Michele Morgan - A Magical Course in Tarot: Reading the Cards in a Whole New Way

This book is dedicated to

Kaeleigh McHenry and Kim Schneidertwo women who changed the shape of my world entirely and who help me determine each day how I walk in it.

PART I Flesh and BORe

ONE

TWO

'I'HREE

FOl1R

FIVE

SIX

Part ii Heart and soul

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

PART III Heaven and Earth

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFT EFN

he Tarot. The very name suggests mystery, hints at magic, whispers in a language at once universal and arcane. A deck of Tarot cards is an unbound book of spiritual poetry, a visual depiction of life whose symbolism and imagery has remained intact throughout the ages, pure and profound in its wisdom.

Every thought, emotion, deed, or desire in the realm of human experience is illustrated in the Tarot; every possible thread that binds Human and Spirit weaves its magical way through the cards, creating an immediate link to the intuitive voice of our ancestors. No other spiritual tool has such complexity or charm. Whether used for divination, meditation, ritual work, prayer, or healing, or simply to arouse the artistic muse, nothing strikes the soul as deeply and allegorically as the Tarot.

I've been a professional psychic for more than a decade. Tarot cards are my tool of choice; I can access psychic information without them, but the images and their mystery speak to a part of me that no other medium can touch.

I bought my first Tarot deck simply for the pictures. As a writer of fantasy, I'm forever gathering visual treasures to spark imagined landscapes. But something in the cards pulled me in, beyond color and form, to where magical things lay waiting. I attempted to wade through several "How To" books, seeking access to what appeared secret yet felt as accustomed as my own skin, only to find I couldn't squeeze myself into the structure and form these books demanded. Heavy, encyclopedic, written in serious, scholarly tones, most of the books emphasized study and memorization, and some even directed me to hold the cards a certain way in my hands. I wanted romance and soul; I got rules and regulations, and ultimately, disenchantment.

Then one night in late January, frost on the ground and a mist hazing street lamps and traffic lights, I was drawn to a one-night introductory class at a local metaphysical shop with the divinely befitting name of Stargazers-an enchanted place, filled with crystals by the hundreds, shelves of books, bowls, beads, candles, otherworldly art, and all manner of magical objects, with shimmering sea-green confetti strewn in a trail across the carpet and the sidewalk outside. The Tarot class was being taught by the shop's proprietor, an irrepressible urban goddess with a cloud of dark hair shot with silver, a penchant for amazing jewelry, and a laugh that could be heard in every corner of every room in the store. When I walked into the class that night, the shop warm with candlelight and polished stones, I found myself pulled instantly through the looking glass-but rather than shouting, "Off with her head!," the Queen simply told me to get out of it and get into my instincts instead.

We were shown some of the basics of the Tarot in the first half of the class, such as the symbolic meanings of different imagery, numerology, and color correspondences. Then, in the second half, we were turned loose to read for each other, using nothing but the notes we'd taken in the first half and our raw intuitive senses. I felt as though I'd been given per mission to breathe again after a lifetime without oxygen. I tossed my notes and jumped in, heart first, seeing my world for the first time from a wholly magical perspective, and putting into that perspective the intuitive abilities that had shaped and ultimately complicated my whole life up to that moment.

As far back as I can remember, I heard voices. The sound would come as a low, monotone buzzing, like the static of a restless crowdclose enough so that I couldn't ignore it, but far enough so that I could never make out exactly what was being said. I remember straining to comprehend a language, distill even a sentence, a word, anything; sometimes it would paralyze me, this sensation that there was something there I should recognize, something crucial that I alone should know. I was also aware that these voices were not coming from the outside, but rather, from some deep, elemental center of me, and as a result, I remember thinking during these episodes that I must be completely, certifiably crazy.

As we'll be discussing shortly, everyone is psychic; the ability to touch other realms of energy and information is a natural facet of our spiritual beings. For me, this ability came without understanding, in the form of literally "hearing" energy-the collective buzz of the planet and the people around me, translated through my psychic senses, trying desperately to get my attention. There seemed no particular rhythm to when the crowd would show up, but whenever it did, I was compelled to listen, with a mixture of genuine fascination and absolute dread, and with no more understanding of its intention than of its tongue.

What I learned that night in the Tarot class, besides symbology and numbers, was that my ability to "plug in" to the world around me did after all have a rhythm and a purpose-and through the Tarot cards, the energy that had been trying all those years to speak to me finally found its true expression. The looking glass shattered behind me, and there was no turning back ... and from that moment on, the crowd was thankfully, blessedly silent.