The Star Card, The Queen of Wands, and The Six of Wands

July 31, 2017: The Star Card by Tania Pryputniewicz July 31, 2017

I love the graceful curves of the embodied Star in the Thoth Deck, her arms, legs and hair radiant with celestial blue lavender. The tiny white star embedded in the pale maroon planet behind Star Woman’s body mirrors a tiny blue star spilling out of the top cup of two she holds in her hands. The path of the light trails coming off the star points escape in concentric angular rings. The Wild Wood Tarot calls this card The Pole Star, that star by which the first human travelers navigated; they write that the star fields “wheel around it in fixed position.” Angles Arrien writes that the card reminds us that each of us “is an opening for light or a gateway through with the Absolute can manifest.”

I piled the kids in the car this month and promised them we’d stop at Moonlight Beach in Encinitas where they could play along the shore break if they first agreed to come with me on a garden/incense run. Not to the formal Meditation Garden where they’d have to observe the rule of silence (according to the floating officer of the Peace on duty) but to a different Peace Garden just up the street. In this second garden, created by an ordinary woman, you are invited to select a palm-sized white rock or two and choose a couple of colored pens from a ribbon suspended on a tree branch.

The kids knew what to do. They dropped down and began to draw, the garden at their feet full of messages left by others, the most recent still readable, the older stones fading under the southern California sun. Since my earlier visit with a friend, a laminated photo of Gandhi had been added with the quote “be the change you want to see” as well as a sign reminding dog walkers to refrain from allowing their dogs to relieve themselves on the art.  We added our rocks, snapped photos in front of the hanging wooden hearts and rainbow pinwheels, and then dashed into the Self Realization Fellowship gift shop for sandalwood incense. I also picked up a tiny free blue book, Cosmic Chants.

After just one night of chanting at dusk along the beach the Star card feeling comes on strong. One of the lines from that night’s chant, “Opal Flame,” opens with, Shining, opening in hall of matter, O Star, I peep through thee into the land of astral light that kindles life in everything.  I walked along watching the few rays of light make it through the cloud cover to shine far out on the sea. All the while, at my feet, was this lovely miniature mirror realm of clouds reflected in the sheen of retreating waves. This shifting landscape washed free every time a new wave broke. I felt as if I could fall through the clouds at my feet.

That night I had a dream that I was walking by the sea. The sun was a deep orange-red and hanging low in the sky. Every time I took a step I floated up off the ground. I was overjoyed at my newfound skill.

I love the way and heaven and earth exist so nested: the incense, the little free blue book from the gift shop, Moonlight Beach, the peace garden, and the chant reminding me I need only put my hand on my heart and I am home again, close, but far, starbound and earthbound at the same time.

July 31, 2017: The Queen of Wands and Six of Wands by Mary Allen

I picked two cards last month: The Queen of Wands and the six of Wands.  Both happy auspicious cards but also cards that feel a little generic to me. The queen, according to Angeles Arrien, represents self-mastery or self-reclamation:  She’s got her hand on the head of a leopard sitting beside her, which is supposed to mean she’s come through many dark places and chooses to remember them; hence, a gold leopard with black spots. The six is the card for victory. In the Rider Waite deck the six shows a prince riding in on a horse with followers beside him; he’s wearing a garland on his head and there’s another one on the wand he holds in his hand.  A great card to have for your card of the month, even if you did pick it as an afterthought after you picked the queen.

The symbol that speaks the most loudly to me right now as I look at these cards is the symbol at the ends of the two upper wands in the Thoth deck six of wands.   As far as I can tell, this symbol is the Winged Eye of Horus, with roots in ancient Egypt, but the colors and imagery look like Pueblo Indian things to me.  It’s turquoise, with red markings and red circles, and has snakes at the base like you find in the desert, all of which reminds me of Taos, New Mexico.

 

I went to Taos when this was my card of the month (one of them).  I was down there for a week working with a client on her manuscript, and when we weren’t working we went for walks in the clear bright air.  One afternoon we walked to an abandoned monastery and stood beside a tall white cross at the end of a sandy path in the middle of an endless field of scrub brush.  We placed stones at the base of the cross and then stood there looking out at the wide blue sky and the towering blue-tinged clouds, surrounded by the quiet and the wind and the sunlight. 

