Tomorrow is not a given. Only today can be taken. It’s in the cards. Just ask them. In her first “From the Mountain” column in the Winter 20190-20 issue of Coast Mountain Culture Magazine, Lisa Richardson asks the most important question.
The tarot cards sat on my desk for weeks, hidden under a sheaf of paper, before I gained the courage to tear off the shrink wrap. The salesperson I bought them from grew up in a family of tarot readers, and she confirmed my reservations. Trendy, but not to be trifled with, she intimated. I can’t stop wondering, if you open yourself to other worlds, how do you ensure you only hook the good guys at the end of the line? More practically, what do you do when you get a download from the future?
Divination. Stars. Tea leaves. Crystal balls. Entrails. People have sought foreknowledge for eons. I have never been tempted. I like the way life seduces me with surprise revelations. Also, incense gives me a headache. I don’t want to be anyone’s sucker, but worse, I am afraid of discovering the future has already been written and there’s nothing we can do to change it. The salesperson gave me two pieces of advice: don’t approach with fear, because that’s what you’ll attract, and know that nothing is set in stone. Everything is an opportunity to make a choice, to act. I’m not beyond anointing a twenty-something retail worker as my spiritual advisor.
I shuffle the cards for a long time, wondering if our demise is as inevitable as it seems. Are we doomed? My long-ignored intuition stutters a response: it’s neither that simple nor that stark; ask a better question. Irish poet and peacemaker Pádraig Ó Tuama urges the Buddhist concept of Mu. It means you are asking such a limited question that you’re already trapped by the lack of possibilities. Ask a better question. Ask a question that courts possibility.
As the Buddhist deep ecologist and activist Joanna Macy says, “Of all the dangers we face, from climate chaos to nuclear war, none is so great as the deadening of our response.” When I feel awake, when I slow down enough to tune into the quieter nudges, the less shrill and clamorous thoughts, those clues can come from anywhere — every one is an opportunity to choose what you’re giving your attention over to.
How do you choose to respond to the urgency afoot? To a terminal diagnosis? When you’re in the midst of a crisis, what is the appropriate speed at which to react? Which pressing need do you attend to first? For years, I wrestled with slowing down, being productive, finding the appropriate velocity for life. Then Güliz Ünlü, a teacher, animal communicator, and seer, offered me a new perspective, saying, “So much wrestling. Why not try dancing?” The questions, she explained, are the cookies left on the trail.
“Of all the dangers we face, from climate chaos to nuclear war, none is so great as the deadening of our response.”
What is true right now?
The point of the cards, like any practice of slowing down, is to tune into a different signal, the long-ignored and subtle voice drowned out by noise. I shape clumsy questions, as awkward as kneading sourdough, my attention sticky. With each attempt, things take a smoother shape. After a while, the question runs to greet me. And I sit in that space, listening. Not rushing, for a change.
The future is a destination we will never reach. It’s just a mirage distracting us from the now, this lovely pedestrian path beneath our feet.
What matters most now?
Ask the best question your heart can hold, and then lean in close.