Sarah Maria Griffin writes about pulling the death card – a signifier of an inevitable change.
Every time I sit down to write, this year, in a capacity where I am formally addressing the reader, I find myself starting off with a platitude. Bizarre times, my guys. Aren’t we having a strange summer, etcetera, something tiny and informal to call attention to whatever it is we are somehow adapting to, day by day. I wonder when I will stop saying, this all feels different, and start just behaving as though I am managing. As though I am able to tell stories about being alive without gesturing at the world around us, waving a weird flag to signal that we are still very much not having a normal one. In a sense, I’m doing that now, reminding you that I am not writing about the tarot during the mundanity of my regular life. Reminding you that I am reading the tarot under a new set of rules, a new emotional framework. Sending dispatches from a newly quietened life. I am vaccinated, I am terrified, I am changed. I am still working my way through the cards with no particular rhythm other than my own interest – still working my way back towards the truth of them, trying to enter a conversation with the old story so I can navigate my way through this new one.