Tarot, Anyone?

Maybe it’s because of this weekend’s moon, fat and big and low in the sky over Paris, reminiscent of youthful and mysteriously fantastical things (I profess to have even veered across streets and up against buildings in order to keep it in view!).  Or perhaps, more simply, it was as I passed by the stupid poster in the bookstore window across the street when I felt the urge to go.  In any case I met with a tarot card reader tonight, or ‘consulted the cards’ as I imagine people to say.  And that’s just it really, the dreamlike logic of this ancient practice: Do things in life happen as a result of an undercurrent of clandestine will, a magic network of unknown powers so ancient we are not even aware of their presence, or do they just happen, mostly because we make them happen?  Either answer can find a comfy spot in the deck of cards, which the reader skillfully referred to as ‘tarot psychologique’.   I think that may have been his strategy to ensure a way out of any sticky situations, because after all, if we’re talking about the unknown in my personal life, couldn’t any card be referenced, the way a psychologist might try a new approach, to shed light on the situation?

Yet the fact that, for instance, I was born from a Caesarean section, that I never felt (according to this hulking French tarot reader) the ‘life-starting caress’ of my mother, could that be a factor in my life today?  I am of course inclined to say NO, that’s a pile of bullshit, but then again, I’ve never thought about it that way.  Connections to the day of birth and things of equal depth and centrality – they can’t be completely disconnected from my life as it is today, could they?  To deny that would surely require an amount of knowledge and/or commitment to the other side of the argument that I just don’t have. 

Maybe that is what I’m supposed to be left wondering, maybe I am the perfect Tarot ‘customer,’ going down the intended path of reflection on things that conveniently might mean something if I want them to.  But the fact remains that I wanted to do this, and therefore I must fully embrace at least the openness of mind that I had in order to consider it and apply that to the actual experience.  I owe myself at least that, because if I immediately start to dissect and analyze it, categorizing its importance, well then I’ve lost out on what I was originally looking for.  I am, like you I’m sure, full of questions, and I came with one tonight.  10 euros per question in fact.  I checked with a friend to see if that was reasonable, and in fact it is quite within the realm of what is charged.  After all, it’s your future, right?

The 10 euro question is worth that and more.  Surely most transplanted foreigners go through a questioning process – I was once told by a fellow expat that I am hitting ‘the ceiling,’ meaning the period where I would think about leaving, and if I stuck it out, I would be here in Paris for good.  If the ‘ceiling’ lasts for a year, then yeah, this could still be it.  I am torn between the first boyfriend I have learned to love fully and blindly, and the sheer fact that the rest of my life is back home, waiting for me.  But it’s clear that it won’t wait forever.  And tonight marks the exact two year anniversary of my arrival here.  So as I shuffled the cards, I was told to reflect on my question:  To stay in Paris with my boyfriend and keep up the sidelined expat act, or to go back home and try for that profaned ‘American Dream,’ which these days comes down to the vague hope of having some sort of challenging career with a potentially disposable income before my 30th birthday?  Being lost as I am in the sheer enormity of this decision (which has many more parts than I am able to present here) has left me as shaken as the cards on that table.

So there I was, the ‘Chariot,’ in the middle of the table.  Meaning, the card drawn to identify the questioner, myself, was a man on a chariot led by two horses.  Maybe there are several cards in the deck that can, if necessary, denote travel, but I for one was intrigued.  It was no small thing to have that card placed between the two faces of my dilemma.  What lay before me quickly became a crude map, with two cards on each side standing in for the masses that surround the ocean I have crossed an obscene number of times.  I am surprised to report that I do not want to continue detailing the actual cards here, as somehow the reading itself has become personal for me in this short time.  And still I hesitate to say I am a believer.  But here’s where the psychology part comes in.  Whatever my cards were, it’s important to note that ‘negative’ cards don’t necessarily mean doom and instant damnation.  The Devil, for instance, signifies a ‘profound inner source of creativity that might unearth somber or dark feelings.’  The energy of the man in the Chariot, it seemed, was directed by more than just the surface definitions of the cards presented.  Sort of like life, in a way?  The psychoanalyst would say yes, ‘look deeper.’

He did also say that I was a writer.  Not that I was testing him.  But for whatever it’s worth, he nailed that one.  I knew I wouldn’t get a glowing, definitive, or magic answer, and I left the ‘séance’ feeling confused, foolish and a little amused.  But I realized that really, I felt just a little better.  And ten euros isn’t too bad for that.

On a practical note, if you’re interested in a reading you can drop by La Belle Hortense, 31 rue Vieille du Temple in the 4th arr. on Sundays between 8.30 pm and 12.30 am.  For information on other times ask within.  La Belle Hortense is one of the most charming bookstores in the city, mainly due to its pleasant bar facing the street.  The calm and quiet there are a welcome pause in the midst of the particularly noisy and lively street outside, and there you can also find a nice selection of elementary and simpler French books for those of us still at the level of Le Petit Prince. 

La Belle Hortense, métro Hotel de Ville.