Fortune Teller No.3 Web Radio November 21, 2016

Join me tomorrow night on www.LiveParanormal.com at 8 pm Pacific/11 pm Eastern with my guest Joanna Nelson. Joanna is creating a new Tarot, The Monstarot! Want to know more? Click this link!

Queen of Air and Darkness

Breathing is good. The older I get, the more I appreciate breathing. I know it sounds a little stupid. Our bodies are marvelously designed so that we can control our breathing and when we're not paying attention, like when we're sleeping, we keep on breathing.

Mostly.

My boss at my Day Job noted more than once that I'm not a Morning Person. Well, no. I'm not. Now, don't get me wrong. I love mornings. Early mornings in California can make you think, at least for a few minutes, that the whole place belongs to you. It's quiet. More and more I like quiet, too.

I didn't realize I was such a fan of quiet until I went to a conference for work recently. I went to DreamForce along with, oh, 160,000 of my very best friends. We all carried blue backpacks and followed trails like hamsters on a camping trip. Seriously, for an empath, being in a crowd of 160,000 of motivated software seekers is like being screamed at by dolphins, locusts and maybe a few jumbo jets. Somewhere in the middle of my days of enlightenment, which WERE valuable for my work experience, truly, I declared that I was no longer an extrovert.

I don't know if it's possible to resign from a personality trait but I was willing to try. I no longer was energized by the frisson of others' happiness. I no longer wanted to talk all night, an extrovert's idea of dancing all night for you non-verbals. I no longer thrilled to the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd. I thought being in a real forest with songbirds, the occasional insect and fresh air was maybe the best thing I could think of--or maybe the beach with the sound of waves and seagulls and the smell of salt and seaweed. Those things were all I craved while I was surrounded by my eager companions from all over the world with their identical blue backpacks and program guides of presentations spread over 14 buildings and several days.

On the other hand, the bicycle rickshaw guys were aces! Better than taxis with the breeze in my face, less sardined than the Muni buses, my dedication to my rickshaw peddlers was something like the euphoria of adopting a kitten at the animal shelter. The separate peace was transcendent, a rolling air-bubble of serenity through the bumper-filled City streets. I could finally absorb some of avalanche of information from the conference with the air blowing in my face. I tipped.

And then recently I saw a clip about a guy who liked to sing Frank Sinatra style. He'd been blinded in the most extraordinary way. It seems that he had a common problem, sleep apnea. It doesn't seem so remarkable except that he had stopped breathing for a long enough to cut off the blood flow to his optic nerve, resulting in blindness.

I was thunderstruck. Well, maybe literally. It would be an understatement to say I snore. One of my friends told me that my husband MUST be a saint to put up with that for so many years. It's embarrassing. My goddess girls have learned practical ways of dealing with it, like putting me in separate sleeping quarters. When I go to Tarot conferences, I tend to pick roomies who are somewhat hard of hearing or all-night partiers. I try to spare them the worst of my nighttime serenade.

After I saw the Sinatra singer's story, I wrote a note to my doctor. Have we ever talked about this? I don't just snore like a freight train. Think 747's or Cape Canaveral rockets. Think super-villains with world-threatening sonic weapons. And I don't just snore. I laugh, talk, whistle, sing, fight demons with mad martial arts skillz, hell, I even talk on the phone--I do just about everything except walk in my sleep. Walking might give whoever is in the room with me a break, you know? Apparently my subconscious draws the line somewhere. I've heard of CPAP machines that might help.

One night's Sleep Clinic testing showed that on average I naturally stop breathing around 79 times per hour. Stop. Breathing. 79 times per hour. It's like an all-night panic attack. One of the questionnaire items was Do you feel more tired when you get up in the morning than when you go to bed at night? Uh. Yeah.

Cue Star Trek's Bones (Doc McCoy) shaking his head saying, "She's dead, Jim."

