Mrs. Tucker, surrounded by her Old English Sheepdogs, in her garden at Haslemere, Surrey, October 1929, from Instagram | ahistoryofdogs | Fox Photos Getty Images
PULL THREE IMAGES from your life and read them as tarot cards. This is a game I like to play with myself and anyone else who tends to believe in synchronicities and the power of visual metaphors to guide and shape our lives.
Take, for example, a seemingly ordinary day at the park. I’m walking in circles to get my steps in when my higher self pulls the first tarot card: a pair of sheep dogs. I boomerang back to my childhood home, where my dear old sheep dog Bessie is still shepherding us to bed, nudging her head between our legs when we’re crying or screaming, running wild laps in the backyard and barking at the birds.
Now I’ve been dreaming of sheep dogs for a while now. I think about adopting one just like our sweet Bessie dog, but I’m not sure yet that I can handle the responsibility. So when I see a pair of sheep dogs promenading through the park, I perk up and pay attention to the dream seeds I’ve planted in future soil. I learn their names are Hondo and Harry, that they’re friends, not brothers, though they look alike, that they’re playful and exhausted after time in the dog park. One sits, the other pants. They both beam love into my being from their shaggy eyes.
I’m walking, I’m walking, and then my higher self pulls the next tarot card: an older woman riding a tricycle, with old songs blaring from the radio on her phone, tucked into the basket in front of her. She waves to us as she pedals. We wave back with big grins. I try to catch the Sinatra song I hear. My boyfriend notices that her right back wheel is a little wobbly. It looks like she has to pedal a bit too extra hard to make it work but ahead of us she soars on her tricycle of dreams, enjoying the wind and sunshine as she waves back at us.
And I’m thinking about what kind of free, old woman I’d like to be in the near and distant future, whether my hips will allow me to bend and walk in circles like this a few years from now, whether I’ll still be longing for songs to blare, whether I’ll care at all for song or psalm. And there she goes, a vision of what’s possible, a card pulled from the universe of all possible visions of an elder, and it’s this—carefree and joyful—a return to childlike whims and circumstance, riding one’s tricycle through the park on a sunny day, wobbly wheel and all.
I’m walking, I’m walking, and then my higher self pulls the final tarot card of the day: a queen quinceañera teen in a shimmering pink gown, stepping out of a black car and into the park, her dress pulling her toward the bridge, drenched in sunlight. Even the geese take a beat to marvel this beauty as she seems to float through the park, her entourage behind her, making sure the gown doesn’t drag through mud puddles. And she walks with a small smile on her face, as if performing the role of a life time, pleased with the scene.
And I’m thinking about why shiny pink ball gowns still matter, to squirm our bodies into fancy clothes and fucking celebrate the wins and milestones, to paint our faces and adorn ourselves with jewels and pose for photographs in beautiful parks, with geese and birds as supporting actors in the grand play. It matters because life is a miracle and waking up is a dream, and it’s still worth it to make a celebratory scene of our tiny, long lives.
Try it—pull three images from the day and find a way to fill each with significance, like blowing air into a balloon, tying it up, and releasing it into the atmosphere. Maybe that’s a bad metaphor—don’t release those colorful plastic orbs of breath into the air—it’s terrible for the environment! So, just collect each image like a photo or a painting—perhaps even reproduce it as a tarot card—sheep dog, woman on a tricycle, teen in a shimmering pink dress—and pull them anytime from your mind when you need a reminder of the magic of the everyday.
Take, for example, a seemingly ordinary day at the park. I’m walking in circles to get my steps in when my higher self pulls the first tarot card: a pair of sheep dogs. I boomerang back to my childhood home, where my dear old sheep dog Bessie is still shepherding us to bed, nudging her head between our legs when we’re crying or screaming, running wild laps in the backyard and barking at the birds.
Now I’ve been dreaming of sheep dogs for a while now. I think about adopting one just like our sweet Bessie dog, but I’m not sure yet that I can handle the responsibility. So when I see a pair of sheep dogs promenading through the park, I perk up and pay attention to the dream seeds I’ve planted in future soil. I learn their names are Hondo and Harry, that they’re friends, not brothers, though they look alike, that they’re playful and exhausted after time in the dog park. One sits, the other pants. They both beam love into my being from their shaggy eyes.
I’m walking, I’m walking, and then my higher self pulls the next tarot card: an older woman riding a tricycle, with old songs blaring from the radio on her phone, tucked into the basket in front of her. She waves to us as she pedals. We wave back with big grins. I try to catch the Sinatra song I hear. My boyfriend notices that her right back wheel is a little wobbly. It looks like she has to pedal a bit too extra hard to make it work but ahead of us she soars on her tricycle of dreams, enjoying the wind and sunshine as she waves back at us.
And I’m thinking about what kind of free, old woman I’d like to be in the near and distant future, whether my hips will allow me to bend and walk in circles like this a few years from now, whether I’ll still be longing for songs to blare, whether I’ll care at all for song or psalm. And there she goes, a vision of what’s possible, a card pulled from the universe of all possible visions of an elder, and it’s this—carefree and joyful—a return to childlike whims and circumstance, riding one’s tricycle through the park on a sunny day, wobbly wheel and all.
I’m walking, I’m walking, and then my higher self pulls the final tarot card of the day: a queen quinceañera teen in a shimmering pink gown, stepping out of a black car and into the park, her dress pulling her toward the bridge, drenched in sunlight. Even the geese take a beat to marvel this beauty as she seems to float through the park, her entourage behind her, making sure the gown doesn’t drag through mud puddles. And she walks with a small smile on her face, as if performing the role of a life time, pleased with the scene.
And I’m thinking about why shiny pink ball gowns still matter, to squirm our bodies into fancy clothes and fucking celebrate the wins and milestones, to paint our faces and adorn ourselves with jewels and pose for photographs in beautiful parks, with geese and birds as supporting actors in the grand play. It matters because life is a miracle and waking up is a dream, and it’s still worth it to make a celebratory scene of our tiny, long lives.
Try it—pull three images from the day and find a way to fill each with significance, like blowing air into a balloon, tying it up, and releasing it into the atmosphere. Maybe that’s a bad metaphor—don’t release those colorful plastic orbs of breath into the air—it’s terrible for the environment! So, just collect each image like a photo or a painting—perhaps even reproduce it as a tarot card—sheep dog, woman on a tricycle, teen in a shimmering pink dress—and pull them anytime from your mind when you need a reminder of the magic of the everyday.
