Kamal Ratna Tuladhar on WikiMedia Commons: “Newar Buddhists of Nepal make a mandala (sand painting) depicting the Buddha as part of the death rituals on the third day after death and preserve it for four days.”
Trigger warning for vegans, vegetarians, and people who will not occupy their current body forever: This post is about ingesting–and inhabiting–meat.
So this happened: I started to be aware that I would die someday. No, more honestly, I became aware of that deep-down, subtle snicker that says I am the inexplicable exception to this reality, universal but for me. Continue reading →
I had another episode recently. Must. Have. This. Deck. Bad for the pocketbook, and for the self-image as a spiritually free being (does anyone believe this about me anyway, besides me?). I’m fascinated by the whole internal sitcom of desiring– Continue reading →
I’ve been practicing my cartomancy skills by reading images–as opposed to symbolic interpretations, or thoughts about what an “eight” REALLY MEANS (yes, I do think in capital letters). My teacher in this endeavor is the inimitable Camelia Read-the-Damn-Cards Elias–check her out here. Not only does this approach make card reading much simpler and more fun, but there is an obvious transference to the rest of my life. As in, what if I noticed my daily in-front-of-me experience, instead of the swirling clouds of thoughts about it all? Maybe if I saw things for what they are my whole life would be simpler. Continue reading →
If you are looking to read Tarot cards by actually seeing them, rather than by an overlay of imposed or associative meanings, you could find no finer card to practice on than the Hanged Man, Le Pendu. Continue reading →
This post is about a lot of things: my Polish grandfather, myself, and some way-cool cards–the pot at the end of a rainbow while searching for a bit of my heritage.
“Old Gypsy Fortune Cards” aka my Polish cards, c. 1920’s-1940’s; reproduction by L. Forestell
There’s no one to ask about my Polish grandfather. He died when I was 6 months old (so it’s safe to say I am not him, reincarnated). He’s a mystery to me–I don’t even have a name by which to call him. We called my grandmother “Busia,” but I never learned the Polish word for grandfather, since he wasn’t there to be called. I usually think of him as “mom’s father” or “my Polish grandfather.” His name was Jan. Continue reading →