The answer I didn’t want to hear
But exactly what I needed to keep going anyway.
Way back when my eldest started preschool, we were initiated into the annual tradition of the school fundraising auction and specifically the auction parties. I couldn't get enough of them. You know the kind: Beach Day with the Principal, Mom's Spa Day, Backyard Pizza & Movie Night, Sushi & Sake for Eight. Some of the parties were so popular you had to run in and put your name on the list before they sold out.
Early on I even enthusiastically participated in the process hosting my own, Learn to Make Hand Pies with Carrie, Cook a Spring Dinner with Carrie, that kind of thing. But as the years went by, the shine began to fade and I didn’t go all in the way I had before.
Around the time my daughter was a senior in high school, a friend emailed me to see if I wanted to buy a ticket to an auction party. I hadn’t bothered to look through the catalog that year, so I wasn’t familiar with the offerings. She told me she wanted to go to the Tea and Tarot party.
As a teenager, I had regularly read my horoscope at the back of my monthly Seventeen magazine and played Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board at junior high sleepovers, but that was as far as I went with all of that.
I didn’t know anything about tarot and was rather indifferent to it. But I was always looking for reasons to spend time with my friend, so I signed up.
Something to know about me: I’m a researcher. My favorite college class was a year-long course called Information Gathering.
I like to know what I’m stepping into—the history, the background, what to expect.
I stepped into this auction party completely unprepared.
Almost immediately I felt a bit of anxiety. This was way out of my comfort zone and I found myself wishing I hadn’t agreed to come.
But I drank my tea. Ate my tea sandwiches. Made small talk with my friend and others I knew.
And then, a quiet announcement was made: the tarot card readings would begin in the dining room. Who would like to go first?
I felt like I was back in high school waiting my turn to give a presentation. Never one to shy from public speaking, I still never wanted to go first.
I kept my eyes on my plate and pretended that question had not been asked.
One by one, other auction party attendees slipped into the dining room and returned 10-15 minutes later. “What am I even doing here?” I kept asking myself and wondering if I could just slip out the front door unnoticed.
I was engaged in conversation, trying not to think about what was happening in the other room, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. One of the co-hosts smiled at me and asked, “Carrie, would you like to go next?”
“Oh, oh, okay. Sure. Should I bring my tea with me? Should I put it in the kitchen?”
“No, no. Bring your tea with you.”
She ushered me into the dining room, where the host sat at the head of the table.
“Where should I sit?” I asked.
“You can sit right here next to me.”
The whole thing had the awkwardness of a job interview. Being in close proximity with someone you don’t know, who is about to ask you very specific questions.
She explained the rules of engagement, which I was grateful for, since as I mentioned, I hadn’t done my usual research.
Most of it I have since forgotten, but I do remember her explaining, “You’ll ask me a question about something you want in your life. Nothing too direct yet nothing too vague. And then I’ll draw three cards and interpret them.”
Or something like that.
For years, I had been talking about publishing a book of stories and recipes based off my original blog, La Pomme de Portland. Partly to fulfill a goal I had set as a child. Partly to leave something of myself for my children. And partly because I thought others might enjoy it.
But I couldn’t quite get myself to do it. To focus and finish it. Not just talk about it.
So, I said, “Umm, I guess…should I write and publish my book?”
She smiled slightly, “I thought you might ask that.”
She had me rephrase the question, which I don’t remember now, and then there was some shuffling of cards and such.
She pulled the first card from the deck and looked up at me solemnly. Eyebrows raised ever so slightly.
I looked down at the card. It showed a picture of a somber figure on horseback.
She said, “Death.”
Death? I thought. From writing a book?
She was silent for a moment, then explained, “This will be very difficult. Very hard. You will have to become something different than you are now to do it. Change something in your life.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I just sat quietly, like a child in trouble.
She pulled a second card.
Two figures walking through snow past a stained glass window.
“Ahh…The Five Pentacles.”
She looked at me with some concern. I looked back at her…waiting.
“It may or may not make money.”
Not exactly the financial forecast I had in mind.
“Oh…okay.” I replied.
She pulled the final card. A court jester-type figure near a cliff.
“The Fool.”
The Fool? Am I a fool for being here? I thought.
She smiled.
“Yes, you should do it anyway. Despite the difficulty and uncertainty, you should definitely write the book.”
She looked right at me, eyes bright and certain.
“Oh. Okay. Thank you. Thank you so much.” I had no idea how to respond.
She was so earnest throughout the whole process. I was genuinely impressed by her thoughtfulness toward it all.
But as I left the table, I remember thinking:
That’s it?
It’s going to be difficult. It may or may not make money. Yes, you should do it anyway?
I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
It felt almost too simple. Something I could have told myself. I moved on with the afternoon, chalking it up to time well spent with friends.
That was my one and only tarot card reading.
And I’m not here to sell you on tarot cards. I'm still not entirely sure whether that afternoon was the cards, or simply this woman's innate wisdom.
But here’s the interesting part: I still think of it. All these years later.
I still come back to it when I’m standing at the edge of something new.
Something that requires courage, challenges me, and has no guarantee that it will work out the way I imagine. The way I’ve mapped it out in my five-year plan.
I come back to it each week as I write my newsletter.
And as I begin writing my next book. Something I’ve quietly been working toward.
And if I’m honest, when the familiar resistance questions start to pop up:
Am I too old for this now? Is it too late to start something new? Am I too tired to take this on? (Menopause fatigue is no joke, people.) Should I really be spending my time this way… on something with no certain outcome? Should I really be beginning again when it feels like others around me are slowing down?
I still think all of that.
And the answer I come back to is the same one I was given that day…
“It’s going to be very difficult. It may or may not make money. Yes, you should absolutely do it anyway.”
Cheers,
Carrie