LESSON 3
A Four-Card Cross: Knight (King) of Cups (1) Five of Cups (2); Two of Disks (3) Ten of Swords (4) Deck used: Tabula Mundi, an independently-produced, modern riff on the Thoth by MM Meleen. A few notes: Because I’m also reading a lot about astrology right now, I thought it would be fun to use this cross to play with two astrological aspects: oppositions and squares. In this case, The Five of Cups and the Two of Wands oppose each other, and the Knight (King) of Cups and the Ten of Swords oppose each other. Cards at right angles to each other are squared. The Knight of Cups squares the Five of Cups and the Two of Disks, as does the Ten of Swords. The Five of Cups squares the knight and the ten, as does the Two of Disks. We’ll consider all of this. Both of these aspects are “hard,” which means they tend to conflict. But as Sue Tompkins says in her books (Aspects in Astrology and The Contemporary Astrologer’s Handbook), the hard aspects are the ones most likely to lead to change and growth and action. The “easy” aspects often lead to stasis. I like thinking this way much more than the more usual binary of good/bad. The Lesson We’ve got two of the cards folks never want to see in a reading: Five of Cups (in this deck, titled “Disappointment”) and the Ten of Swords (“Ruin”). The Knight of Cups doesn’t have an esoteric keyword, but does have an elemental title: Fire of Water. The knight representing the suit of fire; cups, of course, representing water. The Two of Disks is titled “Change.” Because the Five and Ten are so dramatic, and related numerologically, let’s start there. These cards are square each other (at right angles), which suggests they have a hard time integrating. Tompkins suggests they have a hard time seeing each other. So they tend to operate as though they’re not impacting anything else, even though they’re likely working at cross purposes to something else. In a way, it’s not unlike the concept of unconscious bias. We can’t see it, so we don’t know we have it, but it’s still hurting us (any other folks, too). As readers, we’re often afraid of the Five of Cups and the Ten of Swords. Not the cards, per se, but more the idea of having to give readings where the things depicted on or traditionally associated with them are contextually important. No one wants to give bad news . . . not unless you’re a sociopath (or you understand that what seems like bad news is actually what’s going to spur the client on to needed change). Clients are afraid of them, too, because we don’t want to feel the way these cards suggest we have done, do, or will do. And so, for me, I’m tickled we get to begin the reading this way! Let’s consider the math: we’ve explored a couple times now how closely air and water are related. In this case, though, even though they’re closely woven, they’re working at cross purposes. They’re fighting each other, or at least acting without regard for the other. The Five of Cups is a card of emotional or sensual upheaval. Why I dislike the Golden Dawn titles is that they limit. Upheaval isn’t bad, per se, and neither are any of the cards in the deck. Yes, we can be disappointed by emotional upheaval—but there are for sure times when we relish it. Times when, say, we’ve been stuck in a rut. The Tabula Mundi deck offers an image of a barren, desolate, arid landscape—the ground is cracked and baked, the bones of a fish and some dry cups are strewn around. In the background, a red sky oppresses the large pyramids covering the entire horizon. This is a hot card for the suit of water, and what we see if we explore the artwork is the image of a heat that has evaporated all the water—literally sucked it all out of the ground, greedily, leaving nothing for anyone (or anything) else. This isn’t water at is finest, it is water at its thirstiest. It’s water longing for water. It for sure doesn’t look good, and that’s common for this card in many decks. The Ten of Swords offers another barren landscape, but this one a black-tarred expanse and stormy sky (not unlike the one in the Waite-Smith Ten of Swords). An egg stands center with eight swords stuck into its top. Two rocks flank it, each with a sword stuck in, and each with a snake curled atop the stone, loosely coiled around the blade. The card is ruin. And as always it is no one’s favorite. The barrenness of these images grabs my attention and considering the square aspect, reminds me that you can’t rehydrate by visiting the desert. There are times when we as readers feel we have nothing in the tank, or when we experience a series of readings that simply don’t come together. We may feel like we’re losing our touch. Panic sets in, and of course panic is a thing associated with the suit of swords—particularly that trio of the eight, nine, and ten. These three cards are associated in this system (Thoth/Golden Dawn) with the sign Gemini. Gemini, ruled by my guy Mercury, tends to be a nervous sign—and I know this because all the poor Geminis in my life are prone to anxiety. Mercury moves around a lot, he’s a messenger, he can’t stand still, and when we tend to stand still too long ourselves we get nervous. Mercury and Gemini are also, though, associated