In Tarot the Queen of Swords is the Queen of Air and Darkness, the recipient of logic, the supporter of knowledge, the disciple of Truth. She is classically the smartest girl in the deck. Often she is unhappy and often she likes to share, not to make people unhappy too, but so they know the truth. She is without romance, but not without feeling. She knows the Truth often isn't pretty. But the Truth is something you can hang onto, even if it's like hanging onto the sharp end of the sword.

Picture Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

It was time for me to call upon my inner Queen of Swords. I needed more air in the darkness before I lost brain cells or an optic nerve or something I valued.

On the first week with the CPAP machine, I went from stopping breathing an average of 79 times per hour to 7 times per hour. I actually LIKE mornings now. They'd really like it if I got that 7 down to 4 or fewer because, well, stopping breathing is just not good for your heart, your head, your weight, your sanity. It's a long list.

I'm fortunate that I have access to health care so that I can get the right mix of air all night long. My dreams have changed and have become more fun, although I did dream of Leonard Cohen the night before he died. Leonard had never been a guest in my dreams before, so it was nice to meet him on his way out. He was friendly, neighborly, positive, pleasant.

They are still experimenting with the right model of machine is perfect to shove a little more oxygen into my bloodstream. And my nosecone does make me look a little like part of the Borg collective, 6 of 4, I've dubbed myself--not that good at math.

The harsh truth can be like shoving air down your throat. You can fight it with a panic attack or you can treat it like the joy a dog has with his schnozz stuck out the car window. Sniff ALL the sniffs, I say.

Oh, and I'm told I don't snore anymore. Score.

Best wishes.

Fortune Teller No. 3 Web Radio

Join me first and third Mondays at 11 pm Eastern/8 pm Pacific on www.LiveParanormal.com Radio for my show Fortune Teller No. 3. Free readings, guest speakers and talk about divination. It's free, it's friendly and it's fun!

The Lion in Winter

“And the lion walks close by his side, unwilling henceforth to part from him: he will always in future accompany him, eager to serve and protect him. He goes ahead until he scents in the wind upon his way some wild beasts feeding; then hunger and his nature prompt him to seek his prey and to secure his sustenance. It is his nature so to do.”  

         Yvain, the Knight of the Lion

         Chrétien de Troyes

  

Do they still teach these old-fashioned things in school? That March comes in like a lion? Our El Nino weather pattern is supposed to still have potential to bring storms to California but February has been showers with sunshine and warm weather this year. So the lion sleeps tonight as it has most of the month.

Lion imagery is generally something we like in Western culture. MGM’s lion may have been toothless but gave mighty roars before thrilling cinema goers were treated to the latest show for years. Lion lovers created an uproar at the death of one lion by a proud but reviled American dentist, pleased with his big game kill. Animal lovers mourned the death of the king of beasts as an individual as much as they mourned the loss of a symbol of the dwindling wildlife on our planet. While all my classmates seemed to be dazzled by horses in my primary school years, I was in love with cats of all sizes including Elsa the lioness. Instead of wanting to ride the wind, I wanted the ferocious thing to love me instead of eat me.

Art Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

Later I went to a live production of the Lion King and marveled at the set, costuming, dance and song that celebrates life, even the difficult parts. Rather than portray all lions as good—or even all lions as man-eaters and bad—the theatre production showed that individuals may be good or bad, make good or bad choices, but in the larger scheme of things lions are necessary as part of the World.

The Strength card in Tarot shows the lion soothed by the lady, the urge to be a predator tamed by wisdom, patience, understanding and compassion. If the predator gives in to the lust for the kill, it may eat well for a day, but the excess will rot and eventually the predator will starve. If the predator has his teeth and claws removed, it may well starve as well, since lions are meant to eat meat, not grass and leaves. Strength, then, is more than the obvious momentary overpowering single effort. Long-term survival means exercising both immediate action and control at the same time. If you must destroy or consume, measure carefully. It speaks to our inner voices, the voice that says, “I want,” and the one that says, “Easy, there.”

