Do you ever find certain themes seem to follow you around? They emerge out of nowhere, inserting themselves into your existence with gentle repetition, and what feels like a message you’re meant to absorb?
This happens in an obvious way with the tarot. I pull cards regularly, and have been doing so for 5 years. It’s how I first learned how to read them. I would observe that certain cards would come out, on repeat, over the course of a few days or even weeks. This is the magic of tarot. It’s bringing forward a dominant subconscious energy, into your conscious awareness as you observe the imagery. The more you attune to the energy, the easier it becomes to recognise patterns and use the cards as a support – one that can empower you to pause, take a breath, and examine your stance or approach - to the challenges you are facing in your conscious mind.
A few weeks ago, the Death card circled. This is not a bad omen; in fact, I read it as an incredible time of transition and change. In Women Who Run With The Wolves, author Clarissa Pinkola Estés explains the nature of the soul’s journey as being in a state of Life/Death/Life at all times.
“The Life/Death/Life nature is a cycle of animation development, decline and death that is always followed by re-animation. This cycle affects all physical life and all facets of psychological life. Everything—the sun, novas, and the moons as well as the affairs of humans and those of the tiniest creatures, cells and atoms alike—have this fluttering, then faltering, then fluttering again.”
Death then, is a transformative state. It always precedes new life, or a new way of living, emerging. It is a time of release, release, release.
One thing I was in the process of releasing was the need to constantly listen to music, podcasts or audio books as I walk or take public transport. I find the constant consumption impedes creativity. It leaves no space for the sudden flashes of inspiration to jump forth - that often do - when I’m moving.
This opens you up to the conversations of strangers: some of the richest, fertile ground for any artist or creative. The return of randomness and serendipity, starved from life experience during lockdown, is oxygen for the creative fire. You need just enough to keep the flames burning without extinguishing them – places with people, that aren’t too crowded.
It's a chilly, sunny January afternoon as I walk from Lisbon’s centre towards the part of the city known as Alcantara. When I was home in Galway at Christmas, I went to the exhibition of a local Co. Galway artist at a (relatively new) building, delighted to find it was called the Alcantara building. Galway has a rich Latin heritage thanks to its seafaring history, and this exhibit’s location led me down a rabbit hole, where I learned Alcantara is derived from the Arabic word for bridge. Located in the area of Lisbon next to the iconic 25 Avril bridge, the place-name finally made sense.
Image by Vicinius Morandi, via Unsplash
As I walk, my mind wanders. I catch fragments of stranger’s conversation.
‘Yeah, completely gone for 20 mins.’
‘Did you -?’
‘No. Nothing. Blackness. No white light-
‘No!’
‘No, not like they talk about. Emptiness’
The Death card image floats into my mind, the one I pulled that morning for the umpteenth time. The feeling of being in The Spaces In Between. The void.
I board the bus to ‘The Other Side’ of the Tagus river, as Lisboetas refer to Almada. Once, as I walked past the area with a friend, they referred to the bridge as ‘the gateway to Narnia’. It was to dissuade me from moving here; on the contrary, it had the opposite effect.
It’s rush hour, but I’m lucky enough to get a seat. One woman sits in the aisle, refusing the man in the seat next to her who tries to cajole her, good-natured, into swapping. They are strangers, both of a certain age. Proof that chivalry isn’t quite dead yet.
As we reach the bridge, traffic is at a standstill. The strong winter sun has a greenhouse effect on board, there is a restlessness in the air. As the clock winds down, the pair in the aisle and seat in front strike up a conversation. My Portuguese is limited, but my curiosity is piqued. They laugh, the conversation seems easy. The longer we are stuck here, the livelier their conversation becomes. She has retrieved a notebook with a pen from her bag, and I wonder if they are swapping numbers, analogue style. I have to admit I feel impressed; they put the younger generation to shame.
But no. On her notebook, written in capital letters, with a quote underneath, is a single word:
EPICTETUS
The name sounds familiar, but I’m not familiar as to why. I make a mental note, soon cast aside. Half an hour later, once we have passed a small crash, we are on the main carriageway towards Costa. At home, I prepare dinner and begin research for Twitter thread I’m writing for a client: dealing with failure as an entrepreneur.
I click between numerous tabs, landing on an article that reads like it was written by a human. Halfway through, I stop as I’m visited by a ghost for the second time that day.
“If you are ever tempted to look for outside approval, realise that you have compromised your own integrity. If you need a witness, be your own.” Epictetus
I’m listening.
You see, death is a bridge. The bridge between worlds. For many years of my life, the opinions of others were such a terrifying prospect, that I cut myself off from writing. Even though it is the thing I love most about being alive. To write is to observe and have those observations be seen, and I was hiding. Both hiding, and in a variety of ways, escaping. After a year of freelancing, copywriting and ghostwriting for clients, I was feeling the pull to begin writing more in my own voice—by extension, from my own heart. Some old but vicious fears had been arising.
There I stood, on the bridge. Unwilling to push forward completely. Scared of what awaits on the other side. Even though, of course, I know what’s passed has run its course.
I moved to Costa, having never visited the town before viewing my apartment. I’d spent six months in Lisbon, figuring out if Portugal would be for me longer term, and I had no idea what to expect on the other side. When I got here, what I found waiting was the elusive sense of home I’ve been searching and seeking for, during all the years I wandered the world, living in different countries. A full body, hairs-standing-on-end knowing. A feeling of rightness.
The bridge is frightening, death is frightening. You have to let go of the past, and the attachments you have to it. You have to forego the opinions of others who think you’re silly, or delusional, or misguided. You have to put down the heaviest baggage of all – your own. Carefully curated but no longer needed. The bridge requires you travel light. Heaviness has to be released. You can only take your own soul, with no promise that things will work out.
On reaching this bridge, that is mine alone to cross, I bear in mind a few other prescient words, attributed to my new advisor:
“If you want to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid”.
The last part of the die-off, before I truly begin to begin again.
Image by Jason Briscoe, via Unsplash
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