“Or just order a pitcher of ale instead of a pint. Bartender wouldn’t mind that one bit, I imagine.”

The merchant was starting to sweat a little now.

Another voice called out, “A bowl holds water just as well as a cup, in a pinch.” And with that, the crowd sort of drifted away, the momentary crisis abated before it really had a chance to get going.

The merchant, for their part, sat there in their pajamas and their favorite slippers and their second-best hat, thinking, “I really ought to have stuck with the buttons.”

Tarot Stories #46: The Empress

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

She arrives in dreams, always with the same question. That’s her function, her purpose. She appears from the mists of imagination and the depths of subconscious and the furthest reaches of fantasy and asks, “What if there is enough for everyone?” The question comforts some and frightens others, and in truth her purpose is neither of these things, or perhaps it’s both.

Those who are comforted say she is a being of hope, sent to their dreams to ease their worries. Perhaps things will get better for them if they have faith.

Those who are frightened say she is a deceiver, sent to spread pretty lies in dreams, to entice people to laziness or into revolt or (if their frightened logic is truly dizzying) both at the same time.

The comforted and the frightened each have one crucial thing wrong. She is not sent to their dreams, or indeed anywhere at all. She goes where she wills, always.

There are a few who dream of her and are neither comforted or frightened. Or perhaps they are comforted *and* frightened, and other things besides. Who can say what alchemy of emotions produces inspiration? Whatever they feel, these few find themselves awakening from the dream and changing the world. By raising that same question in the halls of power, or by behaving as if it is so in their own lives, by slow prudence or bold operations.

Those few who have the dream and hear the question and answer it through action are the ones she seeks, has always sought, will always seek. She blesses their sacred work with the only currency that truly matters: by continuing to ask the question, and inspiring them to do more.

Tarot Stories #45: 7 of Cups

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once there was a person who died, and then their adventure began in earnest. After a fair bit of rest, they decided that they were ready to give the world another go, and let management know that it was ttime to see what their options were.

They went to the showroom, where all the options for their next life’s story were laid out, and considered the decision carefully. The god of the sales floor told the person, “You really can’t go wrong with a good one about friendship, you know. Guarantees that you’ll meet some interesting people along the way, and that’s a nice way to spend your time.”

The person nodded thoughtfully. “I did love my friends, but I was thinking of something a bit more…exciting, if you catch my meaning.”

“Oh, of course!” the salesgod responded. “Perhaps a life story about temptation, then? That’s an excellent one for excitement, with the internal struggle between your better angels and base desires, Very popular choice.”

The person said, “Now hang on, I’m not quite ready to make a decision just yet. What are my other options? This isn’t the sort of thing I want to rush into, you know. It’s my life we’re talking about here.”

Raising their hands in a placating fashion, the deity declared, “We have all the time in the world, I assure you, and you’re right – it’s not a decision to be made lightly. Perhaps some luxury in your next life? Some people will tell you that sort of thing is trivial, but take it from me: a little comfort, here and there, really is necessary. Or perhaps adventure! Powerful enemies to struggle against, with the outcome uncertain, but incredible experiences along the way.”

The person listened raptly as the possibilities swirled through their mind.

Warming to the task, the god of the salesroom continued, “Maybe you’re looking to create something of lasting value, your next time out? Nothing wrong with that, you know. A piece of art, or a pillar of knowledge, or a home for those who need it? I’ve many a happy customer in that sort of story, I assure you. Or you could always choose victory. That one’s been sought after for a long time and while we offer it to everyone, if you don’t mind me saying, it’s our repeat customers who really tend to appreciate it. Walking in knowing that there are going to be some of those exquisite moments of triumph? There’s really nothing quite like it.”

“And what about next time?” the person asked. “I suppose I can just work my way through them all, if I like, one after another?”

The god let out the sort of uncomfortable laugh that comes when a customer has actually read the fine print before signing up for a service. “Oh, no no no. This might actually be your last time through, friend. You may have a few more ahead of you, but there’s no way of knowing. All a part of the mystery, eh? Keeps us all on our toes.”

“Now hang on a moment!” the person exclaimed. “If that’s the situation, then I’m not taking just one of these. Adventure OR friendship OR temptation OR whatever else? No, listen, if this might be my last try, then you’re going to give me the whole lot!”

The god’s eyes widened. “What, everything?” they asked, voice quavering just a little bit as cracks began to show in their calm demeanor.

“All of it! And whatever’s in the back room, too!” the person confirmed. “I’m not going to be cheated out of anything here.”

After some “Well I’ll have to check with the manager”s and some “Why don’t you do that, I’m not going anywhere till I’m satisfied”s, the god of the sales floor came back to the person. “Well, I’ve managed to talk them into it,” they said. “Just…well, do me a favor, won’t you?”

“What’s that?: the person asked a little suspiciously.

“You’re clearing out our stock, here. Do right by it, when you’re out there. All right?”

The person nodded, and reached out for the stories that the god had collected for them. As they left, the stories dissolved more quickly than you might think, turning into a mist that the person breathed in, and the mist of stories settled into the person’s body, each particle going where it would be most needed during their upcoming life.

Back in the now empty showroom, the god flopped down at a desk, propping their feet up and taking a long swig of coffee. A monster stuck their head out from the back and, seeing that no customers were there, came out.

“Saw you got a sale,” the monster rumbled. “What’d they settle on?”

“Oh, just the usual,” the god said. “Same as always.”