with learning. This is one reason Mercury is my dude. He’s the ruler of writing, learning, words, knowledge, language—all the stuff that means so much to me. And so, this reading is proving to be about the fear that comes when we worry we’re drying up, that we’re getting stale, that we’re losing our touch—or, conversely for the new reader, that we’ll never learn enough to be able to do this well. The barrenness of the five and ten, here, couples with Mercury/Gemini highlight a thing that can happen for readers sometimes: imposter syndrome. And when imposter syndrome kicks in, we may find ourselves doing things that will dry up our potential because we don’t realize that it’s actually working at cross purposes to our goal. We could say that Mercury is also the ruler of imposter syndrome (although I don’t for a second think he has it; he just doesn’t have time to worry about it—but when we feel like we’re missing him, that sensation creeps in). To turn to the cards and their more traditional meanings, we may find ourselves disappointed (Five of Cups) by our readings (swords = readings). And we may find ourselves feeling that way a lot (ten swords = a lot of thinking about this + thoughts are influenced by feelings and vice versa). Or, we find ourselves disappointed by our progress, or by the response we’re getting from friends or clients. And it eats away at us. Or rather, raises our temperature to the point where all our moderating water evaporates and we’re left literally deserted. So we’re feelings all kinds of shitty about ourselves. Meanwhile, in the Ten of Swords, we’re starting to overthink, over-intellectualize. We get stuck in our head (traditionally associated with the Eight of Swords), then we panic (nine), and then we freak the fuck out (ten). Our minds and hearts are both going through their own little Greek tragedy at the same time—and so, though you can usually call on one when the other starts being a little brat, you start to “realize” that you don’t have anything to fall back on. It’s bad enough for one part of us to be having a little tantrum, but for two of them? That’s just rude. Here we see the square aspect at work. These two parts of ourselves are entitled to have a freakout, but they have to give us the respect of not doing it simultaneously. But they’re square, they’re not “seeing” each other, not communicating—even though they’re both amping the other up without knowing it. It may seem odd to think of two parts of ourselves having a freakout, but if you’re prone to freakouts (I am!) then you know that a seemingly intellectual concept can send you into an emotional spiral, and a seemingly emotional thing can have you fighting major wars in your mind. Let’s put this two-card combo on hold for a moment and move up to the Knight, which also squares the Five of Cups. Here, the Knight of Cups is bringing water to the five, but the five can’t see him coming, and the Knight doesn’t know where he’s going. So we’re coming to rescue ourselves, but, like . . . badly. It’s worth noting that the Knights in this deck are really the kings (in Thoth decks, generally the Prince and the Knight are astride a horse or vehicle), which means there are parts of ourselves that should know better but aren’t functioning at their best. In this case, it’s likely our intuition that’s fucking around on us. And it’s because it’s not able to see what the real problem is. In fact, the knight is “bringing” his water not to the five, where water is needed, but rather to the Ten of Swords. The Knight thinks the root of the problem is what he can see (the ten), but it’s not; it’s the thing he’s ignoring or doesn’t even know is there. It’s like he got in the car and told his GPS to take him anywhere but hoped it would take him to the train station. So, we’re really off our game and we can feel it (water/cups is the dominant suit in this spread, even if one of the cards clearly is missing water). The Knight also squares the Two of Disks (Change). This card depicts an hourglass with a little mechanism inside. If the sand weren’t in the glass, we’d see that the mechanism is a lemniscate (infinity symbol) made of a belt that moves the wheels. This card feels so divorced from the other three, it’s like it’s in a different reading. It’s just out here doing it’s little thing, working it’s little system, the way it always does, while the rest of the reading is having a tantrum. Why? Because that’s just what it does. And what it’s doing is life. It’s just being. It’s cycling, as cycles do, and spinning, as wheels do, and it knows—even though we don’t—that this is just a blip and the next moment will eventually come. But squaring the Knight and the Ten of Swords, it has a lot of noise to compete with. The clomping splashes of the knight through the water, and the falsetto screaming of the Ten of Swords. (Why is the Ten of Swords full of falsetto screaming? I don’t know, but right now it is. Trust your instincts.) This little machine doesn’t know there’s a kink in the works, because it can’t break down. But it knows what the rest of the reading doesn’t: it’s going to be OK. Many of us do find ourselves in moments like