As I write this, the first storm bands from Hurricane Irma are starting to roll across the Low Country. The radar map shows them as sweeping waves of green and yellow and blue, spiraling counterclockwise as the wind and rain move closer to us.
Widdershins. Leftwise. The direction of banishing.
I wish I could banish all the damage that Irma will deal to the Southeast as she rips up Florida's backbone and erupts into South Georgia. I do not wield that kind of power. A hurricane, like all of those things we call natural disasters, is an elemental force. It has no fury. No mercy either. It is what it is, and all we can do is prepare for the onslaught—gather batteries and canned food, recharge the phone, tie up loose objects.
As the storm's projected track has shifted, so has its targets. My home is no longer a bull's eyes, and so I can breathe a sigh of relief. But now people I love are about to take a direct hit, and the fear returns. I light candles in the reiki bowl and write the names of my dear ones on slips of white paper. Into the silver and gold bowl they go, and my prayers for their safety go into the universe. This too is preparation. This too is necessary.
This week's card is The Nine of Swords. Here is what I said about it the last time it turned up in a reading:
Strength in reserve. That's the message of the Nine of Wands, personified by our grizzled, war-weary hero at the gates.
He's
seen trouble, sure enough. And more troubles are on the way, you can
bet. Trouble's always rolling in somewhere, after all, and his wary,
defiant stance suggests that he'll be
there to meet it when it does. Trouble is not going to sneak up on him
in the night, no sir, no ma'am.
And
he's right, of course. Trouble is here, trouble there, trouble trouble
everywhere. What else is a person to do but wrap the bandages tighter,
grab a stick, and take up position?
Indeed. What else can we do but prepare? Some battles meet us at our own front doors. A hurricane certainly does.
As we batten down our hatches and send thoughts of protection to our loved ones, we channel the energy of this card. We are still standing. We are still strong. We can endure.
But there is one caveat to this card—our bloody but unbowed warrior stands alone. I wonder if he really is, though. I am grateful to be facing this storm in the company of people who care for me. We can look out for each other. And we will.
This week, no matter what challenge you are facing, know that you are strong enough to handle it. And also know that even though it may feel at times like a solitary battle, it isn't. As Mr. Rogers reminded us, look for the helpers. Look hard. And remember, sometimes you're the helper.
Blessed be, y'all. Keep watch. Hold tight. Stay strong. I'll see you on the other side of the storm.
As I turned over the card for this week's reading, I was gratified to see the Nine of Cups revealed. After all, this week we celebrate Lammas, also known as Lughnasadh, the sabbat celebrating the grain harvest, and the Nine of Cups is the card of the bountiful table.
Imagine my surprise when I noticed that on this exact same time last year I drew this exact same card. What I had to say still applies on this most welcoming and nurturing eve, so I'm sharing it again. The Wheel turns and returns. Blessed be the Wheel.
And blessed be your creative endeavors this Lammas Day.
☀
Today
the Wheel of the Year turns, ushering in the Gaelic feast day of
Lughnasadh, the first of the mid- to late-summer harvest festivals
celebrated through Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Man. Also known as
Lammas, or "loaf-mass," in English-speaking countries, this holiday is a
celebration of the first wheat harvest, and all the goodness that
derives from that grain, especially bread.
Bread
is more than physical sustenance—it is also a symbol of our connection
to the cycles of life, and to each other. It is no coincidence that the
word "companion" come from the Old French compaignon, literally "one who shares bread" (the Latin com which means "together" and panis which means "bread").
I
was thinking about these themes when I turned over the card for this
week's reading, so I was not a bit surprised to see the Nine of Cups
shining there. What a bountiful card this is, and what an appropriate
day for it to grace our presence. It does come with one warning,
though—in abundance, we must also be generous. This card is often called
the "wish" card, but as those old stories about genies illustrate, we
must be careful what we wish for. We must never confuse abundance with a
static state, a have or have-not duality. Generosity is an energy, less
about the bread than the active breaking of it.
This
week, ponder the nature of your resources both creative and otherwise.
Who do you break bread with, both literally and figuratively? Who shares
the abundance of your table? Who invites you to share in theirs? Think
about these people this week, both past and present. Connect to them in
your thoughts, and if possible, in your words. Perhaps even bake some
actual, honest-to-goodness bread to share with them, a tangible symbol
of your gratitude for their presence in your life. Here is a very
simple, and very good, recipe. Don't let your resources stagnate with you.
