The first time I touched a deck of cards, I was four years old. My mother read for friends, neighbors, people she worked with all the time. Sometimes she'd hold "salons" at home and, other times, a friend would come for a cup of coffee and sit at the kitchen table with her while I played in the other room. One day my mother came in after a friend had left, sat on the floor with me, and said, "I've got an idea! Let's tell a story!"

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Ever since then, tarot has been a part of my reflective practice whenever I've been stuck at a crossroads, experienced pain or loss, needed some inspiration, or felt disconnected from myself, other people, the energy some call spirit.

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The morning card now sits beside my coffee cup, my journal, and, often, a sleeping cat on the counter stool beside me. Some mornings, the card names what I already feel but have not yet said. It may challenge the story I am telling myself. On other mornings, it gives shape to something scattered in my mind and turns into a poem, a story, a letter to a loved one. A lot of mornings, it simply keeps me company.

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Because many people think of Tarot as fortune telling, I'm often asked if I believe in Fate. I don't. I believe that we exist in relationship between ourselves and the outside world. The Tarot's archetypal characters, situations, and images ask me to own my values, visions, and actions. They challenge me to seek clarity and to be honest even when ignorance would be easier.