I can’t tell you how long this has been going on, but I’ve had the unbelievable need to pull out my deck of cards. I think it really began when I downloaded a Tarot app for my phone. (IT’S SO COOL.) I think. Maybe. But, since… whenever… I’ve had just this, this, this raw need to pull out my Tarot deck. My hands tingle at the thought. I can envision myself endlessly shuffling them. I can see myself clearing away space on the table so that I can lay out for a large spread. I can see all of this happening, but I don’t do it. Even though the prickling sensation is almost at the intolerable point… I continue to ignore it.
I know it’s because I don’t really want to know what they’re going to tell me.
It’s just like when I was getting incessant whispers from Papa Legba before I was fired: I was scared. I was terrified. I was biting-my-nails-jittery-like-an-addict scared. That’s why I didn’t take what he wanted to heart and why he threw me over the cliff’s edge. Since, you know, I wasn’t gonna!
So. There I am, waiting to pull out the cards to see what they have to tell me.
I rarely get this way with cards anymore. It’s only when the big shit is coming down to throw a sledgehammer in my face do I get this need/feeling/addiction.
It’s so stupid because I used to go to my fucking cards every day. I pulled a daily card to see how accurate they were when I was working at the condo down south. I had my oracle deck and my traveler’s version of the Rider-Waite. I was fucking good with both of them, too. I went to them all of the fucking time when I had re-moved back up here with my ex-asshole. I remember sitting in The Sister’s living room and doing random spread after spread for no reason. I remember that was a really big part of our Wiccan-ish practices when I first moved back up here. It was also, I think, a way for us to bond since we were being thrown together by two of the most immature fucktards out there.
I remember taking my deck with me to school when I was at college with The Sister and the Hubby. I remember that it was the first place I turned to for any questions, thoughts, comments, concerns. I was always spot on with myself, mostly because I’m the biggest snot-nosed bitch and didn’t mind hearing what I needed to hear… from myself. I remember throwing out cards and saying, “It’s like this, see.” And it was like this, see. It was always like that.
And then I moved back down south and got pregnant. And… since then, the cards. Not so much. We’re not so tight anymore. This bothers me because I used to be fantastic with the cards. I rarely had to look at the meaning in a book. Of course, I’m thinking of my oracle deck, which has significantly less for cards than, say, my tarot deck. I still had to do the look-up thing with my tarot deck, but I knew what was coming. And … it kind of feels like when I got pregnant, I lost the gift. The whole religion thing when I was a waddling baby-maker was pretty much the last thing on my mind. (Although I did still do minor celebrations for Samhain.)
I’m not trying to blame my son on this. I just realized that it correlated, is all.
No. Wait. You know what? I do blame him. He took all my gifts, damn it! I remember when the EM was possessed by one of the goddesses (can’t recall which one). The goddess told me that my son was special. That he had power and I think… I think he took a lot of my power when he was a-brewing. The EM wasn’t the only one who told me this shit, either. I can think of two other people–“normal” people–who have said similarly about my son. So, maybe the kid did take all of my awesome fore-telling-ness away. I can only hope that he chooses a different platform than me. I love me the tarot but I’d love to know someone who does like geomancy or astrology for rillz or you know, like runes or something. That would be pretty neat.
Rambling side thoughts over.
I remember turning to the cards a lot when I was living with my current ILs. They were always wrong and so negative and then I stopped. That was my last-ditch effort.
And now, I have the itch.
I should listen to this itch. I should pull them out and see what they have to say. Obviously, the shit is important if I’ve felt this way every day for who knows how long. And I guess, at some point, I’ll pay attention to the feeling.
The other thing that I’m scared of is that I might be wrong. …is that… after all of this time, I’ve lost the gift, you know? I know how fucking fantastic I used to be and I don’t want to go back to some no-name kid, you know? I want to be able to force awe out of people when I tell them this, this, and that. I want to awe myself when I pull those bad boys out. I might feel better, maybe, if I had someone else do a reading similarly to mine. Of course, I won’t be asking anything in specific except maybe: WHAT’S UP UNIVERSE. WHAT YOU GOT.
Having a back up reading feels wrong.
I have to do this one. I just… I’m back to being a scared little bitch.