When you turn to your tarot cards for answers and they tell you stuff you already knew.
The first three days of remote learning had gone relatively well. I was able to get up at 8:30 am (a feat since I am a night owl who takes morning personally). I was getting my son, Ben, online and keeping him on task. I had tackled my to do list with gusto, drawing a red line through each completed task.
That fourth morning, though, I couldn’t drag myself out of bed before 10:30 am. My husband is working from home due to the pandemic, so he was able to get Ben started on schoolwork, and I felt guilty about leaving him on the hook for that. Within ten minutes of finally getting out of bed I was on my way down a shame spiral that so often ends with me fucking around on my phone for the whole day and abandoning my plans. And once I get derailed it can take days, if not weeks to get back on track.
To put the brakes on that tailspin, I pulled out my Tarot deck. I had started pulling a card each morning as a means of meditation, but it has turned into a way to ease in the day. As I shuffle the deck I think about the upcoming day, focusing on my anxiety and reluctance. When I pull the card and look up the meaning I find it encouraging. So far I’ve managed to find a message in each card that has helped me to get over the inertia I’ve had at starting the day.
It can be extremely difficult finding abundance when life insists on being stingy. As a witch, I can choose to shift my perspective.
After writing about the paltry harvest I had foraging the backyard, my neglected garden decided to speak up. This year I had only managed tomatoes and cucumbers. The peas and beans fell victim to the local vole and chipmunks. The two pepper plants were overshadowed by volunteer sunflowers so much that they have only now started to produce.
In which roach makes placemats in an attempt to cut down on her fabric stash.
Once upon a time, I enjoyed playing racquetball despite the fact that I suck at it. I wasn’t just bad. I was an introverted book nerd with clumsiness baked into my genes chasing after a little blue all and failing nine times out of ten to actually return a volley. Even so, I loved playing. It was freeing to enjoy something I was spectacularly bad at.
Driving through Wyoming last week drove home how much I had missed the land I grew up in. At a rest stop I collected sprigs of sagebrush. The familiar scent of Russian olive trees hung heavy in the air. The wind sung to me through the aspens. I left Wyoming twenty-two years ago and it…