this. We’re just not good enough. Or, worse, we were feeling amazing and then had a few experiences that totally harsh our mellow. And when that happens, all these alarm bells start ringing and all these different emergency responses kick into place. We worry, we start beating ourselves up (another quality of swords—hurting ourselves with words), we rush to find solutions (knight) even when we have no idea what problem we’re trying to solve (the impacts of the squares). And meanwhile, life is just humming along waiting for us to balance out (another aspect of the two) and realize that we’re being dramatic. The strange thing about imposter syndrome is that it only seems to hit people who, like, aren’t imposters. Morons who actually have no ability never seem to doubt themselves. It’s infuriating. Perhaps we’d be too powerful if we were able to fully accept our abilities. I don’t know. But I do know that this tendency, this self-doubt, can happen any time and often when least expected. I find that whenever I tend to be riding high for a couple days, something happens to knock me down a few pegs. I chalk this up to life stopping me from getting too arrogant, but I’d sure love it if I could ride those highs a little longer. I think most people experience it from time to time, some to lesser degrees. And I do think there’s some value in moments where we pause and reflect on whether we might be in a rut. But when they become chronic, it’s worrying. Before saying more, let’s talk about the oppositions. These are “hard” aspects, too, but unlike the square they’re (typically) aware of each other, they can probably see each other, but there may be a tendency for them to engage in a tug-o-war, a power dynamic that can sometimes make life . . . annoying. At their best, they integrate with each other and become unified in purpose. In this reading, we have the Knight of Cups opposing the Ten of Swords, and the Five of Cups opposing the Two of Disks. The knight/ten oppo is the classic diviner power struggle: the emotional hero ready to save the day, and the logical over-thinker who can’t stop turning things over in their mind. It’s like if Einstein married Jesus and they made a really weird baby together. (Hot!) Earlier, I said the knight was solving the wrong problem, and it’s because he’s “intuitive”: he solves the problem he can see. He’s not intuitive, he’s “intuitive.” At least in this case. If you don’t catch my drift, he’s more like Chad making a social media video about how to get a dope job than the actual person doing and hiring for that actual job out in the world who knows what it actually takes to do and get that job. Knights (in this case they don’t lose their active powers just because they’re kings in this deck; I tend to assign the Prince the more “kingly” role, at least in terms of speed and decorum) don’t think too much, and this isn’t the “thinkiest” knight to begin with. It’s the moodiest knight, the “feelingiest” knight. He’s very in touch with . . . whatever it is he thinks he’s in touch with in that moment. And he doesn’t get the brainy types, but he likes them (air and water like each other) and he wants to help. Once he gets to the Ten of Swords, though, his attempts to save the day will fail and he’ll get sullen and lose interest in it and find another cause to champion. He’s like the dog, Dug, in Up. Sweet, earnest, but easily distracted. The Ten of Swords, meanwhile, cannot deal with the Knight, right now. No! There is a logical solution to this and I will find it, god dammit! Tell that effete little fucker to go save someone else! I CAN DO THIS ALL BY MYSELF! The Ten of Swords, already entirely burned out and totally useless, still thinks only it can save the day; only it can make things right. It actually can’t; it has nothing left to give. The title on the card is “ruin,” and in this way it is ruined, spoiled, rotten. Not forever, at least not ideally, but right now. And one of the reasons it’s so cooked is that it, too, is trying to solve the problem incorrectly. The knight has water to bring and the ten knows where it needs to go, but both are so self-centered they can’t see that. Now, if they can get it together and integrate, they could actually do something. (For any Sondheim or musical theatre fans out where, take a look at the lyrics to Phyllis’s follies numbers in the musical Follies. There are three that have been used in various productions of of this strange and wonderful show: “Uptown/Downtown,” “The Story of Lucy and Jessie,” and “Ah, But Underneath!” All three are gorgeous interpretations of something experiencing this very thing.) This is not unlike the student who feels that cramming all the information possible into their brain will yield results quicker. They truly believe that they can shove all that information into their mind and their mind will retain it. They don’t ever stop to think there’s actual science about how we learn and remember, and not one single study has ever shown that people learn and retain information they stuff into their heads like a pillow into a case. It simply doesn’t work. We cannot rush our learning journeys; they have to take the time they take. I