lesson 19: nourishment and the crossroads

Cards drawn
The Tower
Seven of Rods (wands), Seven of Roots (coins/penties), Temperance
Queen of Vessels (cups)
Deck: Age of Witchery Tarot by Roger J. Horne

Tis the week of Hallowe’en (I really can’t make myself say “Samhain,” no matter how it’s pronounced). And with wonderful timing, this deck arrived from Printer Studio just in time. And as I was considering the post for this week and using this deck, my mind landed on one of the two spreads I’ve been using most in this blog. This cross is a spread I don’t really use other than this blog and I only started using it impulsively to mix things up from the five-card arc I seemed to use (which I do use with clients, typically as a follow-up or secondary reading).

Like all my spreads, the spread itself and the “positions” have no inherent meaning. None of the spots “mean” anything; they’re just the places where the cards go. I work with the interrelationships of the cards now that they’re arranged this way, but the shape of all my spreads is really incidental. It’s just a way of arranging the cards so that interesting relationships develop.

But why have I been so drawn to this shape? There must be some reason.

There is and it occurred to me today. A quick story: When I do spell work, I tend to work with candles and herbs primarily. When I was learning, I would typically arrange the candles in sort of a square or circle and use herbs to connect the dots, creating a boundary around the spell—not unlike a sacred circle. But I only really did that because it’s what I learned in the various books I’d read and videos I’d seen. At some point, it occurred to me that what would make more sense is first arranging herbs on my plate or surface (what I tend to call my “canvass”) in a + sign. Just like this spread.

It is at the crossroads where throughout history people have gone to make magic. In traditions around the globe, the crossroads is a place where one might meet the devil, any number of Barons from New Orleans Voodoo and adjacent traditions (heavily influential on me, though it is not my practice), and all kinds of fae and underworld folk. The crossroads has a negative connotation in christo-culture, because of course it is where people go to sell their soul to Satan—or one of his/their/her siblings. (The Devil is a shapeshifter who manages to be all at once the gender[s] to which the practitioner is sexually attracted [sex is important to him/them/her—if the practitioner experiences sexual attraction], as well as the gender of the practitioner, and at the same time all genders. The binary is imaginary and he/they/she isn’t interested in being bound by christo-colonial norms. Bound, yes; there’s kink there. But not by gender norms, and not in any way he/they/she can’t control). The crossroads is often described as a liminal space. Many magic-minded folx say that magic lives in the liminal. Why wouldn’t it? It is everywhere and nowhere; it is potential and not; it is choice and limit. You can choose to go in any direction, but in so choosing, you’ve limited the options. 

This has become foundational to my spell work, particularly because I’m a city mouse who cannot risk (and has no interest in) being seen by others in an annoyingly middle class neighborhood, working with magic at the actual crossroads. I already have enough issue getting the maintenance folx into my apartment because I’m a homo, so . . . I don’t need to be spotted down the road lighting candles at midnight or burying the remainders of work. I use this temporary crossroads created with herbs and often a candle at each point. And so it makes sense that I would have landed on this shape for a go-to tarot spread. Why shouldn’t I? It is yet another liminal space, this time the liminality of a tarot reading—where, as soon as the cards are swept back into the deck, everything returns to its meaningless state. 

At least to my thinking. 

And so there is your lesson on why the crossroads spread, which is what I now call it. 

And what do we find at this crossroads, you li’l devils? Why, lesson nineteen of course! 

When I work with this spread, I tend to work outward from the center. At the center of this reading, we have the Seven of Roots (coins/penties). Could there be a more appropriate number to sit at the center of a crossroads? Not in my estimation. Seven nearly demands liminality from us. Introspection. It is the number of turning inward; the number of self-assessment, self-reflection, and self-regard. It isn’t innately a selfish number, though it can be if it becomes obsessive. Roots/earth might indicate the tendency toward getting stuck in a naval-gazing mode, but I think that the influence of The Tower negates that. 

The Seven of Roots asks us: why are we here? Meaning, what are we doing on this earth? Why are we even at this crossroads, asking for divinity to give us intel? And there is a real benefit to asking such questions at this time of year: as the evenings grow darker and earlier (gah!) and the liminal becomes more present. In many ways, I think of the space between Halloween and January 1st (New Year’s day, here) as a liminal, non-time; a space in which we’re not in the regular calendar—and in fact there was once a thirteenth month, which is why the numerical associations of our month names don’t make sense. (October: octo means eight, so it should be the eighth month; September, the seventh.) And just as a fact of the capitalism’s devotion to “the holiday season,” many of us are left in an unsettled state from about Halloween through to the end of the year. It is a time I’ve come to dread. I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving and (other than the decorations) I really loathe Christmas. And so of course we’d ask, “what am I even doing here?” This year, I think, the added trauma of an election amid massive fuckery across the planet is making even more of us wonder what the actual fuck. The Seven of Roots is, too. 

