If you lay them out in numerical order, the Major Arcana cards of the tarot tell the mythic tale of the hero’s journey, from The Fool to The World.
In that sequence, The Star carries immense spiritual meaning and power. It comes immediately after The Tower, a massive clearing characterized by a sense of groundlessness and loss. The Star is the sign that pierces through the night sky in post-Tower uncertainty, offering the tiniest and most desperately needed reassurance, a reminder that the receiver is on the right path.
When The Star shows up in a spread, it is a beacon of hope. It carries the message that you are on the right path, that you’ve made the right choice, and that your commitment to something that is deeply challenging will yield benefits. You don’t need to know what those benefits will be yet. You only need to stay the course.
The Star is the last card in this month’s spread. It is like a punctuation mark on the end of a sentence that hasn’t been spoken aloud or written down yet. It urges you to hang on, hold the faith, trust. Easier said than done, certainly. But well worth a try.
Page of Swords represents the energy that animates you when you’re in contact with the stuff you can’t stop thinking about—not because you’re anxious about it, but because it deeply interests and excites you.
The Pages are the children of the tarot, and they must be nurtured and protected. This aspect of yourself that is full of ideas and dreams and concrete ways to make them happen requires the company of only the most supportive and encouraging of people. With the swords, it’s never personal. It’s what’s going to be best for the work.
The Page asks that you allow yourself time in life to be exceptionally choosy about the people you keep around. Strongly consider that friends and lovers who don’t support your work—and I mean really, genuinely support your work, in a way that you would never question it—can’t be the closest people to you right now. It’s not personal.
Ace of Cups asks that you pause and think about the things in your life that you have been naturally curious about, interested in, and engaged with. The things you talk about, read about, write and make art about. Now forget about whether those things are prestigious enough or lucrative enough. Forget whether they are legitimate enough, according to whoever’s voice you’ve internalized and been listening to in the privacy of your inner dialogues.
Just spend time being with the way those things make you feel, and all the ways you’ve been committed to learning about them, even if never in any formal capacity. Think about everything you know already. When your breakthrough happens, you will no longer feel like you are swimming upstream, floating in space without a vehicle, drifting in the sea of possibilities without limits to hold you. Expect such a breakthrough. It can totally happen. It might have already happened. You don’t need to stay stuck.
In matters of the heart, Two of Cups is a reminder that we are in a sense unavailable when we are denying our personal truth, not responding to the calls of the things we long to do, and unclear about our visions. This doesn’t mean we have to have it “all figured out” in order to find relationship (I think it would be harmful to suggest that).
But remember the message of the Page of Swords: keep lovers and friends who support your work, period. And if the way they offer support does not feel supportive to you, have an honest conversation with yourself about whether or not that is going to be good enough. It might not be. Remember, it’s not personal. Your mission is to serve and protect the work.
The Seven of Wands always brings to mind the terrified inner child, the wounded exile, the part that holds the trauma and the oldest core wounds. It represents the part of you that is simultaneously afraid of being both revealed and overlooked. This is the part that acts out at the slightest hint of rejection, abandonment, failure, imperfection, enmeshment, or of simply being exposed as unloveable. We all have unlovable parts. And it is our job to honor them even if we cannot love them, because if we do not they will continue to act out in perverse and destructive ways. They will continue to threaten our ability to have our needs met and to move closer to the things that are important to us.
King of Cups answers the question of how we are to engage with these unloveable parts of ourselves that we’d prefer to ignore and avoid. The answer is always compassion. Compassion means asking questions about why you are the way you are without judgment. It means being brave enough to sit with your own feelings of terror long enough to validate them. It means recognizing that we all have unloveable parts, and that those parts have probably developed to keep us safe in some way.
The terrified parts will tell you that you have floated too far from the shore of what you know and that you ought to turn back. Compassion means validating that urge and understanding where it comes from without yielding to it. Because every time we yield to the parts of the self that are terrified, we inflict violence on the Soul.
Look for The Star in your life, that thing or things that provide even the tiniest peak into the way life could be. Fix your gaze on those things, whatever they are to you. Give thanks for those things, pray and make art about them, think of them when you dance. You are on the right path. You have made the right choice. You can have what you want to the extent that you are willing to commit—through the fear, doubt, and uncertainty. Commitment is rewarded, ambivalence is not.
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