The Answers are in the Cards

I walk through my neighbourhood, which still feels relatively new to me. I’ve just returned to my home city after an extended stretch of travel, that has changed me profoundly at my core. I venture to the small, noticeably ordinary parquette nearby and spend time people-watching from a wooden park bench. The novelty of this daily routine is already wearing off. The same streets, boxy buildings and stark concrete landscape in view. The asphalt as grey as my mood. New neighbourhood, same city. I’m reminded of a quote a fellow globetrotter had written in my travel journal:

“If you think adventure is dangerous,

try routine, it’s lethal.”

-Paulo Coelho

My posture matches my apathy as I wonder, is this what it’s like to be killed softly by mundaneness? The days all feel the same. Is it Monday or Thursday? Who cares. Same old, same old. I’ve been trying to focus on the present moment, since they say that’s where happiness lies. Not in the past, not in the future, just right here in this painfully ordinary existence. Inevitably, my mind finds its way of wandering back to my recent experiences like a compass arrow.

I’ve given myself two months since returning home to settle back into real life and I’m still waiting for everything to click back into place. I spend most of my time wondering if coming home was the right choice. What exactly did I come back for? I have just spent almost two years living out of a backpack and finding a new place to call home every three days or so. I had become willingly accustomed to a state of constant flux, fueled by the anticipation of novel experiences. My mental notebook of incredible stories, travel hiccups and happenstance encounters was bursting at the seams. But that existence feels like years ago now and worlds away from this regular life I’m resistant to rejoin.

I now have my own place in the same city I had spent the prior decade living in, accessible to faces I recognize and a gracious return to a secure job. My friends’ eyes glaze over when I make vague references to the disconnect between being here and being EVERYwhere.

Staying still is … agonizing.

I don’t know why. Waking up in the same bed in the same neighbourhood in the same city each day should be convenient and homey. I’m surrounded by familiar things that should bring me comfort. I used to cling to routine before I left. I was dedicated and disciplined and I thrived. Now, I’m just…lost.

What I could really use is enough money to support myself for another year to return to life on the road. Money makes the world go ‘round and when it runs out, you close that chapter of life and come home. There is a strong pull in me to take flight again and find the version of myself that relishes in the presence of new scenes, scents, sights, and societies. That place is not here.

Yesterday, I tediously tallied all of my travel expenses I had carefully tracked for the last year: food, hostels, planes, trains, automobiles and once in a lifetime experiences. The costs of pure joy. I’m pleasantly shocked to learn that the grand total comes to $19,460, just shy of $20,000. Life is much more affordable as a nomad, especially when you live as I do. Materialism ceases to be the focus and the days are immensely more satisfying.

That’s enough people-watching for today, I think, as I get up from the park bench. I sarcastically tell myself to try to keep my enthusiasm in check for the stimulating walk home. As I pick up my backpack I notice a little book has been seated next to me, resting between my pack and the wrought iron armrest. It’s easily camouflaged as both are a striking shade of black. The book isn’t well worn and yet it doesn’t appear to be brand new.

A delicate gold feather is embossed on the cover. Intriguing. I’ve contemplated the idea of getting a tattoo designed in this same minimalist style. Feathers remind me of flight, of free spirits. Naturally, I look inside to see if the owner’s details are there and if it looks at all important. It’s a friendly neighbourhood and I could stand to participate in some altruism to lift my spirits by returning it.

I flip through the pages, waiting for words to appear. Most are left blank except for the dainty, whimsical arrows drawn in each page’s corner, each slightly different from the last. Right in the center of the book, two pages are filled. One has a hand-drawn golden compass. Across from the cardinal directions, the other page reads:

Ask and the universe will answer

Tarot Reader

2425 Queen St.

I once had a friend tell me about having her tarot cards read, and how aligned she felt after receiving an affirmed sense of direction. She raved about how it had given her the reassurance she needed to move past something difficult that was holding her back. I sure could use some enlightenment right now.

The book comes with me as I head across the city to attempt to reunite it with its owner. After all, I could use some positive energy as a gift from the universe in exchange for my good deed. And if it’s a scam then it will certainly make for an interesting story. Also, I have nothing else to do today.

. . .

2425 Queen St. This must be the place.

The window front displays an earthy arrangement. Feathers hang like garland through the panes of glass and gemstones faintly radiate their colours as they are touched by the sunlight. Eucalyptus, lavender and candles are tiered on driftwood shelves, draped in ethereal fairy lights. I smile towards the decor in approval. The energy of this space is perfectly aligned with its design. I walk through the door as bells chime and I take in the scents. The smell of sage and smoky incense greets me as I spend a few minutes perusing the shelves.

