Alissa
It's all about letting go, isn't it? That Zen philosophy at work... learning to let go, even of the things we love the most.
My story begins this summer. It's mid-July, and I'm in Gallup NM on a writing assignment with my editor and another writer/friend from the magazine I work for. Let me tell you first, I don't travel well... I am the walking example of "the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak." I've come to realize this is the Raven in me, I'm territorial you see. You take me out of my home element, and suddenly I can't eat right, I get hungry/sick at weird intervals, and worst of all, I get insomnia.
Now usually when I travel, I anticipate these things and take my sleeping pills. I've found if I can at least knock myself out for the night, the rest of the travel issues sort of take care of themselves.
But I'm pregnant. And while traveling, I was in my dreaded first trimester with raging morning sickness, which is a misnomer and should really be called "morning, noon, evening and middle of the night" sickness. So being the extremely careful mom-to-be, I take nothing (except the occassional Tylenol) during gestation - no sleeping pills for me.
Back to Gallup. Dinner plans go awry after interviews at a late rug auction and by the time the 3 of us get back to the hotel, it's about 9 p.m. and I'm ravenous. And slightly queasy. They go together, believe it or not, especially in my first trimester. So I forego the smoky bar's nachos-for-dinner option and walk next door to the nearest dining establishment, Taco Bell. I like Taco Bell in small quantities, so I'm good with this. Even better, Taco Bell serves lemonade. Lemonade was my morning sickness drink of choice after a doula told me it would help the queasies go away. As a result, I can barely look at a glass of lemonade right now, I associate it with dry heaving, but that's besides the point.
Yeah, ok... Taco Bell pick up and I'm back in my hotel room. I scarf my nachos and tacos and lay in bed watching TV, trying to settle down. I remember even still that the old 80s "Dragnet" with Tom Hanks and Dan Ackroyd (and the virgin Connie Swail) was on. About 11 p.m. I feel vaguely sleepy and turn out the light.
For the next few hours, I toss and turn in bed, unable to sleep... insomnia rears its ugly head and laughs at me while I turn this way and that, listening to the cars on the street outside as they grow more infrequent and the night rolls on. My lemonade is half-finished, sitting on the bedside table beside me.
Earlier in the week, I had had my Tarot cards... my BELOVED deck, my FIRST Tarot deck, my Uni Waites, with me to do a reading appointment. I forgot they were still with me and as a result, they came with me on the trip, stowed in my purse, which is sitting on the floor, beneath the bedside table.
You can see what's coming now, right? About 3 a.m. I begin to dry heave. I dry heave so violently that my fellow writer/friend who is my hotel next door neighbor hears me through the wall and wonders if she should come over in case I need medical assistance - she didn't visit, thank you God, as I wasn't dressed nor in the mood for company, even sympathetic company.
Laying back down for the third or so time, I toss a pillow over my head and the corner of the pillow clips the lemonade and whoosh... down it goes, all over the room, all over my backpack with my clothes for the next day, and soaking my purse thoroughly. It isn't until morning, when I feel well enough to survey the damage that I realize... Oh My GOD, my deck was ruined.
RUINED I tell you! DEAD, dessicated, warped and stuck together at the same time with evil lemonade and sugar, peeling the cards' surfaces. My deck, as I pick it up like a mother craddling a hurt child, mewls at me with a mini-reading, begging for help and saying good bye at the same time. I remember cards surfacing that weren't stuck together... the High Priestess, the Nine of Cups, the World, the Sun, the 10 of Pentacles, the Magician. It is bidding me farewell as it heads towards the light and I'm terribly dismayed. This wasn't just any deck, this was my first and most beloved and the ones that I went to the most often for help, the ones that I had used so many times they fit my hands and shuffled just right. Like a pair of well worn jeans, they belonged to me and would never fit another.
I showed the Tarot corpse to my writer/friend the next morning, who was sad for me, but not a reader... no one understands my pain, I think ruefully. "What are you going to do with them?" she asks me. I don't know, I admit. Bury them maybe, I don't really know... they're too important to me to just toss in the trash. I display the dead body to my husband upon returning home; sleepless, queasy, and sad. He gasps in astonishment and dismay, to his credit.
Now there's a happy ending here....
If you listen to the Tarot Podcast #55, you will hear a lovely interview with Tarot personality Thalassa about her BATS convention and Tarot in general. And in the interview, she mentions how she "breaks a deck" while teaching classes and gives each person a card to keep. The broken decks she then scatters a card at a time about the world... a way to spread the love. I have to smile when she mentions putting one in every Gideon Bible in every hotel room she stays at.
And upon receiving some cards to spread the Tarot Love from Thalassa, it occurs to me as I open her letter... I know now what to do with my poor misshapen deck that I couldn't throw away. I will spread them, one by one, like seeds of love and let them reach into the world once more to inspire people. Like mysterious messengers of otherworldly and synchronisitic magick, I will let go of my deck a card at a time, and believe that they will find the person who needs their inspiration the most.
The moral of the story? I don't know, I'm not sure I have a moral, or a morale. But I do know letting go of something you love is the hardest thing we learn to do as mortals, and yet, it can be the most important thing we can share.
Thanks for listening....
