Some readings are comically literal. The three cards from the suit of Pentacles above describe almost exactly an event from this morning.
I live in a small, rural village in the North of England. Most people who live here are practical, grounded and at retirement age. You know, people who have had careers out in the real world. It’s actually a blessing that most people are older. This means fellow dog walkers, for instance, rarely ask what I do for a living. Since they no longer have to do anything for a living, they simply don’t care anymore.
However, that’s not true of everyone. Every now and again, someone asks me what I do for a living. For a moment I hesitate. I usually default to: “Self-employed, work from home.” Quietly hoping there will be no further investigation into the matter. Often it ends there. Phew!
Not so this morning. A fairly recently retired fellow dog walker took it upon himself to scrutinise my career choice. My vague reply prompted the follow-up question, “But what do you actually do.” I paused for a second, swayed on one leg like the dude in the 2 of Pentacles, and I blurted, “I’m a metaphysical writer, blogger and Tarot practitioner.”
I knew how it would land before it landed. “I don’t know anything about that. What does metaphysical mean?” When I tried to explain, he said squarely, “sounds supernatural,” and I knew he wanted to hear nothing more about it. I drew a couple of breaths, waiting for the inevitable silence to descend that demanded I ask him the same question in return. I obliged. Sigh.
What followed was a life story and a back-and-forth between the dog walker and my husband, full of The Sciences™ and, for some reason, guns and shooting. I also managed to get mansplained to by the dog walker when I, against my better knowing, tried to join in the conversation.
Essentially, the 6 of Pentacles was the man life-storying to me and my husband. And I’m sure he felt as if he was bonding and creating connection. I’m sure he doesn’t have a bad bone in his body. But fucking hell was I triggered. By the way, this isn’t the first time the 2 and 6 of Pentacles have spoken to me about exchange, isolation and belonging.
When I came home, I felt that 4 of Pentacles isolation. Sun in Capricorn. Born-with-the-Sun-in-Capricorn style. This is my post-traumatic therapy. This post. Right here. Writing has long been my neurodivergent way of processing difficult experiences.
Most of the time, I’m okay with not fitting in. I’m okay because I’m not very often reminded of it. I walk my dogs, wave to other dog walkers, and sometimes talk about the weather. That even creates a superficial sense of belonging.
But then there are days like this. And I wonder what the point of even being here is.
And then I remember that belonging is not the same as blending in. Perhaps the point of being here is precisely to be the person who has to pause before answering that question. The metaphysical writer. The Tarot reader. The village eccentric in training. I may not fit naturally into conversations about guns and The Sciences™, but I’m not here to become more easily digestible.
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