My children were not pleased, to say the least, when they discovered I visited a tarot card reader. Being the logical thinkers they are, they quickly reminded me of the statistics that suggest coincidences happen for a reason. I had tried to keep my visit a secret, sneaking through our small town, but fate had other plans and I eventually had to come clean.
Reflecting on my past, it’s clear that my fascination with the mystical has roots that run deep. Ever since I learned to read, the little house on the hill with a sign that read “Fortune Teller” captivated my attention. It stood out prominently during the busy days when my mother took shortcuts to avoid the town’s main traffic light.
At the County Farmers’ Fair, I would pass by the fortune-telling booth right next to the pie stand, but I knew better than to ask my parents about it, even though the allure was just a curtain away. While my mother directed me toward handmade quilts, my thoughts wandered to the woman behind the curtain who could unveil my destiny.
I came to believe there were places where life’s uncertainties could be unraveled, yet I found myself unable to access them. Growing up in a practical household where canning vegetables was a common pastime, mystical explanations were not welcomed. In that environment, I felt isolated in my curiosity.
Finally, as a teenager, with a bit of pocket money and newfound independence, I convinced some friends to accompany me to a palm reader at the boardwalk. As I placed my hand in hers, I felt my heart race, wondering if she would reveal whether I would live a long life or find true love. Her careful examination of my palm felt like a reckless gamble, yet I listened with bated breath. I recorded her insights and tucked them away in my drawer as a safeguard against future misfortunes. Her assurance of a long life gave me a sense of comfort for a while.
Yet as the years rolled on, I remained just as unsettled by the unpredictability of everyday life. I mistakenly thought that answering the big questions about love and family would bring me peace, but it did not.
Recently, while walking with a friend who shares my belief in the magic of coincidence, she mentioned that the local tarot reader would be back in town. Suddenly, I felt drawn to seek guidance for a current dilemma I faced. I craved clarity about my purpose in this fleeting life and thought perhaps the tarot could provide it.
I made an appointment, marking it discreetly in our family calendar to avoid any potential ridicule. On the day of the reading, I parked across the street and noticed a man in a suit exiting the shop. His presence reassured me, almost validating my own quest for answers, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling of being a feminist seeking external validation.
Sitting at the table across from a young man with delicate features, I shuffled the cards and laid them out. He offered the option to record the session, a detail I noted for potential future discussions with my children. My pulse quickened as he shared insights about the influences in my life. When he invited questions, I hesitated but eventually voiced the one I had long held: “What is my life purpose?” I felt the weight of time pressing down on me.
He mentioned the moon and how it was an opportune moment to ask the universe for guidance. I listened intently, eager for a roadmap. I blurted out my need for specifics on how to frame my requests. His calm demeanor and straightforward instructions made me feel at ease.
With a renewed sense of direction, I returned home and crafted a list of seven intentions, the number he suggested. I decided to type them to avoid misunderstandings. Standing there with my list in hand, I pondered where to place my requests for the universe. Just then, my youngest child burst into the room and spotted my draft. As he began to read it aloud, I snatched it away, only to have him giggle, prompting a playful struggle that drew the attention of my other kids.
Determined, I chose the top of my dresser, nearest the window, as the perfect spot for my list. I waited patiently, reviewing my intentions daily and adopting a more mindful approach to life. A week later, something occurred that mirrored one of my requests, and I found it hard to believe it was mere coincidence. I couldn’t help but share my excitement with my children.
Ultimately, I hope they too believe in the magic of the universe. I want them to understand that by articulating our intentions honestly and openly, we may open doors to new possibilities. While skeptics might argue that my fortunes shifted due to my own efforts, perhaps there is something more at play—a connection between our desires and the world around us. It’s a delightful thought to entertain.
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In summary, embracing a bit of magic in life allows us to navigate the uncertainties we face with a sense of wonder. By sharing this perspective with our children, we can inspire them to believe in the possibilities that lie ahead.