astrology, my thing, self discovery, spirituality

readings are my thing

I have decided what my “thing” for February is going to be.

We’re dipping into the woo…

Readings. Tarot, Human Design, various kinds of astrology. I’m not exactly sure what type(s) yet, but I’ll navigate my way through over the next 4 weeks.

If you have suggestions on who I should go to, share ’em below…

I went back and forth on this and I feel kind of weird about it to be honest.

Actually, hang on. I don’t want to do the vague, half-truth nonsense, I’ll be more specific… It would be more accurate to say I feel vulnerable (in the vein of my confession post a couple weeks ago).

Although, this side of the world isn’t entirely new to me.

I have always been interested in what “else” was out there. In my 20s I even went to a workshop with my roommate that was all about “energy” (I think). It took place in a dimly lit conference room (or maybe it was a church?) and at various points we were practicing throwing energy back and forth to each other and staring at our hands trying to see colour strands.

I do not remember if I saw anything. If memory serves, we had a pretty good time.

For awhile it seemed that people who were predisposed to sharing their psychic talents were drawn to me. Or maybe I was drawn to them.

While working the god-awful early morning shift at a busy coffee shop, more than once I had customers offer me readings they had scratched out on paper napkins. One gentleman based his reading on my favourite number (he approved of my chosen digit and assured me it meant great, aspirational things).

One unsolicited, late-night reading that started with a faceless man grabbing my hand a little too abruptly made a particular impression.

On this particular evening I had finished my shift, and rather taking the closest train home to my musty basement suite, I decided instead to shuffle dejectedly to the next stop in the rain.

It was a misty rain unbothered by my flimsy umbrella and soon my hair was stringy with moisture. Dirty water from the sidewalk crept up my pant legs and my backpack was doing nothing to protect my books. I was miserable and I wanted to wallow.

But I wasn’t simply miserable. Oh no, it was far more tragic than that.

I was utterly heartbroken. Heart-smashed, more like.

I was the kind of heartbroken that at one point made one of my best friends purse her lips, raise her eyebrow and instruct, “Whoa. Okay, you look like shit. Let’s get it together, we need to get you out…”

I was in my early 20s and I was pretty sure I was experiencing the worst kind of agony ever waded through by any human being ever. It was a man. A man from far, far away who was staying far, far away.

I loved this man with every fibre of my being and every hopeful breath in my lungs. Granted, I had met him while backpacking in his country, we had only been around each other for a handful of months and he RENEGED ON HIS PROMISE to visit me over in my country as planned… but I was damn sure this was a love story for the ages.

I was wrong, of course, but I was at least a year away from knowing that.

Despite my agonized yearning, despite my nightly solo sob sessions, despite boring my friends to death with the hashing and rehashing of his every unenthused phone call, he was not recognizing the error of his ways and jumping on a plane into my waiting arms and I. was. heartsick.

So it was on this fateful night that I trudged through puddles with a sorrowful shuffle and ended up face-to-face with my sage.

Our impromptu meeting happened on drenched, concrete steps on a side street. I was slowly making my way down the stairs, consumed by my own brooding and suddenly he was beside me.

He didn’t particularly scare me, he was just… there. I had enough experience to be terrified of men staring at me in side streets, but this slight (but not small) man caught my attention without catching me off guard.

It might be because he was hardly noticeable. I’d like to describe him, but I can’t. I think he had pale skin and brown hair, but I can’t be sure. I think he was wearing a light coloured rain jacket, but I can’t actually picture it. He was just… there.

And then he said in a low, steady voice, “You seem like a nice person, I’d like to do something for you.” He extended his hand as though for a handshake and I instinctively reached towards him. He took my hand firmly, startling me, but then he began to speak and I forgot how strange every bit of this situation was.

I have no idea how long we stood there but once he began, it seemed like he went on and on. At first his words were all about me and what kind of person I was. How I processed information, what caught my attention, similarities between me and my mom (who lived on the other side of the country, so there was no way he knew her).

It was like he was establishing credentials. Setting the stage.

I stood there. He went on…

He stated that I was heartbroken, but that all was happened as it should and I would be fine. More than fine. I could be sad if I needed to be, and I probably did need to be for awhile, but I would get to the other side, just as I was meant to.

He spoke and I listened, not looking at him, just carried along by his monologue.

Then, with no warning that I remember, he walked away. And I walked away. I don’t know if I said an awkward, “Thank you,” or if he said goodbye. It was just done.

As I walked towards my train station I felt fresh air on my cheeks. The drudgery melted away from the edges of everything and I grinned a bit at myself and nothing in particular. I felt better.

That sad spell I had been consumed with for months was finally starting to crack and a cleansing breeze was tripping over itself to fill every corner, like it had been waiting to do just that all along.

Now that I’m thinking back on it, everything he was saying was what I would say to my 23 year old self if I could go back and reassure her. It was like I borrowed a fragment of perspective from that stranger and could relax into knowing for a few still minutes that, although not this time, I would know love.

I would know love, all this would evolve to a point where it didn’t hurt at all and everything would be just fine. Along with the reality check that it was time to snap out of it, enough was enough already.

Me a couple years later, dancing around in Paris with my boyfriend (now husband)… and just fine.

Who was this guy? Was he a fortune teller? A sage? A perceptive dude who saw a really sad looking young woman, deduced it was love troubles and took a chance to give her a pep talk?

Whoever he was he gave me a nudge and it helped. If we crossed paths again I would likely suggest that he not touch perfect strangers in the street (by all means save a gal from her downward spiral, but personal space, guy!)… but our meeting gave me a gentle jostle that I needed.

So, for February I am going to book myself some readings. I’m dipping my toe in the woo-waters… I am smiling as I write this… off we go!

I am conducting an experiment: I challenge myself to try something new each month in 2022. Here are my (self imposed) rules. Let me know if you have ideas on fun/ interesting/ novel things I could try in the comments. Or join me, that would be even more fun too…

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