We carved our marks, were pleased with the look of them, and then they crumbled, they faded, they blew away or were walked on by people and dogs. The sea took it all, careless of our art, again, again. Nothing lasts but the elements.
It was an extraordinarily fruitful time. I was astounded at the spaciousness of thought that eventually settled over me. I was not lonely, not at all, for I had my beloved dead around me, whispering in my ear during the ambrosial hours when sleep eluded me. I sat wrapped in a blanket in the old plaid rocker and let my sleepy mind drift. I am writing an old family story. So the presence of my grandmothers, known and unknown to me, was welcome.
What can words do? Maybe very little. Or maybe a lot. They are my tools. They are portable and they go everywhere with me. And if I don’t always use them as I should, it is because my tongue, which would otherwise be quick and sharp, is stilled by love and compassion. I don’t want to add to the discord and misery in the world. So I write, and I try to keep this belief in mind.
To hold a full deck of cards with 78 intriguing images is a secret delight for me. And as with any deck of cards, they are, in my mind, meant for play. For someone like myself who is play-challenged – the work ethic was ever present during my upbringing – a tarot deck lets me put my busy mind on the back burner for a bit and frolic in the fields of magic. Mage, image, imagination, magic.