My fellow reader Jenna Matlin posted this wonderful poem about what we actually do versus some common expectations:
I do not tell the future.
I cannot speak your fortune.
I do not give first letters of names, or
tell you that he will have blue, blue eyes.
I throw probabilities to the wind
and see what sticks, I share forecasts
and likely outcomes based on why
your heart is closed, and how we can open it
I uncover warnings, things already in the making like
your boss’ growing dissatisfaction, and
how you might evade or fall
gracefully. I see things in the act of
The cards are not a window into a future
that Event is still turning, a bowl being created,
the Being is curving.
I calculate mass cross-sectional data, with
a graceful throw of sparkling intuition. A narrative where you,
star player, make all the moves.
Tarot is the Ghost of Christmases future to reveal
a present so effervescent it takes
your breath away. The Delorian returned home,
steam on its flux capacitor running onto Main street,
Try this, avoid that, course corrections in the making
So you, dear Player, can make your life. Make it.