use this analogy a lot for this: you can rush bread dough to rise, but you can’t rush the flavor development. If it’s warm, yeast will rise quickly. But it will only do one of the two jobs it’s there to do. Yeast is what makes yeasted bread taste like bread. When you think of a yeasted loaf, what you’re remembering the taste of is yeast. Yeast can puff up fast, but flavor development takes time. And the best way to make bread is to allow the bread to rise as slowly as possible so that as much flavor develops as possible. Learning is like that. For those of us who’ve been around the block and face these moments of fear that we’ve finally lost it, we’re not likely to prove to ourselves that we haven’t lost it by cranking out reading after reading. We get terrified and each lackluster reading does nothing to calm us, and instead of taking a break—which is probably the thing we actually need—we keep going, keep trying, keep pushing, putting more and more stress on the muscle and giving it no time to heal. It’s like trying to run a marathon after a sprain, hoping the sprain will just get better on its own—in part by putting as much pressure on it as possible. Or we cram ourselves with books and classes to “unlock” some kind of mystery solution to a problem we still don’t even understand. All of this may stem from the knight’s ego—which in this case, we must take to mean the reader’s ego. The Knight of Cups is very much like a diviner, diving into the deep end of the unknown. Water is often representative of the unknown, and the unfathomable—a word related to water by “fathom,” which is a way of measuring the depth of water. A fathom is about six feet. Water is also, of course, associated with clarity. And so the diviner dives into the unknown in order to find clarity. The problem is, we may sometimes dive into the water expecting clarity and discovering only the unknown, the unfathomable. And this is in part because of the word expect. When we expect too much, we actually get in the way of possibility. Think of it this way. Have you ever been reading on a question and before you drew you had a certain of idea of what cards (or anyway what kinds of cards) you’re likely to see, only to find that the exact wrong cards come up? I have. Actually, one reason I read the way I do and that I’ve written about reading the way I have is because the “wrong cards” always seemed to come up for me. I never got the cards I was expecting and that other readers seemingly would get. I can’t tell you why that happens, but it did mean I had to rethink how I read. If you look at all my work, my previous books and videos, the subtext of all of it is essentially, “How to make the ‘wrong cards’ make sense in a reading.” Now, of course I don’t think that I’m getting the wrong cards—not anymore. I now understand that any card can answer any question correctly. I need to do the work to figure out how. But the point is many folks experience this and they think something is wrong with them. At that point, they may give up—which is sad, but not everybody needs to do this work—or they may rush to study more of the great books (and maybe not-so-great books) on the topic, attempting to inspire and get them back on track. But like the knight in this particular spread, that’s solving the wrong problem. What’s likely the issue is that you’re too full of information (Ten of Swords). You’re too full of intellect. What you need is the thing that the knight is bringing: water, feeling, sensation. These are things you can’t get from a book. And as a writer, it pains me to say it, but you can’t learn how to read tarot from a book. You can learn how the author readers tarot from a book, but you can’t learn how you read tarot from a book. I’m not saying the books aren’t helpful. I’d like to think mine are, and I’ve for sure been inspired by others’ books, too. But these books tell you what the cards mean and how to work with them. They don’t—and can’t—telly out how to put them together in the context if your lived experience. I occasionally get asked when I think a reader is “reader” to “go pro” or start reading for others (usually for money). I don’t have the ability to set that standard; you have to find those answers for yourself. But when asked, I say that a reader is ready to consider themselves a “pro” (I really do hate that term) when they’re able to contextualize the cards in terms of life, the question, and each other, without having to rely on memorized interpretations. When the reader can read and interpret, rather than see and recite. Again, that’s just me, but that was the barometer I used for myself and I didn’t start taking paying clients until I felt I had that ability. That said, taking on paying clients was never an ambition of mine. I fell into it by mistake, as I have done so many other areas of my career. The point is, it’s not about memorizing and cramming your brian full of information (Ten of Swords); it’s about having enough knowledge to call on when you need it, but also being able to feel your way through the reading. This is a thing that makes me uncomfortable to type. I’m not a sensing reader. I don’t consider myself psychic. I