The conservation of nature requires that same balance. As a dominant species, we must consume something to survive. We must leave a carbon footprint in order to be in the physical world. We’ve become over-achievers when it comes to consumption. We don’t always notice this; it feels like everyday life. We have to get to work and be able to work and be rewarded in some form of payment in order to afford food, shelter, safety, health and the care of our children. And we all want a little something extra on top for our souls: Music, art, cosplay, religion, leisure activities, or improvement of some kind.

And one of the phenomena of modern society—was it ever thus?—is that we’re having trouble distinguishing need from want. Chicken soup for the soul, yes, but must we have the cheesy artichoke dip and artisan bread appetizer with our prime rib for the soul with fries and the lava cake a la mode for dessert? What is necessity? What is luxury?

If the lion is appetite and urge, the tamer is the triumph of wisdom over urge, the soft voice of good sense in the ear of the beast that helps regulate the primitive power within. The lion is not shown as caged, shackled, defeated, declawed, shot and killed like a trophy as if killing the powerful thing somehow transfers the power to the killer. The lion is shown responding to gentleness, calming, beauty, kindness, good intent, understanding, compassion. These are effective over time, so the strength displayed is one of endurance.

I attended an event recently that focused not on big predators but on birds, the Flyway Festival. Many groups were represented, coming together to preserve wildlife and make sure that human appetite is gently reminded that if we eat the big blue cookie that is our planet, we don’t get another one. I’m older now. I don’t expect wild animals to be my friends just because I have friendly intentions. 

Instead I honor their wild nature and try to help, together with others, support efforts that will help provide places where wildlife can be wild for generations to come and not consumed by the out-of-control appetites of supposedly more intelligent beings. I hope that in the winter wind, the lion can hear the soft voice of wisdom encouraging it to endure for generations to come.

Best wishes.

The Devil You Know

I had both kids for the afternoon. Anna is 13 going on 30; Dylan is 15. I’m their favorite Gramma, at least that’s what they tell me. That’s good enough for me. I’m hoping they tell their real grandmothers the same thing.

They are just the age I wanted to teach, when I thought I was going to teach. My life took a different turn and at the point where I was on the Devil’s horns of my Career Decision That Would Set The Course For My Whole Life, I went for the bucks as a legal secretary instead of teaching. 

But still. The temptation that I might set fire to young minds, especially those at the age when the watchwords are, “I’m bored!” Those words are like a red flag in front of the bull for me. A million thoughts run through my head when I hear them. Bored??? Think of the Library of Alexandria! Sorry, I didn’t mean to spit on you. But, there’s got to be something out there my darlings will find “not boring.”

“We want to watch horror movies!” was the cry from the chorus.

Good, I thought. I want to watch horror movies too. I want a good one, one that’s scary, not gory. Hack ‘em ups are nothing but kids with ketchup packets poised under their sneakers waiting for their all-too-suspecting victims, the viewers, for the chance at the Big Splash. Gore is not horror; it’s revulsion. They’re different, ok?

“OK,” I agreed, “and let’s find a good one. There are so many stupid ones and ones that are just ooky. I want something that’s scary, good and scary.”

A friend of mine had recently read an old blog entry and had said they liked what I said about things that were really scary. It wasn’t the people dressed up in silly suits. It was…

“Hey, you know what’s really scary?”

Well, that’s a question that can start a bunch of freaky stories. The kids’ eyes got big.

“OK, so you’ve seen Poltergeist, right? There’s a lot of scary stuff in there, or stuff that’s supposed to be scary. Like the ghosts from the graveyard or voices from the television. But the scariest scene in Poltergeist for me was the steak.”

Steak? Their eyes were question marks.

“Well, yeah, the steak. When the steak crawled across the counter, that moment was the scariest thing for me. What’s scary is when everything seems perfectly normal. And then something does something it isn’t supposed to do. Like a steak crawling across a kitchen counter by itself. That’s…that’s not OK. That’s not right. That’s the world taking a very weird tilt. It makes you question the entire basis of reality.”