I got stuck in the Denver airport overnight on my way down there, and before that I taught for a week and a weekend, gave an hour-long speech, and did many other things that made me feel like I was caught up in a tornado, whipped around from one thing to the next.  That was more or less what my whole month was like from beginning to end, with only that one moment of peace and stillness among the scrub brush at the base of a cross.  But I came through it, I wasn’t thrown off the horse of myself at any point, including when I was lying on the hard floor of the airport, hungry and exhausted and feeling flung to the ground by a tornado in the form of the lightning storm that hit the airport during the time my flight was scheduled.  I came through it all and was spit out the other end, I learned something from it all, I managed to be myself, reclaim myself, through it all.  And I suppose that is a kind of victory.

Related Links:

A Poem for Lisa: Encinitas Meditation Garden

The Two of Wands and The Wheel of Fortune

June 2, 2017: The Two of Wands by Mary Allen

My card this month was the two of wands.  Power brought down to earth and made personal, I’ve read this card means.  The Thoth deck two of wands shows two crossed red dorjes, an ancient traditional Tibetan weapon.  The dorjes on the card have cartoonish little angry-looking faces at one end, and although Angeles Arrien says that this card is about coming into your own power from deep within in a balanced way, I can’t avoid thinking it’s about those little faces.  So when this card falls I’ve always thought that it was talking, at least a little bit, about power struggles.  The two of wands in the Rider Waite tells a very different story, and that’s the story that speaks to me about this card and my month last month.  The Rider Waite two of wands shows a man in a red cape and hat standing between two tall brown wands, holding a model of the earth, staring out at a landscape of mountains and trees and water. 

I guess I can say that my month was about power brought down to the earth and made personal.  The way I do that is by writing, which as I see it involves connecting to some universal creative power floating in the air sort of like electricity, connecting to it and bringing it to earth and making it personal, through writing. For me this involves seeing and noticing and doing something with what I’ve seen and noticed, capturing it as precisely as I can, with all of its detail and meaning, and mirroring it back to the universe as I write about it. 

I read recently that Saint Leontius, a sixth-century Greek Orthodox priest, said that creation can’t worship God directly but only through us, that the role of humans in this world is to make God’s creations visible.  I love that idea—that’s what I’m talking about.  To make God’s creations visible you have to see them, and to write you have to see too, see the precise room or landscape or whatever else inhabits your memories or your fictional characters are inhabiting in the story.   You can’t be vague about it, and in that way you hold the globe in your hand examining it while you bring power down to earth and make it personal, it’s the very examining that brings power to earth and makes it personal.           

And that’s what I was trying to do all month.  I spent a lot of the month working on an essay about my desert vacation in March with my friend JoAnn.  The whole time I was writing I was sitting there at my desk trying to focus the language to capture the details and the meaning, to let the meaning arise from the details, and when I was on the vacation I spent the whole time walking around trying to notice the details, trying to capture them in my mind so I could capture them and make something out of them, mirror them back to the universe, through a piece of writing. 

And ever since then I’ve been doing that with other things too.  Now that my desert vacation is over and I’m back in real life I’ve been walking around looking, noticing, trying to be present, to see whatever there is to see.   I’ve kind of gotten into the habit of it, noticing the world so I can write about it, and it is a kind of power brought down to earth and made personal.

June 2, 2017: The Wheel of Fortune by Tania Pryputniewicz

All month long I glance at the Thoth Wheel of Fortune card on my desk. Behind the pale green wheel in the center of the card, I see lightning bolts, their top jags ending in stars. “The stars exploding into lightning bolts represent the experience of awakening to the possibilities that can turn our lives in more positive and expansive directions,” writes Angeles Arrien in relation to the Wheel of Fortune. The quote accurately reflects what I’m experiencing as I take scenes from my childhood that I first described in poetry and develop them in prose for a new writing project of mine.

Last week my memoir teacher asked us to make memory maps—to look down at the river of our lives and look for the places where the river turned, tracking pivot points or places we turned in a new direction. I spent a day going through old boxes in the garage, pulling out college syllabi and high school versions of poems, delighted to find I’m still obsessed with the same imagery (poems then, poems now, and the new prose). I can’t believe how much emotion and insight the same set of core images continues to offer.

And the other surprise is to discover, through writing about various poverties, the currency I didn't realize I gained. For example, last week I wrote a scene based on the time we were living in a campground in the wooden camper my father built for us. We’d left the Illinois commune and arrived on the Russian River in the summer. By fall we were still house hunting, so I started public school in the fifth grade while living in the campground.