don’t experience clairaudience or clairsentience. I don’t hear voices or experience the presence of “guides.” And for that reason, my first two books are really systemic—in this case I mean they’re both based on the prospect of having a system that you can use and that comes from you when you need it. But that’s really only half the story. While I’ve been particularly emphatic about the systemic approach up to this point, that’s because I feel many folks lack a decent system (I did) and also because I hear from readers a lot how they reach a point where they know they know the card meanings but have reached some kind of plateau. And all of that is true. Having a system is necessary, especially when we feel somewhat dried up. But there’s more to it than that. And the opposition of the knight and the ten reminds us of that. It’s difficult to explain what the other half is, what that more sensational experience is. That’s one reason why the knight can’t see it. Even the Knight of Cups, who is watery AF, has a hard time giving language to this part of being a reader. It is the part that just knows/feels when something is right. And this is a thing a lot of readers feel somewhat shy discussing, because it is so hard to define and attempting to do it often sounds silly. But this is where intuition kicks in (rather than the “intuition” we discussed before). I’ve come to think intuition is really a survival mechanism. It’s part of our fight-or-flight response. We tend to be attuned to the dangers we face in life. The example I always use is that someone who lives in the city can tell when there’s cars coming at an intersection even without looking. We can sense them, feel them. Sure, we can hear them, too. And I guess what we’re really dealing with are the senses. Water is sensational in this way; it is very concerned with the senses. We think of hearing, vision, touch, taste, smell—but there’s (wait for it!) a sixth sense (oh gawd, I went there!). That sixth sense is intuition. Knowing the thing that can’t be smelled, heard, tasted, touched, or seen. It is most similar to touch in that we feel it, but of course it’s a different kind of feeling. Right now I can feel the sensation of my fingertips on the keyboard. I tend to write laying down in bed with a pillow propped under my chest. I can feel myself pressed against the pillow, I feel the part of the mattress I’m laying on, and I can feel the air conditioner tickling my legs where they extend over the end of the bed. I can feel a cut on my thumb I got tidying the kitchen (not with a knife; I don’t need knives or broken glass to cut myself—one of my special skills). Those are all touch-related. There is a kind of feeling that isn’t touch-centric: when we feel it in our gut or know it in our bones. We’ve talked about that already. This is intuition. The problem is, it’s difficult to tell the difference between intuition, intrusive thoughts, and bias. This is one reason many of us find it so difficult to read for ourselves: we can’t tell what’s an intuitive hit, what’s confirmation bias, and what’s our anxiety telling us we’re doomed. I don’t use my intuition as a primary tool because I don’t trust it. I know what sounds like a strange thing for a diviner to say, but I don’t. I live with severe anxiety (treated) and sometimes depression (sometimes treated) and I have a hard time telling the difference between the imagined horrors I sense on a daily basis and the actual horrors that are likely to happen. I’m someone who is somewhat afraid of giving in to intuition because it feels both like a loss of control (something I hate) and potentially a gateway to more anxiety. I keep my intuition at bay most of the time. All of that said, it is part of our toolkit. I’ve experienced times where interpretations of cards arrive during a reading that I’ve never used before but that I know are right in that context. Recall earlier when I pointed out the “falsetto screaming” of the Ten of Swords. Where did this come from? I don’t know, but it popped into my head and felt incredibly appropriate at the moment. But that’s not even a very good example. I recall doing a reading for a client who had a severe vision impairment and also lived with autism. Early in the reading she mentioned wanted to learn a new language when I pointed out the centrality of the Page of Swords in the spread. Over the course of the reading, we explored what this could mean and she revealed she felt like she had a hard time getting her guardians to listen to how she was feeling. “Maybe that’s the language you need to learn,” I said, somewhat off-handedly, because it literally flew out of my mouth before I had time to consider the implication. We both paused and I grew somewhat misty-eyed. She said, “Whoa. I’m going to have to sit with that one for a while.” I said, “Me, too.” That is what I’m talking about. The whole reading was leading to that moment for that client. That is intuition. Or, rather, intuitive reading. “Intuitive” gets bandied around a lot in divination spaces. It’s a word that has come to mean anything anyone wants it to and because of that it doesn’t really mean anything. And because it doesn’t