Anna nodded, thoughtful.

“So, Dylan, don’t you have favorite monsters? People LOVE Dracula, Frankenstein, Godzilla. But, dude. That steak….”

“The Shining, The Shining!” Dylan insisted as we scrolled through Netflix offerings.

“OK,” I agreed. “Stephen King knows what’s scary. At some point, if you want a scary story, I recommend Ghost Story, a great little revenge story, or Pan’s Labyrinth, a lesson on choosing the devil you know.” I think of the Devil card in the Tarot, how it shows myriad horrors and in our modern interpretation so often means addiction and loss of freedom that we might have avoided. Think cultural context.

I planted a seed. I could tell. So we watched The Shining and as we did, we talked about the movie just a bit, then after it was over, quite a bit more.

“She’s kinda dumb,” Anna pointed out about Wendy Torrance.

“She is, isn’t she? And isn’t that one of the scariest things you could think of, especially if you were 6 year old Danny Torrance? That the person who was supposed to be always on your side, a Super Hero who can fix anything, answer any question, make everything better, your mom is nearly useless when you really need her?”

Jack Torrance is typing in the high-ceilinged lobby. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. We’ve watched him succumb to darkness slowly, and we’ve known it was coming. But suddenly, he swears at Wendy who has meekly interrupted him.

“There!” I pounce, startling the kids. “No, seriously, this is the first use of the F word you’ve heard in the movie, which is at least one reason it is rated R, right? This isn’t just cussing. This is creative use of cussing. It’s verbal violence that signals that things are rapidly going to go bad from here. This is a creative device, not just to imitate what you hear on the schoolyard from your foul-mouthed schoolmates. The use of this is meant to shock you, to focus your attention that things are not going to get better after this.”

“Huh,” they both mutter in unison. Creative cussing was not something they had thought of. The idea that the writer, the director, all the people involved in telling the story do all these things purposefully to affect the audience, them starts to creep into their awareness, a lot like a steak crawling across the counter. I can tell Anna likes the idea of control of the audience. She’s more likely to be the creative artist, affecting the crowd to her making. Dylan would do the special effects engineering.

When it’s over, I say, OK, let’s talk about the movie. Did you know that the actor Danny Lloyd thought of making his finger move when his “imaginary” friend Tony talked? That he never saw any of the scary parts during filming so he wouldn’t be really afraid? Having him have a nearly blank face was important because he should have looked more scared and didn’t. And that made the movie even scarier for us.

One of things about scary movies is that often we know what to be afraid of when the characters in the movie don’t. So we’re yelling, Danny, don’t go in room 237!! If Mr. Hallorann said not to go in there, and he knows about the Shining, don’t go in there. He does of course and he comes out scratched and drooling.

“Let’s look at the things in that movie that are the things that scare us. Stephen King is really good at honing in on what scares you. He makes the characters as real as possible to you, so that when the scary thing happens, it’s happening to you, too. So what’s scary in The Shining? Daddy turns into the monster, which maybe wasn’t much of a stretch from perhaps sleazy writer. Mommy is nearly helpless, so you don’t get rescued. You sense things other people don’t, making you feel even more alone. The Overlook is so remote and huge and increasingly your connection to the outside world gets farther and farther away by the snow, the telephone going out, the rooms being so many and so huge, people being in different rooms, the radio being disconnected and the snowcat being disabled. 

"Locked doors can’t protect you from a madman with an axe, the lady in the bathtub is the Thing Under the Bed, and the little girls, their father and Lloyd the bartender are seductive drawing you father into the Monster which is The Overlook itself. It’s dark. It’s cold. You get agoraphobia and claustrophobia in one movie! And the monster can kill strong people with Special Powers, like Mr. Hallorann who was supposed to rescue you. The window Mommy pushes you out of in the bathroom is too small for her to come through. You’re on your own against things that are too big and too awful. Any questions about what’s scary here? The blood coming out of the elevator ends up being just show, the ‘ick factor’.”

