I bought my first pack of tarot cards as a teenager. My mother found them and threw them away. A recovering evangelical, she had a lingering distrust for the “occult” and a general suspicion of my interest in anything spiritual. Add it to the list of things she threw out: pentacles, terrible books about Wicca, every candle I ever bought.
Years later, I bought another pack. I was staying with my mother temporarily during a dark time in my life- recovering from mental health issues, dropping out of the college I had worked hard to get into, the dissolution of my strongest relationships. I started reading the cards everyday, painfully slowly, diving right into the Celtic Cross because it was the only thing I knew.
I made the mistake of leaving my cards out on the floor one day before I left for my temp job. My mother threw them away, yet again, worried that my recent mental distress was manifesting as religious delusions, like the ones that had plagued my father during his short life.
I didn’t bother fighting about it. I was busy anyway, figuring out how to live. It was a time-consuming process, lasting the better part of a decade. Now I find myself with a career, a partner, and a home, but there is something missing. One piece I have neglected while building my life from scratch- my spirit.
My first step: I bought my first tarot deck in 10 years. I’m working through the Little Red Tarot’s Alternative Tarot course. These cards, that have always called to me, even in the shallowest, cheesiest readings I’ve had over the years, are turning out to be a wonderful map for this new pilgrimage I’m on. Yesterday I had a great reading, and my reader told me that tarot would be a great healing force for me.
I’m ready to being. I’m ready to be the Pilgrim.