mean anything, anyone who wants to can call themselves an intuitive reader and not have anyone question what that means. That’s not necessarily a good thing. Nobody questions it because nobody wants to look like they don’t know what people are talking about. But I question it. Internally, anyway. What does it mean, you read intuitively? There isn’t a reader who doesn’t use intuition. Sad to say, what most people mean when they say they’re “intuitive readers” is that they don’t really feel like doing the work of learning and so they don’t and just read by gut reaction. I just began a paragraph on why I think “intuitive reading” is nonsense. All reading is intuitive. But I’m not interested in hot takes, at least many. The lessons are supposed to come from the cards. I’ll reserve my feelings about people who use “intuitive” as an excuse to not do their foundational work. This reading is reminding us (me, in particular) that we can’t only read cerebrally. But also that we need to feed the intuitive side. And here we take a journey back to the cards. The solution when we feel this dry, this burned out, this out of tune isn’t to cram our heads with more knowledge or to keep working ourselves into a frenzy; it’s to care for the intuitive side of our nature, for the intuitive side of our reading lives. This is why we need to understand what “intuition” means. We can’t develop that part of ourselves if we don’t feed it. And so the reading I offer at the end of this chapter will be focused on that: what is intuition, where do we need to care for it in our lives, and how. But more on that presently. We’ve given short shrift for the lonely Two of Disks (“change”). Sometimes cards in readings don’t have that much to say, and that’s partly the case with this card. The image reminds us that life keeps life-ing, even when we’re in the midst of an emo crisis. But I feel compelled to spend a little time talking about the title or keyword on this card: “change.” The obvious association with change in the sense of growth or development. What if it mean in the financial sense? Change as in pocket money. While the Thoth and other Golden Dawn systems aren’t interested in the banalities of fortune telling (something you likely know I’m very interested in), they aren’t here to scold us and the suit of coins/pentacles/disks/diamonds has always been associated with finances. Classically, it represents the merchant class and banking. It’s helpful to retain this because even though this reading is so much about feeling, the disks/coins suit reminds us that this isn’t only about what we feel. It’s also about where we put our money. I bring this up because I’m an emotional spender. I think these days a lot of people are. But I happen to be a big spender in particular when my sense of safety is messed with. The idea of accumulating makes me feel safe, even though it doesn’t actually have any real benefit other than thinning my bank account. Books are my weakness. Books are the realm of swords. We don’t need swords in this reading; swords have done all they can. What we need are more practical (disks/pentacles/coins) things—and to that end, not that many of them. Twos, of course, are a small number. This card reminds us to ground ourselves in the real world and to remember that when we spend all our time thinking about the magical, esoteric, mystical, whatever, that we’re losing touch with reality. And when we’re reading, we’re generally reading about real life. I can count on one hand the number of times a client has asked me to read about something that the Golden Dawn would have been interested in exploring. In fact, I’m pretty sure I can count those experience on no hands. The clinking of pocket “change” in the two of disks reminds us of a few things: first, if we are reading professionally, we need to stay connected to the real world. Too many readers don’t. We fly off into the magic kingdom and forget to remember we’re human—and so are our clients. Lately, I’ve noticed a total lack of interest in the “real world” on my part. Going to work, dealing with the bills, anything that is “grownup” and requires me to deal with life has been getting on my nerves. And this is frustrating because I do like my job. It’s also frustrating because we can’t forget reality. While I want to float away and focus on nothing but magical concepts (right now, astrology), I can’t do that—and one reason I can’t do that is because I do have clients who live down here on earth with me and they’re going to ask me to talk about that. The other thing this card does is remind us of the fact that life goes on. What we’re feeling now isn’t what we’re going to feel forever. This card and its focus on the hour glass definitely underscores the temporariness of these feelings. And the two little machine wheels inside also remind us a bit of cycles. We’re not going to stay here forever, but we may be back here again—in fact, it’s likely we will be here again. Things (ahem) change. What does this have to do with the clinking of change in our pockets? There’s something tangible about money, something practical, something useful (I mean, I’m going long with this one—but