I’m in full Professor mode. At least they are still listening.

Now, think of the other kinds of scary movies. All the Alien and "Big Bug" movies are talking about fear of things that are completely different from you, xenophobia, “you aren’t from around here” and specifically things that may consider you food if they consider you at all, a theme so prevalent in H. P. Lovecraft's work. And look how monsters have changed from the 1950’s when we were all afraid of what a nuclear attack and radiation could do. From that fear we have Godzilla, supersized anything, The Fly, even heroes like SpiderMan, all born from the fear that our advances in science may have impacts we didn’t think about at the time. Drink me, Alice.

Fear of ignorance is another common theme, where people in their blind hatred become the real monsters destroying someone gentle who appears different. Fear of the dark or limited senses is a big theme. Parental monsters are a common theme, as in Snow White. How about inanimate objects becoming “alive” and hating you like Christine, the Terminator series? And there’s a whole religious horror category, the devil out to get you just because it's his job and he enjoys it.

Why do we enjoy these things? By watching them, we somehow hold dominion over them, conquer them and thereby little by little conquer our fears, shrinking them with the ray gun of our confidence, with the desensitization of familiarity. We get the thrill of adrenalin too and that thrill can be fun. Because what’s life without a little adventure?

Just don’t send in the clowns or cockroaches for me, OK? And keep an eye on that steak.

Best wishes.

Password

Monday promised to be a hot day with only a little breeze. My set up for reading at the Antiques & Art Faire was quick and easy. I had remembered to bring my new patchwork quilt table cloth made by my friend Rosie, my box of tissues, even my sunscreen. Instead of dressing in antique costume, I had chosen one of my favorite tie-dye t-shirt dresses, something simple, cool and colorful for the day.

My husband disappeared in the crowd on a mission of breakfast mercy and returned with Peets coffee, a donut, a bag of ice, two bottles of water and some carrots. We agreed on an end time and he left to see his cousins who live in the same town.

I looked at the roofline of the museum under whose eaves I had set my table. I judged the unrelenting sun to encroach on my comfort at about noon. I was scheduled to read until 3 pm. I had a while to adjust for comfort. I shuffled my cards, Robert Place’s 4^th edition of The Alchemical Tarot. They had seemed perfect for an outdoor antiques show when I had packed my things earlier in the morning. I spread them out into an arc and pulled a few out to show examples. I dug in my purse to get an old Carreras Dondorf Lenormand from 1926, part of my collection but also the deck I had determined to read with if Lenormand felt right. I remembered I still had a tiny crystal ball in my purse from BATS, one with an inclusion that would flash an inner rainbow in the right light at the right angle. I set it on its stand on my orange and purple patchwork. I sipped my coffee. I was ready.

It started slowly. One woman toyed with the idea, tracing the edge of the table with her eyes, at the edge of decision. She sat down casually, or tried to. There was nothing casual about it. Her reading was one of the most poignant of the year. I was riveted, understanding her question, including the unspoken one. On the surface, she asked casually, “What about work?”

It was not her question really, but some topics must be approached carefully. She wanted to give nothing away. So many clients are like that, smart people who do not want to be fools. I don’t mind. I see them do it. I understand. I read the cards. We talked about pulling in from giving so much energy away, the habit of teaching being so automatic, but the need now being to make the best use of resources. Of time. Time with family. I ached for her fears. I asked if they had suggested surgery; she would find out soon.

My table was set near the steps to the restrooms and I was very good as informal ambassador, pointing the desperate up the stairs, smiling as they returned relieved, repeating the schedule for the antique appraisal booth and the museum, taking custody of a purple-cased smartphone left in the restroom. So soon the wide-eyed owner, breathless, came to find it and was overjoyed at the reunion.