Of course, this blog is about divination—so it’s a time to ask ourselves “what the actual fuck” in terms of reading. Which, sigh, I sometimes ask myself. I’m constantly terrified that I will lose this particular ability, and there are many ways that could happen. Not by losing my ability to read, but a lot can happen to the brain and body as we age. And I’ve found that whenever I make something my personality, as I did once with theatre, I eventually find that it becomes toxic and I have to give it up. I’ve said recently, “Adulthood is nothing more than giving shit up that you love until finally you’re like, ‘ok, well, I guess I’m ready to be worm food now.’” This is, of course, in my darker moments, but heading into the darker half of the year, there’s the strong possibility more of those are on the way. And because I have such a tendency toward disaster thinking, something happened this morning that made me think, “Oh, this is the universe telling me I’m going to have to give up tarot, soon, too.” (It’s dumb: an ad for an event I’m reading at went out with a picture of me but no description, and it somehow felt to me like an in memoriam, in this case for my career. Dumb objectively; within, I’m always looking for signs that it’s “over.” Impermanence, baby.)

So lesson 19 begins with an actual question: “what the actual fuck?” In this case, in the realm of earth. 

Sometimes I feel a call to read the next card based on something “loud” in the reading—cards will call to me, or demand my attention. None of these cards are quiet, so where does one go next? To the other seven, of course, because it just amps up the sevenness of the reading. The Seven of Rods/Wands/Fire. Here, all the questions I ascribed to the Seven of Roots are re-asked in the suit of fire. But in this case, I think it’s not asking anymore so much as answering. Why? Couple reasons: first, I just feel it; second, the way Roger J. Horne arranged the wands looks a lot like a tick sheet, where we’re counting points and crossing them out when we’ve got a block. Normally that’s done with five. But it’s sorta giving the same vibe, here. If that doesn’t make sense to you, it’s OK. We all have different access points to readings. 

On the other side of the Seven of Rods is Temperance—a card, I have to admit, I find annoying. I am notoriously intemperate in nearly every way. 

I don’t really have much of an impulse at all for what this trio means, and this is the time where I could easily just get down on myself and start letting the intrusive thoughts win. But not this time, intrusive thoughts; I’ve got a blog to write. If Temperance were in the middle, I’d say that the two sevens need blending. But that’s not the case here, and Temperance seems almost on its own journey, uninterested in the other cards. It “moves” toward the two sevens, but looks away — not out from, kind of to the left, but the left sorta middle distance. There’s a disconnect. It’s almost as though this Temperance is, like me, not a fan of temperance. It’s almost as though intemperance is its MO in this spread. 

“Don’t bother asking why you’re here,” says Temperance, “don’t bother attempting to balance your sevens.” It’s possible the fact that this card depicts a devil that makes me say that, but remember no deck choice is an accident. Had a done this reading with another deck, another card would probably have shown up here. “You know where your roots are,” says this Intemperate Temperance(TM), “you’ve been grounded there your whole life. Where do you get ignited? Where is your fire stoked? What’s important to you in the core of your being, where your own fire burns?” The Seven of Rods, it turns out, isn’t asking us to be self-reflective in the way the Seven of Roots is; rather, it’s saying, “go deep—into your gut. What burns there?” Investigate your motor, so to speak. We could take this to mean, “what is it about divination that really lights you up? Find out. If you have to blend, blend, but err on the side of your fire.” This is very devilish in the sense of modern Satanism, which is heavily focused on self determination, on, as Crowley called it, “the will.” This is a distressing idea, particularly thanks to the individualism that is (I feel) rampant in esotericism. (For context, Satanism, as developed by LaVey, isn’t esoteric at all; in fact, it pegs off anything magical. It is an entirely a-thiestic movement focused on evangelical rationalism. At least in my understanding.) 

In last week’s blog, the one about my own struggles with my sense of self worth, I explored the idea that the issue was my lack of “play.” There are a lot of layers to that particular psychological croissant, but I left it wondering how one balances self-gratification (the healthy kind, the kind that keeps us motivated, engaged, and feeling decent despite the state of the world) with the seriousness of the times we live in. I still don’t have an answer to that. The main solution I’ve found so far is basically to allow myself time to read fiction this week. And really not until Friday. So, shrug. But there is a common thread in the world that if we’re not taking care of our needs, we cannot sustain our power to impact anything positively. 

