Ginger's Tarot

My first reading with her was unsettingly accurate.

I see her ability to read tarot as another form of being talented with storytelling. A form of piecing together aspects of a situation that would otherwise be disparate, arbitrary, contingent. Hers is the talent of the writer who turns the contigent into something necessary.

We found our place on the rug that sits right in middle of the living room floor. Her hands spreading the cards over the floor resembled the hands of the lover who explores a body that is already familiar, but always new in each encounter as well. Her hands placing the cards in a Celtic Cross: laying down and exploring the secrets that are waiting to be unfolded and revealed, like the unbuttoning of a shirt or the parting of lips revealing a scentuous flower that fully blooms at the lightest touch of fingertips. Under her hands and gaze a story is unraveled just to be put together again.

As she reads the cards I see a weaver of a tapestry: putting the pieces of a story together to reveal an image that can be read. This is a twofold process embodied in two characters that are only apparently contradictory: reader and writer. A good reader is always a writer, and a good writer often operates at the level of reading. Her experience with tarot seems to always oscillate between these two functions, and it is in this ebb and flow where I see her blooming, reaching a realm that has always been here, in the middle of our living room, everywhere.