Soon, several others stopped and business picked up. The sun rose high in the sky and I hugged the wall for the last bit of shade and read for several other people. My husband surprised me with a sandwich and I hadn’t realized he was still around—excellent timing!

Just after I downed my lunch, one of the men doing appraisals came to me with another phone, black rubberized case this time.

“A man’s,” I thought, then remembered that my own work phone had some commando-black case on it so perhaps not. I waited for the frantic owner, the glad reunion. The sun drove me to the edge of the wall. I would have to move soon or burn. I started to worry about the phone and its owner. I pressed the button, just to see if it had some way to identify the owner.

No password! The phone was completely unprotected. I was shocked. In this time of identity theft, here was an expensive new phone exposed to anyone who might pick it up. I looked for the information that might provide the name of the owner. Jackpot! In the contact list was the owner’s name. Not only that, but the owner had put his wife’s numbers, other relative’s numbers and astonishingly his bank account numbers. My jaw dropped. What if someone else had gotten this? I quickly dialed his wife’s cell number, ringing but no answer. 

I asked the organizers if they knew someone by that name. Enough time had passed that I was certain he had left the antique show. Surely he should notice by now. A few minutes later I looked down and saw his wife’s name light up on his phone. Contact! I was too late but called her right back and we connected.

“Hi, this is a little awkward but your husband left his phone at the antique show and I have it.”

She laughed and we had a good chat about lost phones and sudden realizations. He was on his way back to the fair, having left his lunch mid-bite at a nearby restaurant. I asked her permission to give him a good scolding for having his cell phone so completely unprotected and she eagerly agreed.

Moments later he arrived, grinning, sheepish, towed by my friend, the show organizer. It was clear he felt exposed to women in charge of his well-being and was ready to take his punishment.

“Sit down,” I said, using The Voice.

“Oh,” he said. “A Tarot reading?” He was clearly confused.

“No, we are going to sit here and password protect your phone. And your bank account numbers are in your contact list! You’ve worked hard for your money. Why would you want to lose it to carelessness at the hands of someone who isn’t honest like I am?”

We looked at his phone features and decided it was better if his wife set the password.

“When we finish lunch,” he said with pleading eyes, “I’ll have her come to get a reading from you.”

“I’m much more interested in your promise to secure your phone. Pinky swear?”

We crooked our fingers. He brought his wife back at the end of the show and I read her cards, the last of the day.

The Sun finally won and I moved to the shade of the tall sycamore in the parking lot. Some readers think the Sun in Tarot is always a good card, shining its light in the darkest places. But that shining light can represent the unvarnished truth that’s hard to face. It can expose secrets that should be secret and leave you unprotected and burned. The choice is yours.

Best wishes.

Book+Key

I knew Saturday was an unusual day but I couldn't put my finger on it. It's like having an itch you can't quite get to or trying to remember who played the blacksmith in the old Gunsmoke TV series (it was Burt Reynolds--I can't let this become a mindworm for you). For one thing, there have been some unusual noises around the house.

My old dresser, a beautiful cherry piece with smooth lines from around 1840, has been making noises. Naturally, I don't notice them until I go to bed because I don't spend that much time in the bedroom (hold your guffaws, please). But on nights when I'm especially agitated, it seems to sound especially loud with creaks and pops as if it too is settling in for a snooze after a long day. I might think it was cooling but it's on the northeast side of the house which tends to be cool anyway and there's seldom a ray of sunshine that hits it.

Then one evening last week, I was pretty sure I heard a whistle in the hallway. It's a very small hallway, about the size of a disappointing closet and right outside the bedroom door. All noses were accounted for, especially those prone to whistling snores and this seemed to just come out of the air. Well, no worries.

Friday night--technically Saturday morning, everyone woke up yelling because somehow the television in the bedroom had come on at 1:32 AM and everyone had been nicely asleep, even Louie. Saturday morning at a reasonable hour I found the TV remote on the headboard above my head and was pleased to conclude I had flung my arm up and unconsciously turned everything on. That was something of a relief.

