You see here, from my point of view, a Tarot reading from my housemate’s Gateway to the Divine deck.
It’s about a relationship. The cards advise to work on it more, but it might not resolve as I’d like.
My housemate’s cards are more pessimistic than mine. That’s fine—I can use some grounding. My sun is in fire, in the story that is astrology, and I can wander around all naïve like the Tarot’s Fool. My housemate is a Taurus, this-world-oriented, a maven of sex and food.
I started reading Tarot when I was thirteen. I got a Marseilles deck and a Rider-Waite book, which caused me some confusion. I remember laying all the cards out on my bed and trying to memorize them one by one. Which, in the end, I did.
The Tarot is my lifeline and consultant. If my journal reflects me back to myself, the Tarot is my wise if sometimes vague friend who sees further than I can. But I don’t consult the cards as much as I did at thirteen. Even compared to life in the world now, for life in my parents’ house I needed to predict the future more.