Sophomore Year
We start another revolution.
Welcome, and a warm first hello to the newcomers!
I’m so happy you’re here.
Lately, I find myself at the start of several new paths, a Fool once again.
The big cosmic joke of the tarot is that there’s no way to win. This is not just ok, it’s great news. What a relief!
Let me explain why this isn’t a disaster:
As soon as we work our way up through all those glorious, complex layers, we find ourselves not atop the world, complete, but rather, diving gracefully back down toward the start of the path once more.
The tarot is not:
a series of steps
a to-do list to enlightenment
a straight path;
it’s a circle that widens gently as we grow through life. That widening can sometimes come as a shock, and that’s ok. New feelings may surprise.
I don’t think it’s discouraging that the tarot is not a winnable process. It reminds me that we’re never done evolving as creatures, so we never have to feel stuck. It also assures me that I can strive as hard as I want for great things, because the world will never run out of amazing things for me to seek.
Contents:
Wish To Be Water
Future Fossils
Rows
For Those
Hot Iron
Feeding Time
Thieves of Blooms
Dissolve
Zig-Zags
Furled
Low and Slow
Skyward
Background music: “Hourglass is Half Full” by The Lizzy Co Show
Wish To Be Water
One drop of rain
Looks much the same
As its fellows, but let’s pretend
This one is special.
Watch as it knifes the air,
A painful pelt against cheek
Raising red
In protest.
The nerve
Is trigeminal, far-reaching.
Lone raindrops cannot read stop signs,
But that’s fine,
Our boundaries extend in all directions;
Oasis is contained,
We can be found
Only by the sweeter rain’s compass.
Let the water mellow as the river distends,
A springtime deluge is precious,
But also precarious.
Mind the ice floes as they stroll past:
They wish to be water,
But their chill will last.Future Fossils An exponential rocket to the sky Looks like it moves slowly from far away. So ponderous, elephantine in flight: How well will you remember this strange day? Atomic-small humans tucked deep within, Soft bodies cradled tight from the jostle. The rocket-mother bears them with a grin; She knows they are only future fossils. Up close, explosion is all that we know; It’s easy to think growth is disaster, When, in fact, it’s toward the stars we go, Not from, as dis-aster’s name would affirm. A rocket starts on solid ground, at first: Know it cannot stay rooted. It will burst.
Rows
At night, I wander
Slowly down the whispering
Rows, looking for you.For Those
For those who tug at shirt hems, discontent,
In rooms filled with too many moving parts,
Unsure of whose eyes matter most to them,
Disguising heavy drumming in their hearts:
I grab your hand and pull you in real close.
A small note, folded tightly, in your palm
Digs into your flesh, we get nose-to-nose,
Like mother-daughter, and you remain calm.
You are enough, you are enough, I say,
Straight into your eyes, you cannot ignore
The wisdom that comes from living one’s days
In constant search of the next open door.
I cannot make you love yourself, kiddo,
But I can hold you while you learn to, though.
Hot Iron
What is a woman for, if not to rule?
Why else would her spine bear such heavy weight,
If not to hold a crown covered in jewels?
So easily she walks, such steady gait.
What is the point of woman, anyway?
Is she there to be seen, or to decide?
What’s more important, how she wears her hair,
Or all the thoughts she’s thinking late at night?
A female fist is cast from hot iron,
That’s why we want it dressed in tight velvet;
The sight of it bare, intimidation:
Fearsome, we do not like it, not one bit.
What is a woman for? Well, anything.
Best ask her why she stepped into the ring.Feeding Time
I like to take communion with the fish,
To watch as the large turtle surfaces
And captures a lettuce leaf, godly gift
That drifts by reaching tails of seahorses.
A solemn, darkened service to attend
Whenever the water inside me craves
A reminder of where I will be sent
When I finally reach my end of days.
A school of fish regards me silently,
And I consider their bright scales, moving;
Not one of them can tell me who to be,
Or how to be, or really, anything.
Ten fingers intertwine, a gentle squeeze;
It took thirty-six years to find some peace. Thieves of Blooms
The browning, papery leaves must be clipped.
Their days knowing the roots have all passed by.
For some shining period, they exist,
Then someone informs them: day is now night.
Stems heal, but their shock is appropriate;
They have no way to give their green consent.
Dead leaves must go, so they will stand for it,
But those swift thieves of blooms ought to repent.
The roots observe it all, quite unbothered;
Time moves more slowly underneath the dirt.
To venture far from where you were fathered:
A sign of growth. The cost? Your time on earth.
I’ll prune the leaves I must, and keep the rest.
To choose, I’ll ask the heart inside my chest. Dissolve
When I feel wrong for living my best life,
I hear the rough rattle of crab-buckets,
So full of angry yearning for the light,
So unwilling to let someone resist
The ethos of “Don’t make yourself better.
Do you think you’re too good to talk to me?”
That’s not really the fucking point, good sir,
It’s not about you at all, can’t you see?
Throw those buckets into the forge to melt,
Just scoop the crabs out right before you do,
Then watch that red, disintegrating hell
Dissolve and be made into something new.
Once released from the lid, I can’t return;
Better to turn away and let it burn. Zig-Zags
Which person’s truth is it that matters more:
The one who stands so tall, with bloody fists,
Or someone running full-out to the door,
Zig-zagging, in the hope the bullets miss?
One might say treason, treachery, deceit;
Might claim they’re chasing property they own,
But there’s a story told by pounding feet,
By people who only feel safe alone.
Ask why the fists are bloodied, stand your ground,
And notice how the grin becomes a growl;
You best get to running zig-zags yourself
If someone says questions are not allowed.
We can’t always control where we end up,
But we can choose which people fill our cup. Furled
I keep my children tucked away inside;
I let them sleep, the way the furled leaves do,
All coiled, potential energy so bright,
But never to emerge and see it through.
My babies will not see the light of day;
No cord will ever wind out of my womb.
So intentionally, I chose this way;
No one will engrave “Mother” on my tomb.
I thought it through: I cannot bear the weight
Of not being able to be a shield
That keeps my babies safe all of their days,
Because one day, my hands will have to yield.
I have the highest level of respect
For women who can stand the pain of it. Low and Slow
I decided
to make my secret chili recipe
for him,
the one
that I know
will make him fall in love.
It simmers
low and slow,
like all good love stories do,
but
once the spice pops off,
it will really
make
you
sweat.
My recipe
hasn’t failed me yet.
Skyward
A hunter knows to scan the trees for prey,
She’s honed—like knives—from birth, to commit harm.
No one ever showed her another way:
She learned to do the lifting with both arms.
What happens when the burden flees skyward
Through means the hunter can’t anticipate?
To what purpose do her hands turn after,
When labor’s calluses all fade away?
The path of pleasure requires new footwear;
These worn-down, slip-resistant clogs won’t do.
Something more gorgeous, oh, but do I dare?
It hurts to release something felt so true.
Set down the hunting knife, kick it away,
And commit to a more beautiful way. Thank you so much for joining today! If you enjoyed your experience, please tell a friend, leave a tip, or consider a subscription!
All my best,
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All of them are so good; "Low and Slow" made me laugh out loud :).