stay with me) that matters. We read because we need practical, useful information. We read because we need things to make sense. We need the down-to-earth. And the down-to-earth doesn’t have to be stifling or limiting—or, well, I guess it does have to be, but it can also be exciting. Look, we live in the “real world” and at the same time, we can still find answers in cards. So the point is that even things that seem banal aren’t only that. Here we return to the idea that nothing is all one thing. If something is earthy, by nature it also must be heavenly. As above, so below. And so the solution to these times when we feel stuck is in part to remember reality, our humanity (earth/disks) and at the same time try to find ways to nourish our intuitive side. And so that takes us to: A read of one’s own This reading is, as promised, designed to help us explore where we might be needing to care for our intuition and how we might do that.
A quick example: For my first three cards, how I know I need to care for my intuition, I got two of the cards from the first spread! The Ten of Swords and the Five of Cups! I love that this happened. I’m using the same deck, and I gave it a decent shuffle. But I knew all along that this lesson/chapter was really for me, and so I’m not shocked to see them here. In fact, I’m delighted. The third card was the Princess (page) of Swords (Earth of Air). I’m not really worried about aspects here because I simply have three sets of three. The Ten of Swords and the Five of Cups mean exactly what they meant above: when I’m feeling brain dead, burned out, uncreative, dry, thirsty, totally barren, and when all my intellectual curiosity yields no results. An interesting detail on this particular Princess of Swords is a sort of crown-like shape above that, thanks to some spiky protrusions, looks a lot like a bear trap. It is the mind trap, getting stuck in thinking, getting stuck in the cerebral, getting stuck in the intellectual, all that the expense (and dehydration) of the spiritual and emotional. And as someone who would just as well never deal with emotions, I’d just as soon never have to explore that part. The next set of three answers how I can care for this part of me. The cards drawn here are, The Eight of Wands (“swiftness”), The Hierophant, and the Seven of Wands (“valour”). As is typically the case for me, these aren’t the cards I expected to see. Two fire cards and my least favorite trump. Fun! But this is appropriate, because I’ve already done my number on how the “right” cards never show up for me when I read. Nothing jumps out at me as particularly appropriate or helpful for this question, so I’m just going to give up my reading career right now. Oh, I guess I could put some work into it. Fine. But isn’t this effort exactly the thing I’m supposed to be getting away from, tarot? (I’m being snarky.) The Eight of Wands in this deck is incredibly mercurial, with my boy’s winged sandals united by a rainbow, and a caduceus tipped with a diamond takes center stage. None of this is particularly helpful, either. Nor are any of my common associations for this card: putting your work into the world, giving things energy, doing passionate labor, that sort of thing. All of it rings hollow and false. Frustrating. The Hierophant is the king of the colonizers, the ruler of the old and outdated, the master of oppression. The Seven of Wands is a wonder of defensiveness in many decks, though this deck and the Thoth system generally title it “Valour.” I guess this means that there really isn’t an answer and I’m just the kind of person who can’t take care of my intuition. In fact, all of this fire is incredibly un-intuitive. And this is what unlocks the trio for me: do something else. Go do things you care about that aren’t related. Revisit something old (Hierophant), go work on something that you’re passionate about—something that isn’t divination. The Seven is introspective: what do you care about, this card often asks. Put your back into that (the Eight of Wands, associated with labor and effort). Maybe explore things you don’t like (the Hierophant); systems you find limiting or oppressive. Not because they’re right, but because I “can’t” learn anything from them. Recall that this is the first time we’re seeing fire cards in this lesson. Our original reading had two wands, a sword, and a disk/coin. Fire makes its way here finally, and I’m a fire sun. My sun is in Leo. I’m a fairly fire-y person, even though I have an airy nature, too. (Aquarius is my ascendant.) This tells me that when I feel like I’m burned out mentally and dehydrated emotionally, fire is the solution—and a fair amount of it, as we have an eight and a seven. Go play, this seems to say, go get wild, crazy, do things you really find exciting. The fire takes us away from the swords and air and tells me not to worry about those things for the moment. If water is intuitive, fire is instinctive. It may seem like a subtle thing, but instinct isn’t quite as fluid as intuition; it’s much faster, much less thoughtful. When we act from instinct we do now and think later. Intuition often makes us stop, wonder, consider—all very flowing