She sits in the morning under the oak tree at the edge of the far field, a stolen hour, her golden hour, before her work of the day. and pulls a car from her pocket. Later, in a calling:

“It came for you, King of Wands,” she says, cicadas singing behind her words.

It came for you –don’t know if others word it like that. 

I ask who the King of Wands is:

“King of Wands is a master of creative fire. They are full of magic and kindness and warmth.”

I had no response, so she continues:

“I had started this for each of us, and finished writing after holding your card:

Feel the pleasure of getting up, knowing that you are going to explore the world through language, moving through the world through language, tapping into with your level of sensitivity and observation of the world. Know you are able to share that richness and beauty with others, a gift to touch them. Hold that as your motivation. Know how valuable this is in you.”

Pisces tears swim off my eyes. “That’s for both of us…But to stand on all my humility and try to hold that and finally be able to tell myself this is true.”

“To be vulnerable enough to see yourself, to allow yourself to know who you are.”

“Ay, but talking of tools—or now wands--as weapons of resistance—can they actually change anything?”

“At least inside: inspiration, solace, the beauty and tenderness to persist…”