It all came back vividly: the sound of the rain dripping off the redwood leaves onto the roof, the smell of campfires, the intermittent sleep I’d get in the loft with my brother and sister, waking to rain wet socks when the wood seams of the camper warped and parted. Christmas neared, and with it, the obligation to play Secret Santa for a classmate. Making the best of our situation, I made a cardboard elephant puzzle. I watched as unobtrusively as possible as my classmate opened her cardboard puzzle. She turned the pieces over a few times, rummaged beneath the tissue, and then pushed the gift back into her desk and ran to see what her friends unwrapped. I wished I’d been able to give her something store bought, a Santa hat, glitter socks, a bow.

Once written out, down on paper, the energy trapped inside the memory released and the wheel of how I saw myself shifted, but this time, I was not just a witnessing child, but a child who grew up to become a mother. I get to bring motherhood’s lens of empathy and love back into the memories now. For me, empathy for other human beings is the un-measureable bounty and gift of poverty. The Wheel of Fortune goes up, the wheel goes down; sometimes you "have," sometimes you "have not."  But skimming the Ferris wheel of the past allows me to rise to the top where the sun warms both past self and current witness.

The Motherpeace Tarot (round cards) version of the Wheel of Fortune depicts a blue sky and the planets of the solar system crossing the midline of the card in a row. The card’s edge is ringed by the astrological sign of the zodiac as if to say, our fortune is our birth sign, each one of us bearing our unique mask, coming into incarnation with a specific set of circumstances and parents, each one of us equally valuable. The fortune is learning to recognize the value in who we are and what we have to contribute.

Under my roof, these final school days of June, it is hard to feel like a contributing member, hard to feel successful: one child oversleeps, a second needs hair color for crazy hair day and tells me at 6:30 a.m., our last-minute shopping trip putting the middle child in prime position for a tardy. The wash out spray-in colors, only stocked at Halloween, are nowhere to be found. So instead we apply clouds of the big sister’s hairspray and 12 packets of shades of glitter from blue to gold to deep crimson (all for just $2.47—thank you Wal-Mart).

I put my youngest son in front of the flowering hedge and snap his photo. It is the way he’ll rain gold and iridescent Tinkerbelle Blue all over his desk and teacher’s floor that makes me smile. I take the middle son in late, stand there with him during the attendance lady’s lecture, vow to get a red marker to mark the days of absence and vow to write out a new contract for the kids so I can stop being the heavy in a life abundant: Twelve shades of glitter to choose from on crazy hair day, and a mother who loves her kids as much as my father loved me and my siblings (so much so that he built that wooden camper for us to live in by hand).

Additional link:

Tarot for Two's latest podcast is live today; Mary and I take up the question of whether or not the Tarot deck is just a deck of cards or not:

Tarot for Two podcast 3: Is it just a deck of cards?

The Seven of Disks, Two of Swords and The Ace of Swords

May 5, 2017: The Seven of Disk by Tania Pryputniewicz

Last month when the Seven of Disks in the Thoth deck fell as my card of the month, I joked with Mary that the blue tree-like branches, arched and feathered, draped to form an owl with blue coins for eyes. Owls belong to the Illinois landscape of my childhood; I’m reminded of one little white owl I once caught sitting on a branch, nearly invisible in the falling snow and blue dusk. How swiftly she surveyed the landscape in one sweep! Equally brief: The sudden portal of our eye contact. Then she was gone.

The Rider Waite version of the Seven of Disks could be part of this landscape too—we see a gardener in a tan smock, blue leggings, and tan boots leaning on his hoe while gazing down at his garden of vines bearing seven blossoms. His expression is morose, bereft, despondent. The harvest is abundant and apparent—Why the long face? Did he want more?

The line I remember in relation to this card is “fear of failure” or “failure of the imagination” to see oneself thriving materially. When I referred back to Angeles Arrien, though, I found the phrase, “picture of fear of failure, or fear of success.” That particular variation on my memory, “fear of success,” intrigued me. Am I afraid of succeeding? Too comfortable hanging back? Relative anonymity has provided a beautiful shield behind which to incubate and create.