“You seem lost,” an airy voice appears through a beaded bohemian doorway.

I am lost, in more than one sense of the word. But I doubt that is what she means. The words come from a woman about my age, who reminds me of….me, oddly enough.

“Yes, I found something I’d like to hopefully return to its owner,” I say, as I reach for the little black book. An acknowledging smile appears on her face as she listens to my brief recap of today’s discovery. She nods and places the book back in my bag as if it belongs there.

“And...you are feeling lost?” she asks in a gentle, steady voice, slightly revising her sentence.

“No, well...actually, yes. But that’s a long story.”

“You are here for the tarot reader. Welcome. I’ve been waiting for you. Let’s get started, shall we?”

She is not wrong. I am intrigued, so I follow her through the beaded curtain.

“Being seen, heard and found are why most people pass through my door,” she clarifies. “People who are seeking answers to their deepest questions.”

She asks me what my intentions are today. I feel the urge to assert my virginity to this type of free-spirited activity. Then I quickly realize that if this woman has any talent in the art of discerning perception, she’s already acutely aware of this.

“I seem to be having trouble adapting to a big life change,” I share, hoping my eagerness is not coming off as desperation. I’m sure this is a familiar confession. Isn’t seeking out insight into uncertainty the purpose of anyone’s visit to a tarot reader? After all, if people can be open-minded enough to imagine that a stranger they meet online could be ‘the one’ then certainly I can open up to the possibility that a stranger who professes expertise in card-reading can offer me some hope.

My eyes scan the space. There are no crystal balls, no dreadlocks, no bohemian tapestries hanging on the walls. I notice how unassuming this back room looks, while I take account of the obvious stereotypes I curated in my head on the walk over. A twinge of shame creeps in. I remind myself that she is a tarot reader, not a psychic. Her job, in fact, is not to predict the future. It’s my first time doing this, so I’d rather not find out how many years I have left to live...yet.

She explains the process as she goes.

“The role of the tarot reader is to select cards and rely on intuition to piece together an interpretation of their meaning, based on their relationship and individual positions. It is your role as the recipient of the reading, to perceive how my descriptions relate to your own personal narrative. You are the main character in this story.”

A tarot deck consists of 78 cards, I learn. I watch as the deck is shuffled and the cards are laid out between us. Anxiously, I scan back and forth for the death card, then assure myself that unveiling this card isn’t nearly as bad as it seems. At least I think I saw that in a movie once. The sound is gentle as each card reveals itself on the table. There is no loud slap that often accompanies the four suits of a 52 card deck. This exchange is more delicate and sincere.

I quickly get distracted by attempting to imagine just how many card combinations there could be. As if reading my thoughts, she explains that depending on the spread method chosen by the tarot reader, the options can approach half of a million. Talk about putting your faith in chance. This is not a simple if-then game with a prescribed script based on a predictable outcome. I convince myself to stop overanalyzing and getting lost in the details. It’s probably tainting the energy in the room.

I contemplate my willingness to believe in serendipity, coincidence, and listening to the universe, trying to open myself up and lean into it. I’ve spent these recent travel years entrusting myself and my choices in the guidance of friendly strangers, so this is essentially no different.

I need a sense of direction and I’m unsure of how these medieval-looking characters on rectangles are going to provide me with my much needed clarity. The descriptions are revealed and I try my best to follow the interpretations while keeping mental notes of the most relevant details.

The Queen of Swords.

“You are proudly independent. This is also where your feelings of isolation come from.”

The Eight of Wands.

“You love to travel. It is a deep part of your life experience. You have a longing, a wanderlust that has no intention of leaving anytime soon.”

King of Cups.

Two of Swords.

She focuses on a few cards with visibly similar symbols, noting that some themes that have emerged. Before she takes mention, I notice an undeniable repetition of cups and swords displayed on several cards, hoping the recurrence holds some wisdom.

Cups and swords.

“Both are made of metal, strong and permanent. One is open and ready to receive. The other has heightened awareness and is ready to play the role of protector.

Swords mean you listen to your head.

Cups mean you listen with your heart.”

An ultimate dichotomy. My two essential organs, juxtaposed. And in flows the clarity. I realize my struggle has been a constant internal tug of war. The swords had always dominated my life as the guiding force, sometimes making me too practical and conscientious for my own good. That is, until these last two years while I was travelling, where my heart led me in a new direction - toward nature, courage and adventure. It was a new truth, filled with possibility.

“Which one do I listen to?” I ask.

“Like most things, it’s about finding balance," she explains. "At some points in life you will feel pulled by one more than the other. Those who lead with their head may find themselves walking through life with an unwavering commitment to goals or definitions of success that causes other opportunities pass them by. However, the swords represent your ambition and they are your driving force to take action.

