My children were understandably upset when they learned about my visit to the tarot card reader. Being a logical bunch, they quickly presented me with a slew of statistics arguing that coincidences are merely natural occurrences, and anomalies have clear explanations. I had attempted to keep my visit a secret, sneaking through our small town, but after a pivotal event occurred, I found myself compelled to confess.
To understand my fascination with the mystical, a bit of history is necessary. Ever since I could read, I was captivated by the little, weathered house on the hill that bore the sign “Fortune’s Read.” Its presence always piqued my interest, especially on busy days when my mother would take a shortcut to avoid the main intersection in our town.
During visits to the County Farmers’ Fair, I would see a fortune-telling booth nestled next to the pie stand, but I knew better than to ask my parents about it. I often lingered near the curtain, yearning for a glimpse of the woman who could reveal my future, while my mother guided me towards the handmade quilts. “Aren’t they lovely?” she’d remark, though my thoughts drifted to more whimsical inquiries.
From these encounters, I developed a belief that answers to life’s uncertainties could be found in specific places, even though I was firmly rooted in a household that valued practicality and hard work. My parents were not inclined to seek mystical insights; they were focused on the day-to-day tasks that came with rural living.
Eventually, as a teenager with some pocket money and a sense of independence, I convinced a few friends to accompany me to a palm reader on the boardwalk. As I placed my hand in hers, my heart raced with anticipation. “Would my life be long?” I wondered. She traced my lines with care, her concentration revealing a deep commitment to her craft. I listened intently as she offered insights, and I stored those words away, hoping they would shield me from future misfortunes. She assured me I would live to an old age, and that brought me comfort for a time.
Years later, I still grapple with the unpredictability of life. I once believed that having answers to significant questions—about love, family, and purpose—would bring me peace, but that peace has remained elusive.
Recently, while out for a walk with a friend who shares my belief in serendipity, she mentioned that the local tarot card reader was making an appearance again. Suddenly, the idea of consulting him felt enticing. I sought clarity about my direction in life, convinced that perhaps a tarot reading could provide the insight I craved.
I made an appointment, discreetly marking it on the family calendar to avoid any teasing. When the day arrived, I parked across the street and noted a man in a suit exiting the building. His presence oddly reassured me, as if his quest for answers somehow validated my own. However, I felt a twinge of embarrassment, questioning why I, a self-proclaimed feminist, felt the need for such guidance.
Seated at the table across from a young man with delicate features, I shuffled the cards. He offered me the option to record our session, which felt like a legitimate touch to the experience. Just like years ago, my heart raced as I listened to his interpretations of my life’s influences. When he asked if I had any questions, I bravely shared my long-held inquiry: what is my life purpose? I wanted to make meaningful progress.
He spoke of the moon and how it was an auspicious time to seek answers from the universe. I leaned in, eager to understand how to articulate my desires. My practical upbringing made me ask, “How do I ask? What words should I use?” My desire for precision in such a nebulous situation felt almost naïve, but he responded without judgment, providing guidance on how to phrase my requests.
Leaving the session, I felt empowered. At home, I carefully wrote down my seven requests, the number he suggested was permissible. It took a few tries to express them accurately, and eventually, I opted to type them out for clarity.
Standing with my neatly typed list, I pondered where to place it in order to send my intentions out into the universe. Just then, my youngest child walked in and stumbled upon my draft. As he began to read it aloud, I quickly snatched it away, leading to giggles and a bit of ruckus. The rest of the kids soon gathered, demanding to know what I was hiding. With no support from my family, I shut the door.
Undeterred, I decided to place my list on top of my dresser, closest to the window—my chosen spot for making requests to the universe. And then…I waited. I reviewed my list daily and started living with intention. A week later, something occurred that felt like a fulfilling of one of my requests, reinforcing my belief in the power of intention. I couldn’t help but share my excitement with my children.
Ultimately, I want them to believe that a hint of magic exists in our lives, or at least in the moments when we voice our intentions and release them into the universe. Perhaps when we genuinely acknowledge what we wish to achieve, doors open wider, and we take steps toward our goals. While pragmatists might argue that my fortunes shifted due to my own determination, I find comfort in the mystery of it all. It’s refreshing to ponder the possibilities.
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Summary
This article explores the author’s journey into embracing a touch of magic and mysticism in her life, particularly through tarot readings. It reflects on childhood experiences, the quest for answers to life’s uncertainties, and the importance of sharing these beliefs with her children. The author emphasizes the potential power of intentions and the magic that may arise from them.