My story begins this summer. It's mid-July, and I'm in Gallup NM on a writing assignment with my editor and another writer/friend from the magazine I work for. Let me tell you first, I don't travel well... I am the walking example of "the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak." I've come to realize this is the Raven in me, I'm territorial you see. You take me out of my home element, and suddenly I can't eat right, I get hungry/sick at weird intervals, and worst of all, I get insomnia.
Now usually when I travel, I anticipate these things and take my sleeping pills. I've found if I can at least knock myself out for the night, the rest of the travel issues sort of take care of themselves.
But I'm pregnant. And while traveling, I was in my dreaded first trimester with raging morning sickness, which is a misnomer and should really be called "morning, noon, evening and middle of the night" sickness. So being the extremely careful mom-to-be, I take nothing (except the occassional Tylenol) during gestation - no sleeping pills for me.
Back to Gallup. Dinner plans go awry after interviews at a late rug auction and by the time the 3 of us get back to the hotel, it's about 9 p.m. and I'm ravenous. And slightly queasy. They go together, believe it or not, especially in my first trimester. So I forego the smoky bar's nachos-for-dinner option and walk next door to the nearest dining establishment, Taco Bell. I like Taco Bell in small quantities, so I'm good with this. Even better, Taco Bell serves lemonade. Lemonade was my morning sickness drink of choice after a doula told me it would help the queasies go away. As a result, I can barely look at a glass of lemonade right now, I associate it with dry heaving, but that's besides the point.
Yeah, ok... Taco Bell pick up and I'm back in my hotel room. I scarf my nachos and tacos and lay in bed watching TV, trying to settle down. I remember even still that the old 80s "Dragnet" with Tom Hanks and Dan Ackroyd (and the virgin Connie Swail) was on. About 11 p.m. I feel vaguely sleepy and turn out the light.
For the next few hours, I toss and turn in bed, unable to sleep... insomnia rears its ugly head and laughs at me while I turn this way and that, listening to the cars on the street outside as they grow more infrequent and the night rolls on. My lemonade is half-finished, sitting on the bedside table beside me.
Earlier in the week, I had had my Tarot cards... my BELOVED deck, my FIRST Tarot deck, my Uni Waites, with me to do a reading appointment. I forgot they were still with me and as a result, they came with me on the trip, stowed in my purse, which is sitting on the floor, beneath the bedside table.
You can see what's coming now, right? About 3 a.m. I begin to dry heave. I dry heave so violently that my fellow writer/friend who is my hotel next door neighbor hears me through the wall and wonders if she should come over in case I need medical assistance - she didn't visit, thank you God, as I wasn't dressed nor in the mood for company, even sympathetic company.
Laying back down for the third or so time, I toss a pillow over my head and the corner of the pillow clips the lemonade and whoosh... down it goes, all over the room, all over my backpack with my clothes for the next day, and soaking my purse thoroughly. It isn't until morning, when I feel well enough to survey the damage that I realize... Oh My GOD, my deck was ruined.
RUINED I tell you! DEAD, dessicated, warped and stuck together at the same time with evil lemonade and sugar, peeling the cards' surfaces. My deck, as I pick it up like a mother craddling a hurt child, mewls at me with a mini-reading, begging for help and saying good bye at the same time. I remember cards surfacing that weren't stuck together... the High Priestess, the Nine of Cups, the World, the Sun, the 10 of Pentacles, the Magician. It is bidding me farewell as it heads towards the light and I'm terribly dismayed. This wasn't just any deck, this was my first and most beloved and the ones that I went to the most often for help, the ones that I had used so many times they fit my hands and shuffled just right. Like a pair of well worn jeans, they belonged to me and would never fit another.
I showed the Tarot corpse to my writer/friend the next morning, who was sad for me, but not a reader... no one understands my pain, I think ruefully. "What are you going to do with them?" she asks me. I don't know, I admit. Bury them maybe, I don't really know... they're too important to me to just toss in the trash. I display the dead body to my husband upon returning home; sleepless, queasy, and sad. He gasps in astonishment and dismay, to his credit.
Now there's a happy ending here....
If you listen to the Tarot Podcast #55, you will hear a lovely interview with Tarot personality Thalassa about her BATS convention and Tarot in general. And in the interview, she mentions how she "breaks a deck" while teaching classes and gives each person a card to keep. The broken decks she then scatters a card at a time about the world... a way to spread the love. I have to smile when she mentions putting one in every Gideon Bible in every hotel room she stays at.
And upon receiving some cards to spread the Tarot Love from Thalassa, it occurs to me as I open her letter... I know now what to do with my poor misshapen deck that I couldn't throw away. I will spread them, one by one, like seeds of love and let them reach into the world once more to inspire people. Like mysterious messengers of otherworldly and synchronisitic magick, I will let go of my deck a card at a time, and believe that they will find the person who needs their inspiration the most.
The moral of the story? I don't know, I'm not sure I have a moral, or a morale. But I do know letting go of something you love is the hardest thing we learn to do as mortals, and yet, it can be the most important thing we can share.
Thanks for listening....
It is sad when you must let go of that beloved deck due to unfortunate circumstances but I ADORE the idea of spreading your deck around the globe. Shareing your love to all. Bless be xx