It took me several tries to start this piece. Not because I was lacking inspiration, mind you. No, I was drawn into twitter yet again, lurking on threads of writers I admire and the ongoing global crisis. It’s irresistible! I sit down in the morning with the intention to write, a creamy second cup of coffee poured in my Beetlejuice-themed mug, and the healthy motivation to pursue a task that makes me feel grounded, alive, and connected with the world.
And yet.
Social media and the internet are a Scylla and Charybdis for me: twin monsters that suck me into a vortex of wasted time. It takes effort to do what feels good and restorative. Or, I’m starting to think, it takes effort to put ourselves in the right environment for relaxation or constructive work.
So I tore myself away from the prime doom scrolling, opened a new browser window, and pulled up the clean slate of the substack post editor. Here I am. Phew.
A similar thing happened to me yesterday, this time in the physical world. Faced with an unexpected few hours of free time, I wrestled with what to do: work outside a cafe, do an exercise video, go on a hike? Productivity quickly became my focus, the need to “optimize” my moments taking over my mind like a patch of kudzu heaping itself over trees and telephone poles. Luckily, the coffee shop parking lot was full. I went to the public gardens instead.
It was a relief to not be approaching my life like a Silicon Valley bro-type, chugging Soylent as not to waste precious disruption time. The air smelled like mulch. Gardeners were hauling dirt through the pathways and cleaning up beds. You could see where old growth had been cut back to make room for new plantings. I immediately got swept into another way of being, meandering down the walkways, exploring and slowly dragging my gaze across the shapes of foliage: a delightfully named “tassel fern” with muppet-fuzzy branches, ivy crawling across stone walls, the juicy leaves of sedums improbably poking through the dirt, fully formed. My thoughts quieted and my senses led the way.
Experiencing the world this way always makes me think of the pentacles suit. These cards are connected with physicality, the senses, the “real.” To sound like a mystic shrouded in a velvet cloak (a look I’m constantly aspiring to), the pentacles rule the physical realm. Well, I spent several hours squarely in that realm, and it was astounding how restorative that time was, and how it seemed to stretch out luxuriously, two hours in the garden eclipsing the frenetic blur of errands I could’ve been running instead.
I sat in a new spot, a stone bench perched above a bowl-shaped lawn, and felt the warmth of the sun warm the peach-fuzz on my cheek. Pentacles are the suit of earth; even though we’re always touching it in some capacity, how often do we take the time to really feel it?
If I were to distill this afternoon into one tarot card, it would be the Seven of Pentacles. As I wound my way back to the parking lot, I found myself in the shady maze of the Japanese garden, a spot I can’t navigate easily with my clunky stroller. Alone, I wound through the mossy flagstone pathways, stopped at the shrines hidden amidst plantings of camellias. An intoxicating scent flowed through my breathing, spicy and floral. What was it? I sniffed through the woods, searching.
This winding, mysterious seeking characterizes my understanding of the Seven of Pentacles. All sevens have a restless seeking to them - the part in the fairytale when you’re lost in the woods, looking for the path - and a magic that can only come forth from boredom, indecision, or a lack of clarity. How precious are these states that we often rebel against? I’ve been wanting to force my way through things, to make answers appear. I needed to wander through the woods instead, and chase a perfume for no other reason than that it smelled good.
The camellias were in full bloom, incredibly artful blossoms with petals that looked hand-sculpted out of porcelain: peppermint striped white with pink, vibrant magenta with white edges, pure shell pink, dove white. Each flower appeared suspended like a jewel amidst glossy dark blue-green leaves. Exactly, I realized, like the pentacles in the Seven.
When I left, it didn’t feel like I had any answer or path that I could articulate. It did feel, however, like I’d found some footing within myself. And that scent? It was the spiced perfume of a Daphne. A new treasure of knowledge, scent, and memory to carry with me.
