My monthly round of readings arrives again. It was a good night, no question — with summer’s heat, laughing faces enjoying the night’s meanderings.
Being sorely afflicted with free-floating anxiety as of late, I turn notice to reading as a process. As each client arrives, I am nervous, just slightly. They are, for the most part, strangers; I do not know their specific questions, and largely don’t wish to. It is more important that they know, and I have the pure faith of the holy fool that the answers will always come.
And they do.
But the interesting thing about the process is how the anxiety simply vanishes when I lay down the cards, mist over my eyes and enter the light trance state that marks the art of the seer. There is no rush, no urgency, no judgment. The answers simply come. Sometimes my sluggish mind struggles for words befitting the feeling, but I never question the process. My eyes never lift to meet the querant until the last card is turned.
Sometimes, I envision the awen, Brighid, her cross or the triskele in between or during readings — or fire and water, the purest of her forms. There is simply no room for prattling monkey-mind, self-doubt.
The art of the seer consists solely of one act: getting oneself out of the way. It’s interesting to witness this with a dispassionate part of the mind, akin to witnessing the breath in yoga.