things. Well, I guess “stopping” isn’t fluid, but the rest of it is. Instinct, fire, gets the impulse and acts on it. Here we really follow our gut, even if that’s a less considered and trustworthy part of our system. It’s OK, though, being thoughtful isn’t working and we (well, I) have nothing left to give emotionally. So just do it. In a way, this is like being Mercury. He doesn’t care what the message is he’s charged with delivering, he just delivers it. Sometimes as a reader I can get awfully wrapped up in saying things right, being correct, being please; Mercury gets a message and hands it over. I could benefit from playing in this way. The Hierophant, even though I don’t like him, frequently indicates faith. He’s telling me that there are times when it’s OK to have faith in my gut instinct. He also introduces earthiness, Taurus, into the reading. This is good, because earth was the element that sat on the periphery in the reading that opened this lesson. It tells me that my gut instinct is (often) rooted in real life. So I can trust it more than I think I do. In essence, this row says, “don’t overthink it—just do it.” Finally, the last three cards suggest how I can check my progress during these times. Here we find The Fool, The Seven of Swords(!) (“futility”), and the Two of Wands (“dominion”). The Seven of Swords, the introspective naval-gazing thinker! How apt, then, that in this deck, the seven is styled “futility.” If you (meaning me, in this case) find yourself (again, meaning me) thinking a lot? Remember it’s futile. It ain’t getting you where you want to be. Rather, approach the world with zero expectations (Fool) and let the fire take (Two of Wands). The association of the Two of Wands with “dominion” isn’t super helpful here. It rarely is. The suit of wants is the most colonial, most inspired (I think) by Britain’s legacy of empire. I was just browsing though a book on my TBR, T. Susie Chang’s 36 Secrets: A Decanic Journey through the Minor Arcana of the Tarot, and she explores the ways that the Two, Three, and Four of Wands take a journey from colonization (two), the setting up of a colonial government (three), and then the self-celebration of that new government (four). We can add to that the conservatism of four, which is reminds us the way colonialism sticks around even when it’s supposedly long gone (look, for example, at Haiti for the long-term impacts of colonialism). Dominion. It is almost religious in its fervor. Religion, particularly Abrahamic ones, love dominion. It was the brutal alliance of “Christianity” and Empire that led to much of the world’s ills. There were conquerers before then, but nobody managed to weaponize faith and the human fear of death like Christianity did. This ties me back to the Hierophant in the previous set of three. But because this is an advice reading, I need to look at these two cards with kinder eyes. Surely the advice is not to act like a colonizer bent on dominion. Rather, let’s take the fervent quality of the Two of Wands (and the Hierophant from the previous row) and take that part, but leave the colonizing out. Twos attract, probably none more than the Two of Wands/Fire. Like, as the old cliche goes, moths to a flame, eh? With my sun in Leo, I’m frequently drawn to flame. Because my sun is conjunct (so close to each other as to be in nearly or exactly the same degree of a sign) Venus, one would say that I find fire beautiful and that beauty lights me up. That’s a nice thought, but I’m rather messy and far from beautiful myself (at least in a Venusian way)—but an interesting anecdote nonetheless. What I think this means is that the Venusian passion is married to the sun’s potency, and so there’s an almost evangelical nature at play. And that feels very Two of Wands (even though that card is actually related to Aries in Mars). I take this to mean, because we’re reading about how I know I’m doing a good job caring for my intuition, is that I feel insanely passionate about what I’m doing. With The Fool, I’m to notice when I feel free of expectations, with the seven I’m to recognize when I’m falling into the habit of intellectual naval-gazing, and with the Two of Wands, I’m to notice when I feel incredibly—evangelically—attracted to the work (reading cards). I guess you could say this would give me dominion over reading, but I don’t think of reading that way. I’m a part of the puzzle, a cog in the machine, not the soul power at play. But I can for sure have dominion over my overthinking (the seven). Note how The Fool and the Two of Wands flank the seven. They’re limiting, containing, the seven’s potential to start getting in the way and making things too “thinky.” And so I know I’m doing a good job when I’m free of expectations, limit my overthinking, and when I’m feeling really passionate and drawn to my work. And that’s not a bad barometer at all!
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AboutEach post is a tarot reading about the tarot, a lesson about the cards from the cards. Each ends with a brand new spread you can use to explore the main concepts of the reading. Archives
February 2025
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