Tarot Stories #44: The World

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once there was a woman who stepped through a portal to another world, and in so doing forgot all that she had done to that point. It was a part of the cost, you see – crossing to another world is hard work, and one must travel light and leave many things behind. She didn’t lose herself or what she had learned, though. Those things she was allowed to keep, for the self and our learning are surprisingly light when untied from the actions that led us there.

 

So as she stepped through, and those experiences all burned away, she became lighter and lighter, until the ground could no longer keep her tethered and she was free to float into the sky, to that other world.

 

As I think about her, I know that I am not yet free to rise and float as she did, but I wonder what I might do – what we all might do – to practice for the moment where we are ready.

 

What is the memory that holds you down, not tethering you to the ground, but pressing you flat against it? Is there a piece of that memory that can be released, thanked for its service, and sent on its way?

 

What is the lesson you have learned too well, that arrives, unbidden, to remind you of the circumstances that surrounded its learning, that makes your heart race and your teeth sweat? Can you cut away the parts of that story that have taken residence like an invader in your head?

 

Balance in all things, of course. There is a difference between being unburdened and unmoored, and some anchors keep us safe at rest through the long night. Still, it is a useful exercise, to release and to cut away, because the woman through the portal is all of us, eventually, sooner than we may think.

 

Best to do some practice now while we may.

Tarot Stories #43: Strength

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

Once there was a Lion who went in search of a Lady to lure away from her home and out into the open plains where the Lion could easily catch her. The Lion was swift and strong, and clever enough to know that it would take some work to entice the Lady to follow. The Lion fancied itself very good at this, and in truth it was very good at this. It sneaked through the tall grasses almost like a snake, and danced closer to the Lady, stalking, and it whispered sweet and tempting words of what they might do together, if only the Lady would come a little farther out.

 

Now the Lady, for her part, was perhaps less strong and not quite as swift, but she was very clever, and knew exactly what the Lion was up to, with its sinuous movements and dexterous dancing and its enticing words. Still, she watched the Lion closely, because appreciating beauty watching creatures and recognizing their beauty was one of the Lady’s many gifts. And so the Lion moved and danced and whispered to the Lady, and the Lady watched and considered whether she wanted to follow.

 

“Follow me here into the open plains, and leave behind the world you know,” the Lion whispered, and the Lady shook her head.

 

“I like much of what I already know,” she said, “And much of what I do not like, I still love. You’ll have to do better than that, Lion.”

 

The Lion, who had never known a place for very long or loved it well enough to stay, shook itself so that its mane flew around in the breeze. “Come with me, where you and I can run, together,” the Lion offered in that way that suggested that ‘running’ was not exactly what it meant.

 

“Where I can run and you can catch me, you mean,” the Lady laughed. “I can play that game very well right here, and with partners who I am more likely to escape, should I not wish to be caught.” Her own tone and expression flashed a hint of her own hidden meaning, but even so she was resolute. “You’ll still need to do better.”

 

Now, the Lion was not old, but it was eternal. It remembered the Lady’s soul, in all the forms it had previously taken, and it knew its own soul – the unchanging truth of what it was, under the mane and muscle, and behind the luring words and sinuous movements. More importantly, it remembered their agreement, from that time before the Lady was a child and before the Lion first set foot onto the earth. And so the Lion took a deep breath into its remembering, and dug its claws into the earth of its knowing, and whispered once more.

 

“In the time before words and dance and living, you bade me come to you, and to remind you of what we can be together,” the Lion said. “And so I am here, for me as much as you, because I need to learn of love and place and roots as much as you need to learn all that I have offered you. Come, run with me in the grasslands and I will come and stretch out with you by the fire and together we will become magic.”

 

The Lion stooped speaking then, and the Lady watched for a long, endless instant, and then they each took a step forward toward their own completion.

Tarot Stories #42: 8 of Pentacles

by Jason//Tarot, Writing

There was once a craftsman of such skill that the gods themselves took notice. Now, this may sound like a wonderful thing, to be so talented as to draw that sort of attention, but the gods can be fickle and jealous, and having their awareness can be a mixed blessing. In this case, the gods were arguing about who the craftsman served through his work.

 

The Smith, who held sway over machines and technology and tools made the first claim, pointing out the care with which the craftsman worked and the precision of each piece. When They worked at the divine forge, Their expression was similar, and Their work just as perfect. Obviously, then, the craftsman belonged to Them.

 

The god of beauty shook Their head. “No, look,” They said. “He creates with precision, but it’s beauty he serves. Even if each piece was never used, he would continue. He’s motivated by My domain, and so is in service to Me.”

 

The god of poetry had insisted on coming along, and spoke up next. They peeled back the craftsman’s heart and showed the others how it beat a little faster in those moments when the hammer struck the ideal spot, when the ring of its impact was poised perfectly between a bird and a bell. “He lives for that moment,” the Poet said, “not the result. He’s working a poem, in truth, and thus is My follower.”

 

More and more gods arrived, each staking Their claim to the craftsman. They all made a case by pointing out some aspect of the craftsman’s countenance or motivation or activity, and argued that he was therefore in Their divine service. The discussion became heated and began to draw some attention, and the god of wisdom brought Them all outside, away from the city so the argument could continue (while pointing out that the craftsman was similarly wise in acknowledging where his work might infringe on the people around him, and was obviously then dedicated to Them.)

 

Through all of this, the craftsman took no notice and continued his work with the same single-minded focus that he’d had since before the gods arrived and began arguing over him. While his work may have appealed to all of the gods, he himself took no notice. The craftsman, you see, was an atheist, and sometimes that’s the safest thing to be when the gods take an interest in your work.