There’s a certain irony to this row being “crowned” by The Tower. It makes me think of the ultimate tonnage of trauma going on the world, the feeling of everything crumbling—and at the same time, the need to be, like, “gee, what makes me feel really good?” Of course the Devil would ask us that in a time like this, right? But of course we know that the Devil isn’t binary. In fact, there has always been something weirdly binary about Temperance because of the two cups and the implication that each contains something unique. It’s always given an either/or quality to me. I don’t think I’ve ever really actively noticed this, but it’s been there. This one doesn’t and actually Horne has given us an even more impossible exchange of liquid between the two cups. “Yes,” this card seems to say, “you have to take care of yourself at the same time—you have to keep your fire lit. If you don’t, what’s the point?” (You may be wondering what any of this has to do with a lesson on tarot, and we’re getting there.)

The Queen of Vessels/Cups is linked to Temperance by the cups or vessels. This queen is in many ways the ultimate “caretaker” of the tarot—it is stereotypically linked with all the mom qualities we expect in a patriarchal world (this also applies to The Empress . . . with The Empress giving mom-to-be and the Queen of Cups giving post-natal motherhood). Because it’s such a stereotype of femininity, I tend to reject any interpretations that put her in that the caretaker category. But this is a reading about caring; that’s it’s whole thing: what do I care about, why, and where is my energy going? Here, I think the central column says, “If you care about the crumbling of the world, then you have to do things that will sustain your fire.” Or, if you want to read it in another way, “If you care about being a destabilizer of the status quo, you must do things that will sustain your fire.” Either way, the point is that if you want to participate in the improvement of the world, you also need to make sure you tend your fire, too. 

In essence, it’s the same thing we hear frequently. As a cis white man, I tend to feel as though this is criminal of me. But there’s a saviorism there, too, which we explored last week. And given that my battery runs low relatively quickly, I agree—even if I can’t say I’ll obey. 

What does this have to do with divination? What is the lesson about tarot? Well, I think there’s two: first, if divination is one of those things that sustains your fire, then you should do it! You should nourish and feed that part of yourself. The second part, though, is this: if you divination is directed at major perception shifts or destabilizing the status quo or healing a crumbling world, you need to make sure that you’ve got the energy (fire) to give to it. If you burn yourself out or find yourself sinking into the mud, you’re in trouble. Actually, if you find yourself sinking into “temperance” (for example “both sides ism” or “well, we have to stay balanced”), you may be in trouble—because this Temperance isn’t that Temperance. This Temperance is doing the impossible—which might, in this case, be finding ways to feel good once in a while so that you can face the work you feel your “supposed” to be doing. Either way, it is the your fire that needs tending. 

I’ve had a very tarot-y summer. Year, really. In a good way. I don’t feel burned out, but I do sometimes wonder if I’m pushing too hard. The reading could be reminding me that I don’t have to say “yes” to every event that I’m offered and I don’t necessarily benefit from making my whole personality one thing. Of course, there is a great degree of this work that does make me feel like I’m tending my fire, too. And I suppose here we find the more traditional concept of Temperance: do it, but not so much that you hate it. Balance. Rest. Play. Work. Nourish yourself (Queen of Vessels) so that you can fuck shit up (Tower). And fucking shit up can be whatever you need it to be in your life. In may case, it is so much about perception shifts. I want my clients to see things differently, more clearly; I want my readers to see tarot and themselves differently, as well as their abilities and potential; I want the work that I do and the things that I say to effect change in the world, too, even if I’m limited in what I can do. When I manage to change a mind, I’m shifting perspectives. That’s my “mission,” so to speak, flawed though it may be. Whatever your mission is, that’s what The Tower is in this reading. 

So that’s our lesson. Nourish your fire, so you can use your divination to fuck shit up. Took a minute to get there, but get there we did. Not bad advice, either, if you can take it — which . . . I usually cannot. 

A read of one’s own
Here, let’s use the crossroad spread in a new way. Why not? Let’s let the vertical (up/down) column tell us where we could use some nourishment in our divinatory work and the horizontal (left/right) row indicate how to nourish it. We can let all five cards speak to their own story, too, if we want to—but we’ll see whether that’s necessary. Up to you! You know I’m a fan of reading the same spread several ways. (If you didn’t know that, then hi! I like you read the same spread several ways!)

A nowhere near brief enough example.
My vertical column: Ace of Blades (Swords), Queen of Rods, Temperance(!)
My horizontal row: Eight of Rods, Queen of Rods (again), Five of Vessels

Beginning with the vertical, which explores where in my divinatory work I could benefit from some nourishment, we’ve got the first blades/swords card we’ve seen today. The ace. There’s a small-mindedness I’m feeling from this, and while I don’t like to think of myself as small-minded, it’s not out of the realm of possibility. An immaturity. And while I could easily start beating myself up again, I’ll also recognize that (like The Tower, which occupied this same spot in the first spread) the Ace of Blades often has to do with perception shifts, too. The Queen of Rods (who is buoyed by the Eight of Rods at her back) represents the ultimate tender of fires, if we continue with the nurturing aspect of queens that I reluctantly agreed to in the reading above. I think this column says that the area where I could use some nourishment is in my immature relationship to Temperance. You’ve already seen how I resist the idea as it is commonly interpreted and in fact did a whole number of how this temperance wasn’t that temperance. I’m not super clear why, though. I don’t necessarily have an intemperate relationship with tarot. I quite like it. I tend to feel at my best working on it. So perhaps it means that I’m over-thinking whether or not I’m over-doing it. 