So how does the Seven of Disks relate? In a month when my online class enrollment dipped, at first I felt like the mournful gardener. But very quickly, I realized I could redirect my teaching energy into the new prose project I’ve started. And while writing prose is not entirely new to me, poetry has been the “home form” for years. While raising my children, teaching, and blogging, I discovered I can write poems in short distracted bursts around pick up and drop off, ER rooms, lunch making, bake sales and what it takes to run a household with a frequently traveling husband.

But writing prose requires more unbroken stretches. Additionally I am anxious as I go back into the terrain mapped in the poems. I’m doing this by re-examining an old prose manuscript I wrote just after finishing my MFA.  It is overwhelming to see how many ways I’ve tried to write about it all—reincarnation, poverty, and mental duress—and still I am rummaging around, very much like that troubled gardener in the Seven of Disks looking down at his seeds emerging, vining, blossoming. And I’m wondering, how will I ever convey the beauty in the poison, the gifts in the obstacles? 

Mercifully, the press of “now” interrupts to keep me grounded. My son wants his guitar and amp dropped off in town, the dentist calls looking for my youngest son due in the chair ten minutes ago. As I drive to town, I’m panicked I’ll never have the time to see my story’s structure clearly enough, never know how to create a garden a reader could walk through with me. But even deeper than that is the fear of dying. Today I am laughing about it a bit—I feel desperate as a century plant tossing up all my seeds at once! I remember these feelings surfacing during the editing of my first book—and even further back between being accepted to the Writers’ Workshop and actually arriving there to start—this gripping fear that I’d die or somehow get in my own way and not be able to do the work.

Of course, the only antidote is to keep writing. And to keep reading memoirs by other writers. Like H is for Hawk…which teaches me that you must allow yourself to love what you love without censor and bring that love to the page. And to allow time for the transition from writing poems—with their one luminous image focus—to writing prose, which is more like weaving a hammock than suspending a single crystal coin to catch the sunlight. 

May 5, 2017:  The Two of Swords and Ace of Swords by Mary Allen

I ended up with two cards of the month last month. 

Before I pick my card of the month I spread all the cards out face down on the coffee table and then run my hand back and forth about three inches above them, hoping to feel some heat or impulse or something that will help me pick the right card, a happy auspicious card that will tell me something good is going to happen in the next month instead of something I don’t want to hear.  When I was picking my card of the month last time my attention was strongly drawn to a certain spot in the row of cards, so I picked a card from there.  

I have to admit that I cheat a little when I pick my card of the month, pull it out and peek at the bottom and if I see it’s something I definitely don’t want—the three of swords, say, or the Tower or the 10 of swords—actually I don’t even have the 10 of swords in my deck because I took it out, but if it’s something else that I definitely do not want I put it back and pick another one.  This time it was something I did want—the two of swords (Peace, in the Thoth deck, something maybe not quite as unambiguously favorable in the Rider Waite deck, more about that below), so I kept the two of swords.  But then I thought, why not see what the card next to it is, since you felt so drawn to pull something out of this spot, what if that card is something better than the two of swords.  So I picked that card out too and it turned out to be the ace of swords.  So I decided to keep them both and have two cards of the month this time.

The ace of swords, like all the aces, is about a gift from God or the universe.  With the ace of swords it could be a gift of clarity or something else related to thought.  I particularly like the aces in the Rider Waite deck.  (Last time Tania and I decided we’d start looking at those cards too, in addition to the Thoth deck which we always use.)   The four Rider Waite aces all show a hand coming out of a small cloud in the sky, and the hand, surrounded by white lines of light, is always holding something.  With the ace of swords it’s a big sword with a crown at the top and two green garlands drooping from the crown.  The sword looks kind of like Ex Calibur and there’s something vaguely Arthurian about the whole card:  A line of small purple and blue mountains at the bottom look like medieval mountains, the regal crown with red jewels and garlands looks like King Arthur’s crown as it’s usually depicted.  I guess I can say I like that ace of swords better than the Thoth one, which is also beautiful—that sword is bigger and looks, not exactly contemporary but timeless and a bit abstract.  You don’t get the sense of history from it, not medieval history or any history, and instead of a crown at the top there’s a crown of huge rays of light (I do actually love those rays of light), and the sword is resting on a field of yellow light with a bed of clouds around the edges.  They look like clouds you’d see from the window of an airplane instead of a cloud producing the hand of God above a medieval landscape.  

