As long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by the tarot.
There’s something mysterious about those simple, archetypal images.
There’s wisdom in those drawn figures, and their eyes and actions tell a story.
The fascination isn’t for fortune-telling or predicting the future. They’re more like 78 Rorschachs, 78 mirrors, 78 vignettes of the human condition in which the viewer can see her or himself and understand accordingly. They’re an I Ching illustrated, a map of the soul. The psyche, rightly-oriented, can find images that trigger thoughts, trigger words, trigger meaning, trigger solution, trigger insight, understanding, grokking…
Every night or so, nothing too routinized, I pull two cards: one for the current situation and one to move forward. I don’t pull another two until I feel I’ve exhausted the insights from the current.
A few nights ago I pulled the Queen of Cups and the 9 of Wands.
When my mother’s condition was worsening 8 weeks ago, I said to my sister, I feel like the 9 of Wands, like I’m standing guard with nothing but my heart and passion to wield.

My sister, the Meg to my Charles Wallace growing up¹, may be the queen who handed me that cup. We exemplify aspects of the suit, wearing our hearts on our sleeves.

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9 wands
9 words
Wonder
Wander
Will
Wish
Words
Wound
Wisdom
Why

Wait…

To hold vigil without violence
A virtual vigilante with words as weapons of mass deflection
9 wands for words are wands to wield
Forward-facing shield
To ward off those who would
Wish for me to yield to their daemons.

Once terrifying, the weary warrior _{^{(once a teary worrier)}}
Winces as if the very light
Evinces flames of old wild conflagrations.

Once weary, twice nearly wiped from a world where words once wrapped
Those rapt in the sorcery of wizards with misguided will…
Once weary, twice nearly wiped out.
Never merely existing
In its stead persisting
Insisting none the less.

Nine staffs set a picket
Nine branches from a thicket
Forged branches wands wind snipped at
By waiting for the will to lose the will.

Wands wielded wizardly as
Words are wands to wield
Welded and spelled
Into existence a knell
Bellwether whether or not
To weld to tell the truth well
A tale well told
For wards to ward forwards
To shield and wield towards
To ward off those who expect me to yield to their daemons.

Words are thoughts ignited.
Thought fills the chamber
Takes shape into a form
Will, wisdom, whimsy and wile
Strike flint
A wan spark plugs the emptiness
And words take shape
Glittering phosphorous
Flicker and fade
Burnt carbon embers and the mark whispers
Until the carbon sparks wonder.

9 wands, 9 words
A wondering wandering wish to wield words with wisdom.

9 wands
9 words
Wonder
Wander
Will
Wish
Words
Wound
Wisdom
Why

1. Mom worked 4-12 as a nurse; Dad would play cards at the firehouse; my sister would make me dinner, read to me, tuck me in. She read A Wrinkle in Time for me, and in those wrinkles grew a metaphor for a life of psychic communion, or what L’Engle called kything. ↩︎