The Compass
Direction of force
Welcome, and a warm first hello to the newcomers!
I’m so happy you’re here.
This week is an examination of The Chariot through the hazy lens of my COVID brain. You can read my previous post on this card below:
Fittingly, The Chariot represents the pull of different forces: this week, I felt torn between my natural drive to stave off anxiety through achievement and my real need to rest to recover from this virus.
Furthermore, I found myself reckoning with a shakiness in my identity as an introverted loner during my time in quarantine: more than anything, I wanted to see another human face, to hold and be held by another set of human arms. I wanted to be able to talk to someone in person.
I don’t think this is a bad thing: rather, it feels like shedding old armor.
Contents:
Aster
Mothering-Daughters
Mistakes
Background music: “Forehead Kiss” from Black Swan Event by The Lizzy Co Show
Aster
I outran COVID for almost five years,
But when I paused, to take a water break,
She found a way to come close, to draw near,
To enter me, to take what’s hers to take.
I guess I should feel some small gratitude
That I got it at this time, in this way,
Not when we had just no clue what to do,
When breathing might not come by end of day.
Foolish to think I could run my whole life,
Never prey to human experience.
Perhaps, this means one day I’ll be a wife,
Which also seems a faint, far-reaching chance.
My feet flew, but the virus was faster.
The final flower left is the aster. 
Mothering-Daughters
Some women are born mothering-daughters,
Caretakers reaching upward in the tree,
Fruit forced to work as roots from very first.
(Flowers, pressed into service, have no needs.)
An unwrinkled hand might look powerful,
But: grasp it too hard, and you’ll hear it crack.
Better to reach for wisdom that looks dull:
Its shine was worn away by learning facts.
Care ought to flow from old folks to younger,
At least when those young folks are little kids.
A person can give once they quench their thirst:
Before then, well, it just doesn’t make sense.
Oh, mothering-daughters, set down your load.
Take this key! Loose your shackles to the code.
Mistakes
I’m starting to think that it’s quite alright
For me to sometimes do some stupid shit,
Because my conscience always chooses right,
And I have some undeniable gifts.
No longer playing the unsteady game
Where my mind slips out of my ear, flies free,
In search of some other, much safer plane,
While who-knows-what happens to my body.
The stakes are now sea-level for errors:
It’s time to play, to push the boundaries,
To create as many drafts to get there
As it takes. (A hundred-thousand, maybe!)
So, I’ll make some mistakes from time to time,
And trust that none of them will be a crime. Please consider a small donation to my fundraiser to support the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.
I will be walking to raise funds for AFSP this October to celebrate both my birthday and my continued existence on this earth after multiple attempts on my own life. I am now healthy and strong enough to walk, so I walk.
Please click below to share the link or contribute to my fundraiser:
"The stakes are now sea-level for errors:
It’s time to play, to push the boundaries,
To create as many drafts to get there
As it takes. (A hundred-thousand, maybe!)"
Yes. Yes. Yes.
I like all three of these sonnets, and the COVID and mistakes ones stand out to me.