During the month of August, I’m participating in the Writer’s Tarot Challenge.
Day 1: The Lightning Strike That Begins It All.
I am thrilled at the turning of the month. July seemed to be the month that wouldn’t end, the month of unrelenting heat in the desert I call home. July was the month of stretching liminality, of waiting for the next task (or, more compellingly, the next act of creative agency) to arrive. The Four of Pentacles, bearer of worries for my own security in my identity as a creative agent, overshadowed me.
And then L and I agreed to do this Writer’s Tarot Challenge again during the month of August, nearly two years after L introduced it for NaNoWriMo. The promise of the turning wheel of the year grounded me; August would not be merely another test of endurance, but a time of gathering words and crafting them. It is fitting that this challenge begins on Lammas, aka Lughnasadh, the feast of the harvest. What I took pains to plant weeks, months, and years ago is ready. My imagination is ripe, and I am prepared to write.
And yet the Four of Chalices reminds me that this challenge alone will not quench my appetite. There is far more to be explored, far more with which to challenge myself. During a conversation with a spiritual co-journeyer today, I named aloud–with birthing pangs I struggled to hide–new details of the shape of my creative imaginings. To bring forth this work is so difficult, particularly in the company of another, but it is in this exchange with the trusted interlocutor that magic swells, bursting in an electric cascade of insight. The quiet afterward stills me, but the lightning strike remains etched in memory, and that to which I’ve given birth demands my attention with a sudden cry that interrupts my desire to put things on hold for a more convenient day.