The Six of Cups

Every once in a while, I go to the Internet Archive and I look up my first blog, which I kept starting in 2001. It’s full of my anxiety about the war, politics, my body, my depression, my job, and my future. Much like any effort I’ve had in journaling, it’s sporadic. It ranges from the mundane to the spiritual. Since I learned to read, writing has always been what I’ve wanted to do. It’s also how I’ve processed my world.

I know so many people who feel lost, who aren’t sure what they want from this world, or aren’t sure what dream they want to pursue. I feel very privileged that it’s not the case for me.

It doesn’t even matter how I write. I am an adept typist, but I still often grab a pen and paper when I’m looking to think through something. (I’ve also got an endless love of and fascination with office supplies — it’s exciting to browse pens, paper, stapleless staplers. . . ) Regardless of the method I use to capture words — writing is what I always return to.

As long as I’ve been able to, I’ve used language to understand my mind. Sometimes, I’ve shared those words and have come understand myself better for it. My emails are even more revealing. I’ve always relished personal correspondence, engaging with a variety of pen pals on everything from philosophy, technology, and trauma. From the age of 5 until, now, 48, I’ve used the written word to build worlds in addition to exploring the one I inhabit.

I’ve found so many things — such as joy, sorrow, and enlightenment — at the tip of my pen.

Thus I find it very strange that I’ve been so blocked when it comes to writing here. Perhaps it’s because I take things too personally (it’s hard to have a ratio of 12:1 negative:positive messages about my writing hitting my email, it really is). Perhaps it’s that I chose the wrong niche — and I never should have tried to hem myself in at all. I can’t say. But I know that I’ve not been writing with the regularity I’ve hoped, and a lot of it has to do with lofty expectations of what I should or shouldn’t do. That hasn’t been serving me at all. I’ve put it on a pedestal, and there’s no reason for me to do that.

All of this came to me as I was contemplating today’s tarot card, the 6 of cups.

Like many people with a rough past, the six of cups can be a strange card to contemplate. It’s about childhood, nostalgia — and past influences. One of the largest influences in my life, and especially my childhood: was writing.

I’m not going to use this time to trauma dump or anything like that — instead I’ll say that writing was there for me, I was there for me — in a time when no one or nothing else could be. It helped me to escape, to understand my world, and to prepare myself for a long journey that I’ve been on since.

The Light Seer’s Tarot (by Chris-Anne) guidebook has a beautiful phrase to go with each card, and for the six of cups it says “I am at peace with my past, it has brought me to where I am meant to be.” It’s a beautiful idea, and one that I’m able to embrace on my good days. On my bad days, I am at least able to admit it’s the best case scenario, even if I’m not in the mental space to feel it. The card itself shows a beautiful, comfortable courtyard where the children that are in the image are able to help each other, and share a safe moment. Right now, as I contemplate this card, I feel that safety and security from which a lot of good can spring.

It’s a fresh month, and for some reason Anne Shirley’s comment comes to me. “Isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?” ― L.M. Montgomery

It’s a new month, and the biggest mistake I could make is not reconnecting to that piece of myself that means so much. I’d do myself a disservice if I didn’t do the very thing that makes me a writer.