But I like the Thoth two of swords a little better than the Rider Waite two of swords, not necessarily because of how the Rider Waite two looks but because of something about it that I don’t like thinking is true of me in the last month.  In the Thoth deck the two of swords is a simple image of two swords crossing, there’s a blue lotus at the crossing point, pleasing white geometric shapes in the background.  At the bottom is the word peace.  (All Thoth minor arcana cards have a word at the bottom; some of them bother me a little or don’t exactly capture what I think the card is about, but that’s not the case with peace for the two of swords.)  

The Rider Waite two of swords shows a woman sitting on a bench holding two swords, her arms are crossed and the two swords stick out at angles.  There’s a shore and an ocean behind her, a yellow sliver of moon in a blue sky above, and a blindfold over her eyes.   That blindfold that makes all the difference between the two twos.  Whereas the two in the Thoth deck is about simple peace, the two in the Rider Waite deck suggests a slightly more complicated peace, peace achieved through denial, through not seeing something.  At least that’s what it suggests to me, and when I see the image my heart sinks just a little.

So what does this say to me about my month?  When I looked at these three cards all month, the Thoth ace of swords and two two of swords, I thought of my meditation practice:  How every morning I sit in the green brocade chair in the corner of my attic study, close my eyes, listen to the sounds around me, and meditate for twenty minutes.  During that time I almost always do achieve peace, not for the entire twenty minutes, not by a long shot, but for at least a few moments here and there when I somehow manage to stop thinking and just listen to the sounds are me.  When I get to that place I feel the gifts of light and energy and peace and clarity, I feel life itself, all around me, and I know in a deep way that that’s always there and all I have to do is get peaceful and quiet enough inside to find it.

So is there something I don’t want to see, something I need to put a blindfold of denial on about, in order to achieve peace, a la the two of swords in the Rider Waite deck?  I suppose so.  There always is.  Right now it’s a few messy relationships issues, worries about money and not getting published and all kinds of other stuff.  Maybe I am putting on a mental blindfold, trying not to think about those things. But maybe the card isn’t talking about that, doesn’t have to be talking about that, or maybe I don’t have to worry about (deal with) whether it is or not.   Maybe I can just think of myself sitting in that chair every morning trying to turn my back on the ocean of thinking, worrying, planning, projecting, that seems to go on inside my head during every waking, non-meditating minute, whether I’m aware of it or not.  

Additional Links:

Tarot for Two's First Podcast, on YouTube:

How Does The Tarot Work?

The Empress and the Knight of Cups

April 7, 2017: The Empress by Mary Allen

My card this month was the Empress, the third major arcana card in the deck.  According to Angeles Arrien the Empress is about love with wisdom.

The Empress isn’t one of the cards I associate with myself or particularly relate to, although I love how it (she) looks in the Thoth deck:  A crowned female figure holding a lotus, her face viewed from the side, two moons and a bower of green leaves surrounding her, a swan and a shield with a double phoenix on it at her feet.  Except she doesn’t really have feet—her lower body is green—the whole card is predominantly green and pink, she’s wearing a pink top covered with symbols—and the green striped lower body might be a mermaid’s tail.   At first glance I can’t figure out what she, and love with wisdom, had to do with the month I just went through.

           

I spent two weeks in the desert last month, on a writing hiking vacation with my friend JoAnn.  We stayed in the same Air BnB house in 29 Palms we stayed in last year, sat across from each other at a formica table on the sun porch and wrote every morning and then went for a long hike somewhere in Joshua Tree National Park every afternoon.  I decided to write about the vacation during the vacation, which made me notice everything, made me more mindful more often, than I would have otherwise. 

I love the desert, love Joshua Tree, love hiking along the stony sandy trails that wind among the huge ancient tan granite boulders in the park, I love that house and the bedroom I’ve slept in there for two weeks, two years in a row now.  I love the sound of the oleander scratching on the window at night when I get into bed, I love sitting on the back patio in the sunshine every morning looking out across the sandy yard dotted with cactuses to the mountains in the distance, I love the air, the light, the cactuses, the mourning doves that roost on the clothesline and the hummingbird that sips and sips from the hummingbird feeder at the corner of the house.  I loved every single thing about that vacation, and I suppose you could say that by writing about it while I was there I loved it with wisdom.   Knowing I was going to write about it made me feel, if not exactly wise, then awake, aware, which I suppose is a kind of wisdom.