For
this is the truth all creative folk understand—we are not islands unto
ourselves. Our art connects us to each other, and to the Universe. Not a
word we write exists in isolation for we are using the same ancient
tools—in the case of us English speakers, twenty-six of them—that have
been used for thousands of years. We are artisans and architects,
keepers of a sacred well, tenders of an old old fire. When we sit down
to the page, we are always in good company. And as such, we should
always be grateful. We should always raise our metaphorical cups in
salute.
Have a blessed Loaf Day! May it be fruitful now and throughout your harvest season!
In numerological thinking, nine is the number of completeness and culmination. So is ten. In the tarot, however, endings are actually beginnings. The ten is the last number is a suit, and therefore leads you right back to the one. Circles in the sand, cycles and seasons.
Nines, though...nines don't play that paradox game. Nines come down like a curtain. And nowhere do we see the nines' knack for utter finality than in the Swords.
The Swords are the suit of mental acuity. Like the blades that are their metaphor, Swords cut both ways. The same intellectual sharpness that we use to be logical and rational can also be used for cruelty and spite, sometimes at the same time. To paraphrase a popular saying, we always hurt the one we know best. And we know no one better than we know ourselves.
The Nine of Swords occurs during the dark night of the soul. But it doesn't reference any actual event; rather, it refers to those times when our anxiety is so strong that it becomes a force to be reckoned with all by itself. Our worries are only worries--insubstantial, wispy--but given the proper fuel, we can worry them into something three-dimensional.
So perhaps the nines do traffic in paradox after all.
This week, if you feel the cold breath of something unpleasant against the back of your neck, don't let your imagination fill in the details. Turn around and face that monster straight on. It's guaranteed to be smaller that way, less corporeal. Give it a poke and watch that soap bubble baddie go poof right in front of you. You created it after all. You can de-create it just as easily.
But if that doesn't work...brew some tea and call a friend. Nothing like flesh and blood sympathy to take the edge off a nightmare.
It seems only fitting that following so many cards related to tribe and community and collaboration, we now have a card of sovereign success and power—The Nine of Pentacles. We last had a visit from this lady and her falcon back in June of 2015 (you can read that here) and I am heartened to have her grace us with her presence again.
Pentacles are considered a feminine suit in that they are about gathering inward—they ask us to be receptive. Pentacles are also one of the order-making suits. Like the Swords, their masculine counterpart, they are about transforming chaos into understandable patterns. But while the Swords can often be efficiently brutal in this process—yes, those blades do cut both ways—the Pentacles are gentler and at the same time stronger. Pentacles are foundational cards: seeds into mighty oaks, bricks into cathedrals, a humble abode into a safe and nurturing home.
Our Lady of the Falcon is all of these things. She is successful, as those golden coins and sumptuous clothes attest. She has labored long and hard, as anyone who has ever tended a garden will tell you. And she has tamed her wilder impulses, as personified by the predator on her arm.
Ah, but we are creative folk, yes? We know that below the surface lies a much more interesting tale. And it has as much to do with the nature of storytellers—and storymakers—as it does with the nature of falcons.
Writers court wildness. We offer our arms as a perching spot. We train and hone our minds to call it to us. Because if you've come this far in your creative journey, you
know that wildness does not respond to being chased. As I explained previously, "Wildness comes to
stillness. We must learn to be composed and self-contained to develop a
relationship with the part of us which flies clean and high. The part of
us that swoops in ever-widening gyres, but which--with trust and
proper care--will always return to our arm."
This week, become the Lady of the Nine of Pentacles, the tarot's example of the self-made woman. Trust, release, and know that your wild soul will never desert you as long as you partner with it instead of trying to control it. Pull off the feathered hood. Do not fear its big sharp talons—the better to feed you with, my dear.
Today the Wheel of the Year turns, ushering in the Gaelic feast day of Lughnasadh, the first of the mid- to late-summer harvest festivals celebrated through Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Man. Also known as Lammas, or "loaf-mass," in English-speaking countries, this holiday is a celebration of the first wheat harvest, and all the goodness that derives from that grain, especially bread.
Bread is more than physical sustenance—it is also a symbol of our connection to the cycles of life, and to each other. It is no coincidence that the word "companion" come from the Old French compaignon, literally "one who shares bread" (the Latin com which means "together" and panis which means "bread").