"Those who lead with their heart may dream pleasurably but endlessly, lacking direction and conviction. Still, your heart needs not a reason to follow what it is inexplicably drawn to. This is often the part of you that is connected to a deeper sense of self.

"Learn to look for everyday omens from the universe. Notice coincidences like repeated symbols or being told the same thing by two different people. These clues are available to everyone, but most go unnoticed. Take advantage of feeling inspired. Lean into it. Practice listening to yourself and your intuition. It’s a voice that’s quieter, but truer, more authentic. Tarot readers don’t have a monopoly on this skill, we just take the time needed to enhance it. You have to quiet your mind to listen. The world is guiding you, if you open yourself to it.”

There is a sense that our session is coming to a close. I feel a frenzy of opportunistic energy. I realize I didn’t confirm how much this reading would cost me. When I reach for my wallet, she subtly waves it away.

"When someone is sent my way through means such as this, no payment is necessary," she explains. "As a matter of fact, it is a ritual of mine to bestow a gift onto you."

She places an oversized envelope in my hands and tells me to open it in a safe space that brings me peace. I thank her profusely for her generosity and insight and walk outside. My mind is still shocked by the randomness of the day and I am fulfilled by how our mutual acts of kindness found each other today.

I decide to walk along this new neighbourhood for a change of scenery and take rest on a bench by the water. It only takes a few minutes before I notice that I am perfectly enjoying this little ordinary moment. Feeling comfortable with my surroundings, I close my eyes for a few mindful breaths, while birds hint that dusk will soon arrive. Soon after, an image appears in mind: a pleasant memory of lit sparklers fizzling on a tropical beach, shared with almost strangers. It was the last time that felt truly magical.

My eyes slowly open. It seems appropriate to reach into my purse for the envelope I have been given. I think about how the tarot reader has already given me an important gift today and this will be the second. Perhaps it’s some further reading on tarot. The envelope is larger than I remember, and it puffs out, almost ready to burst. There is a card inside, which I politely focus on first. When opened, it reveals a quote by Roald Dahl:

“Those who don’t believe in

magic will never find it.”

The gift is wrapped in thin white cloth, tinted green by what lies inside. I unravel it to reveal $100 bills...so many of them! I count them out.

$20,000!

Can this be real?! It sure feels and smells real. I swiftly clutch it closed for safety and glance around, making sure I’m not being watched. The exhilaration rushes through my body, followed by a sense that I've done something criminal.

The skeptic in me creeps in. It wonders if I’m part of some multi-step social experiment designed to test my ethics. Obviously this is a bit too perfectly matched to my personal situation to be anything but ridiculous. I wonder what happens when I bring it back, since this is surely too good to be true. What an odd experiment, and extremely risky, if you ask me.

I retrace my steps to what I remember to be the tarot reader’s location.

But wait...this can’t be right.

The window front looks more or less completely empty. I reach into my backpack to locate the address in the black book, and it’s nowhere to be found. It’s as if it never existed. Luckily the cash has not been lost. My mind races, trying to convince myself I’m not crazy. This is the location where I just had a tarot reading less than an hour ago, I'm sure of it.

I go into the art gallery next door and ask about the shop, giving descriptions since I never managed to glance at the store’s name. The owner of the gallery is a lovely older woman in her early seventies. She claims she has been here for decades and laughs when I attempt to push my knowledge of the distinct store next door to her.

“Sweetie, that place has been empty for almost a year. Lots of turnover in that spot. To be honest, I think it’s cursed, if you believe in that sort of thing.” She smiles and shrugs. I attempt to describe my tarot reader, whose name eludes me because I didn’t think to ask.

“Nevermind, but thanks,” I say back, realizing it’s a bit of a lost cause as I head outside.

I stare through the aged window panes and glance at what remains next door. In the empty window front are a few feathers scattered amongst the dust bunnies and a beaded curtain in the back. On the window bench, sits a little black book, perfectly weighted on each side to sit comfortably open to the middle. Under it are two tarot cards: one with cups and one with swords. The head and the heart. On one side of the page is a hand-drawn golden compass, on the other a hand-written note that reads:

This is the sign

you are waiting for

Full body chills make their way through my body. An inner voice begins to speak boldly.

It is time to decide whether you believe that life is a complete game of chance or whether there is a path destined for you.

Do you see coincidences as just that or as signs from the universe?

Do you believe that things happen for a reason or that life is random?

You deserve this. It was meant for you. Everything has led you here.

There are many unknowns but I do know the answer to this question:

If the opportunity presented itself, would you stay or would you go?

I’ve had enough of being lost. It’s time I found myself again.