I don’t see the desert in the Empress, the way I could see it in the Prince of Wands with his golden corona and vehicle of fire, which I picked as my card of the month a couple of years ago during another trip to the desert with JoAnn.   The Empress is a watery card rather than a fiery one, all those pinks and greens and lotuses and water birds.  But the empress herself is resting in a bower of her own making, an inner bower made of peace and loveliness and happiness, and my desert vacation rests in my memory as a time of airiness and peace and happiness, and the desert with its fierceness has a kind of loveliness of its own.

A couple of days before the end of our vacation, JoAnn and I hiked a steep trail up one side of a mountain and down the other side to an oasis, a place where forty-nine ancient enormous palm trees grow in a fold among the rocks, fed by a spring.  We sat there for a while on a large flat piece of granite, eating almonds and drinking bottled water, listening to the wind rattle the flat dry leaves of the palm trees, breathing the cool, green, moist, pure air.  The green and pink Empress sitting in her leafy bower makes me think of that cool green oasis resting in the middle of the hard tan desert, and of our vacation opening like a window of summer in the middle of our winters.

April 7, 2017: The Knight of Cups by Tania Pryputniewicz

Oh the birds of San Diego are happy, warbling over one another’s songs in elaborate riffs and rounds! I’m sitting in the sun at a new wooden rectangular table on our back patio. At first I was sad to move aside the old weathered round umbrella table where I usually write, but the new one affords me room to scatter out my sketchpad, colored pencils, and my Tarot book library.

Before we hung up to write, I asked Mary where she’d be sitting. I can see her in my mind’s eye at her kitchen table in Iowa. How cheerful to be so vividly bridged these mornings, to be “taroting” (the verb Mary coined for our tarot play), together again.

For two months now the Knight of Cups has presided over my altar. A pair of heart-shaped shadows catches my eye first. They form the bottoms of the horse’s hooves as he kicks up his heels. This white horse with a blue bridle bears a rider with blue wings that echo pale blue shell-shaped sweeping waves, foamed, and one ethereal blue peacock at the card’s bottom.

I love most the rider’s wings. I’ve often thought the wings belonged to the horse, but the wings spring from the shoulders of the green-armored knight. The knight holds a chalice to the sky, a red crab emerging at cup’s rim. He’s offering up his heart and the heart’s questions. In the image of the crab I see a layer of protection, the color red so vibrant, a salute to the passionate heart.

The images suit the heart work I engaged in this month. On the heels of completing a cycle of poems about the commune I lived on as a child, I started mining the material again in prose. I’m still excavating divorce, loss, geographical and psychological moves—not in order to blame, but to understand motivations. Like every writer, I must balance heart concerns for those I write about with concerns for younger versions of myself. I need all three tools: chalice of open heart, sheltering shell of the crab, and wings for aerial perspective. 

Alejandro Jodorowsky puts these words in the mouth of the Knight of Cups: “My sole desire, to realize this endless talent with which I’ve been invested, is to survive so that I may remain within its service” (with Marianne Costa, The Way of Tarot: The Spiritual Teacher in the Cards). The part of this quote that interests me most is the line: “to survive so that I may remain in its service.” In other words, to write about difficult things, but to not get lost or feel eclipsed. To survive, thrive, and be of greater service on the other side of whatever I discover.

When my husband and I walk the dog at 6 a.m., usually the sky and sea mirror back blues. But this morning found us under a light pink sky, ocean’s surface beveling towards us in gentle silt grey and light pink waves. Near the parking lot we passed a crab. Upside down and yards from the tide line, it glittered wet and bright red as the chalice in the Knight of Cups card. My vote: dropped by a fisherman. My husband: dropped by a bird. I love that the crab showed up scant hours before today’s Card of the Month writing.

I also see in this Knight of Cups my husband and I offering up our hearts like parallel knights in pursuit of our loves. He spends hours swimming in the sea and running on land and mentoring others to bring their bodies to peak performance. And I spend hours writing and when I can, mentoring others to find their words. As the Shadow of Oz deck so beautifully states in relation to the Knight of Cups, you must find a way to appreciate, “The overwhelming beauty haunting your situation.” For today, I carry on, blissfully haunted by colors from the blue prairie snow skies of the past to the sunrise pinks of now.

Upcoming on-line class taught by Tania:

Entering theTarot Garden: An Introduction to Tarot