Creaks, pops and whistles I'm OK with. The occasional phantom cat seen in the living room does not bother me. I'm quite sure that the late Normie, from whose estate we purchased the house, is happy we're here because we were kind to him while he was alive. But the TV thing. That was going to be a little too much like a Ghost Hunters all-nighter. I prefer to find the mundane solution first and I'm confident I did this time.

Still, it left me with a feeling Saturday of not-quite-unease. It was more like expectation, like waiting for a spoon to be nudged off a counter. Nothing big, just...something.

I had a reading with a repeat client midday and hoped that what I said was something they could make good use of. I'd purchased a cup of coffee and drank perhaps a third of it, tossing it on the way to the fabric store to look for something. I wasn't sure what, inspiration maybe. I did find a lovely bargain that was just the thing I had been thinking of for a couple of weeks.

"Do you have your Hancocks card?" the tiny service clerk asked. No, alas, I had lost my keys more than a year ago that had my little shoppers card on it. I gave her my telephone number and returned home with my purchase.

I hung out online a while and was inspired to write something funny, about what an automated answering system would sound like if you called heaven (local call from Ireland, of course).

"Hello, you've reached Heaven. Our options have changed recently so please listen carefully and choose one of the following. For St Anthony Miracles or Lost and Found, please dial 1 and have your credit or debit card ready. For Parking or Barbecue with St Laurence, please dial 2. For hopeless cases and/or casino assistance with St Jude, please dial 3. Cats, dogs and other small animal issues with St Francis or St Martin de Porres, please dial 4. Travelers, please be advised that St Christopher is no longer taking referrals. Please dial 5 and a saint will help you. Wait times maybe up to 30 minutes, so reservations and donations are recommended. If you just need someone to talk to, St Joan of Arc and Mother Theresa have limited hours. For more information, please dial 6...just one 6, please. All other questions, please dial 0. Have a wonderful life."

A couple of chats and a quick reading for a friend later, and I was still trying to figure out what the unease was. I made dinner plans for Sunday night, checked messages in email and social media.

What?? What was it? Had I forgotten something? In Lenormand, the Book represents a secret or mystery if not a literal book. One end is closed and can't be opened. The other end might be opened but in Lenormand is usually closed because it represents information not yet available, something hidden. For me, I couldn't even tell what was hidden, let alone where it was.

I paused in my marathon of Midsomer Murders, sent a note to Mary K. Greer about an episode with a Tarot reading in it since Mary "collects" representations of Tarot in art, film, etc. At least it was a Swiss 1JJ deck in a Celtic Cross, even if (bring up strains of "Danse Macabre") the final outcome card was Death. I groaned at the cliche. It's a murder mystery, after all. And I decided to change into my "soft clothes" for the evening and went to the bedroom with the sometimes-noisy dresser to root for a t-shirt and sweats.

Something fell on the floor with a crash. I looked down and saw keys. At first they didn't make sense to me. These weren't my everyday keys I use with a red and blue Snoopy-on-his-doghouse housekey and a couple of dangling plastic seashells, something big and obnoxious enough to find in the deep bucket of my purse. No, these were Other Keys. Those keys. I bent to pick them up, filled with curiosity and the culmination of the strangeness of the day.

These were my keys from a year and a half ago, finally slipped from the pocket of a blue denim jacket where they had slept all this time. I picked them up as if they were a baby bird. Were they even real? There was the Hancocks tag and a couple others, the leather tab with The Hanged Man tooled into it, the keys, the electronic fobs I was afraid were in someone else's hands or smashed in a landfill.

"My keys," I said stupidly. What was lost was found. Well, no need to call Heaven after all, I thought.

Book + Key is the Answered Question, the Solved Mystery, the Secret Revealed.

Now I have to figure out if they went through the wash and ruined the electronic fobs. I think in Lenormand as well as physics, everything has to be somewhere.

Best wishes.