So, here I am, past Christmas, the calendar new year, the winter, and into an as yet two-crocus-still-snow-on-the-ground spring. Or, rather, what is called "spring" in New England, which I do not consider a real spring, but nevertheless, an end and a beginning. Me, Kali, and the Hanged Man.
In a typical-for-me new agey action I had my tarot read near the end of the year, both the calendar year and my birthday year. Not surprisingly, the card for the coming year was the Hanged Man. The Kali of the tarot, it is an interesting card, one that portends a year of questioning all one believes to be true, that held close as given, and the coming of events that will require re-evaluation of those ideals.
I did not ask for this situation, that is certain, but it is not really negative per se, just uncomfortable. A life shaken up and spread in pieces, but in the way of all equivalent topological figures not torn, just changed.
Okay, okay so there are those of you who may laugh at my new age (what a term--deserts and crystals!) stuff, and at my always looking for the proverbial bright side sort of thinking, but really, what is the option? Dragged down and dismal, bemoaning fate and cursing the gods? I-don't-think-so. I couldn't sustain that for long. And why would I want to? After all, there are two small flowers in the front garden, and two new lambs, and a massive flock of snow buntings visited on their way north, appearing suddenly, a bushel of identical & perfect origamied handkerchiefs thrown against the sky.
And what else did the reading offer in the way of providing a different angle from which to contemplate my life, you ask.
A gift. Quite simply, a gift.
The Ace of Swords illustrates a gift offered, held out for the taking. A gift. I hadn't thought I was being offered a gift. After all, it is not exactly what comes to mind when life seems tsunami-overwhelming, but then again, me being me, it is sort of surprising I didn't, because it is so in my nature to tell others that there is (most likely) an upside to difficult circumstances. (Pollyanna-ish? And why is that said so often with such disdain? Another post for sure) Evidently--thank you again, tarot--this stuff is necessary for me to find peace with myself and the life I am living. Hey, I can agree that sounds good (yeah, those crystals and chanting again) but couldn't it just be beamed into me or something? Isn't there a pill for this???
Whatever. Here I am, and I suppose then I may as well try to find something....well...at least okay in it all. How American, isn't it? To say that?
Still.....you sure no pill? Tincture?? Puh-leese????
Guess not, and so, here we are then: Look ahead. It is post time; the horses are in the starting gate. Turn around and ghosts whisper. And the air between is thin. Very thin, and very fine.
(Title credit: "Post-time and ghost time" inspired by John Stewart, Golden Gate Fields: "..the junkies and jockeys, at post-time and coast time..." on The Day the River Sang.)
In a typical-for-me new agey action I had my tarot read near the end of the year, both the calendar year and my birthday year. Not surprisingly, the card for the coming year was the Hanged Man. The Kali of the tarot, it is an interesting card, one that portends a year of questioning all one believes to be true, that held close as given, and the coming of events that will require re-evaluation of those ideals.
I did not ask for this situation, that is certain, but it is not really negative per se, just uncomfortable. A life shaken up and spread in pieces, but in the way of all equivalent topological figures not torn, just changed.
Okay, okay so there are those of you who may laugh at my new age (what a term--deserts and crystals!) stuff, and at my always looking for the proverbial bright side sort of thinking, but really, what is the option? Dragged down and dismal, bemoaning fate and cursing the gods? I-don't-think-so. I couldn't sustain that for long. And why would I want to? After all, there are two small flowers in the front garden, and two new lambs, and a massive flock of snow buntings visited on their way north, appearing suddenly, a bushel of identical & perfect origamied handkerchiefs thrown against the sky.
And what else did the reading offer in the way of providing a different angle from which to contemplate my life, you ask.
A gift. Quite simply, a gift.
The Ace of Swords illustrates a gift offered, held out for the taking. A gift. I hadn't thought I was being offered a gift. After all, it is not exactly what comes to mind when life seems tsunami-overwhelming, but then again, me being me, it is sort of surprising I didn't, because it is so in my nature to tell others that there is (most likely) an upside to difficult circumstances. (Pollyanna-ish? And why is that said so often with such disdain? Another post for sure) Evidently--thank you again, tarot--this stuff is necessary for me to find peace with myself and the life I am living. Hey, I can agree that sounds good (yeah, those crystals and chanting again) but couldn't it just be beamed into me or something? Isn't there a pill for this???Whatever. Here I am, and I suppose then I may as well try to find something....well...at least okay in it all. How American, isn't it? To say that?
Still.....you sure no pill? Tincture?? Puh-leese????
Guess not, and so, here we are then: Look ahead. It is post time; the horses are in the starting gate. Turn around and ghosts whisper. And the air between is thin. Very thin, and very fine.
(Title credit: "Post-time and ghost time" inspired by John Stewart, Golden Gate Fields: "..the junkies and jockeys, at post-time and coast time..." on The Day the River Sang.)
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