I was thinking about these themes when I turned over the card for this week's reading, so I was not a bit surprised to see the Nine of Cups shining there. What a bountiful card this is, and what an appropriate day for it to grace our presence. It does come with one warning, though—in abundance, we must also be generous. This card is often called the "wish" card, but as those old stories about genies illustrate, we must be careful what we wish for. We must never confuse abundance with a static state, a have or have-not duality. Generosity is an energy, less about the bread than the active breaking of it.
This week, ponder the nature of your resources both creative and otherwise. Who do you break bread with, both literally and figuratively? Who shares the abundance of your table? Who invites you to share in theirs? Think about these people this week, both past and present. Connect to them in your thoughts, and if possible, in your words. Perhaps even bake some actual, honest-to-goodness bread to share with them, a tangible symbol of your gratitude for their presence in your life. Here is a very simple, and very good, recipe. Don't let your resources stagnate with you.
For this is the truth all creative folk understand—we are not islands unto ourselves. Our art connects us to each other, and to the Universe. Not a word we write exists in isolation for we are using the same ancient tools—in the case of us English speakers, twenty-six of them—that have been used for thousands of years. We are artisans and architects, keepers of a sacred well, tenders of an old old fire. When we sit down to the page, we are always in good company. And as such, we should always be grateful. We should always raise our metaphorical cups in salute.
Have a blessed Loaf Day! May it be fruitful now and throughout your harvest season!
Strength in reserve. That's the message of the Nine of Wands, personified by our grizzled, war-weary hero at the gates.
He's seen trouble, sure enough. And more troubles are on the way, you can bet. Trouble's always rolling in somewhere, after all, and his wary, defiant stance and bloodied but unbowed demeanor suggest that he'll be there to meet it when it does. Trouble is not going to sneak up on him in the night, no sir, no ma'am.
And he's right, of course. Trouble is here, trouble there, trouble trouble everywhere. What else is a person to do but wrap the bandages tighter, grab a stick, and take up position?
Well, now that you mention it, there's lots a person can do besides that.
A person could ask questions, for starters. Like, why am I the only one guarding this particular section of sticks? Isn't it someone else's turn? What's so important about these sticks anyway? And—and this is the trickiest question of all—am I attracting trouble by standing out here looking like a target?
You are of course strong enough for whatever battle is to come—this card guarantees it. What it doesn't spell out for you, for anyone, is whether or not this is a battle you should be fighting. When the Nine of Wands comes visiting, it's time to evaluate what character you've decided to play in the story of your life.
Maybe you'll decide that you are indeed fighting the good fight; if so, hold your stick high, fellow warrior. Or maybe you'll decide to let Don Quixote tilt at windmills while you go do something else, like take a hot bath and get some rest.
Because maybe, just maybe, you're brandishing that stick at the enemy-yet-to-come because that's much less frightening than figuring out what it is you're really supposed to be doing. Don't let Wielder of Sticks become your sole identity. Remind yourself of what life could be like without a stick in your hands.
Hint: It's pretty good.
Ah, now this is better. The Nine of Pentacles is one of my favorite cards, as it is often described as the card of the self-made woman. Just look at her, standing there on her own two feet. She is independence personified, dressed in a richly embroidered gown, gold coins literally rolling at her feet. It's a lush card, and like all the nines, a mix of both past actions and the eventual results of those actions.
But the key to this card isn't the money or the wardrobe -- it's the falcon on her arm.
Make no mistake, that's one wild bird. Fierce. A predator. And yet our lady has him lightly perched on one hand.
Writers court such wildness, but if you've come this far in your creative journey, you know that wildness does not respond to being chased. Wildness comes to stillness. We must learn to be composed and self-contained to develop a relationship with the part of us which flies clean and high. The part of us that swoops in ever-widening gyres, but which -- with trust and proper care -- will always return to our arm.
This week, take some time to make yourself a resting place for your fine feathered Muse. The creative spirit can be fierce and free, but if you cultivate some time alone, in some garden metaphorical or otherwise, it will come to you. And it will prove to be a faithful companion.
As I write this, the first storm bands from Hurricane Irma are starting to roll across the Low Country. The radar map shows them as sweeping waves of green and yellow and blue, spiraling counterclockwise as the wind and rain move closer to us.
As the storm's projected track has shifted, so has its targets. My home is no longer a bull's eyes, and so I can breathe a sigh of relief. But now people I love are about to take a direct hit, and the fear returns. I light candles in the reiki bowl and write the names of my dear ones on slips of white paper. Into the silver and gold bowl they go, and my prayers for their safety go into the universe. This too is preparation. This too is necessary.