I’ve gone ahead and added an additional card to the Ace of Blades and Temperance. The Ace of Blades got the Five of Blades. Which is definitely a card of perception shifts, too. In this case, though, I think it reductive thinking. Why? Blades cut. In this case, the five blades are cutting away at the wholeness of the ace—because fives shake up, destabilize, etc. Reductive thinking about what? The added card for Temperance was The Moon. This particular moon shows a coven of witches dancing under the somewhat dour-looking orb. I actually think this is telling me that my reductive thinking about “joining” is the issue. I was just saying today “I’m not a joiner.” I do not feel safe in “communities.” The lack of community, or my resistance to joining them, may be an issue. The Temperance card says, “look, bitch, you’re not joining a cult; you’re joining a community of like-minded weirdos dancing under the fucking moon. Relax. It’s not a forgone conclusion that you’re going to be ostracized or made to feel small.” Which is kind of fucking rude of Temperance, but remember: this Temperance isn’t that Temperance. And we’re talking about the Devil here, too. 

The crossbar or horizontal returns us to rods/fire with the Eight, of course the Queen, and closes is out with the Five of vessels. Another five. This segment tells us how to nourish the part of us that needs nourishing. My magico-spiritual isolationism is what I’m trying to “heal” or “nourish.” And at first glance, none of these cards speak to that answer. The Eight of Wands is all about effort, labor—vocation, certainly, but also just work. Passionate work, but work. There’s a quality of pushing work into the world with many iterations of this card; though this one is actually pretty static. The Queen of Rods, who we’ve really barely even discussed, doesn’t really seem to be too chatty right now, either. And Five of Cups is always a difficult card to interpret in an advice point of view, because of its constant association with “sad.” 

So, what the hell, I added two more cards. One partnered with the Eight of Rods (the Six of Vessels) and one partnered with the Five of Vessels (the Eight of Blades).  The Six of Vessels, which suggests “feeling good,” joins forces with the Eight of Rods and says “where you feel good about your work.” That’s not a full sentence, but at least we can talk more fully about the Queen of Rods. “Where you feel good about your work, your fiery potential is realized.” The Queen of Rods, in this case, kind of giving powerful bad assery—at least in a witchy way. When she (the queen) goes where her work is celebrated, makes her feel good, she is at her best. But this means facing the potential for upset (Five of Wands), which causes the mind to overwork (Eight of Blades). This isn’t the outcome we want, and it might mean I’ve misread the row. It also might mean that risk is inevitable and that over thinkers gonna overthink and the emotionally unstable gonna be emotionally unstable. All of which is true of me. But that’s not really very good advice. “Nourish yourself by doing your work in places where you feel good—even though that means you’re going to end risk feeling like shit and overthinking it?” I mean, that’s basically how I live my life right now. And if that were working, it wouldn’t be showing up here—unless it means, “keep doing what you’re doing.” But I don’t like that answer. 

If we divorce the Five of Vessels from its typical meaning, if we focus on the fiveness of it as “shaking up” rather than “upset,” it suggests a change in feelings. If we divorce the Eight of Blades from its tendency toward feeling trapped by our thoughts, we return to the concept of labor and effort. We also see the connection to four and stability times two. We have to think differently about our feelings, particularly when they’re shifting and we don’t know what they mean. That might be it. But, frankly, that also kinda pisses me off as a pile of divinatory nonsense—that kind that makes me furious when I hear readers delivering it. It’s not an answer. It’s a vague interpretation that sounds fancy but has zero use. So I have to keep digging. And this does happen sometimes. 

The Queen of Rods holds a wand (a stang) up to the Five of Vessels (see photo below), almost commanding it. To change the way we feel (Five of Vessels, a change in feelings), we have to do a lot of thinking about it (Eight of Blades). An effort has to be made to actively revise feelings about “joining” and being in places where we feel our best. An effort may also need to be made to find such places and also to deal with the fact that just because you’ve found “a” place doesn’t mean it’s “the” place—and I’m really the king of trying to get into clubs that simply don’t want me. But that’s a whole other story. 

There you have it!

Happy Hallowe’en friends, and happy new year. ​