Tarot Pull: Death
After quite a bit of a hiatus, we’re jumping back in to talk about one of the most misunderstood and misrepresented cards of the Major Arcana: #13 - Death.
Strap in gang - this is a bit of a long one.
Pictured: The Death Card from the Wild Unknown Tarot deck
Common keywords for the Death card include:
Upright - Endings; Transformation; Closure
Reverse - Resistance; Personal or Inward Change
For a full write-up on the Death card, see Biddy Tarot’s article here.
You’ve seen it pop up in a hundred different movies as a tired way of forecasting imminent doom. Some schmuck encounters a mystical tarot reader who pulls the Death card and is immediately horrified for the character.
Yeah - that’s not really what the Death card is about, so you can toss that overworn trope right out the window.
Death is more than the end of physical existence, though certainly that is a major transition for humans to experience. What Death is about, both in our daily lives and in the tarot interpretation, is change. In modern society, we spend a great deal of our lives running away from death and most major changes. We don’t like instability, and we certainly don’t enjoy the prospect of our own mortal end. But if there’s one thing the natural world around us continually demonstrates, it’s that running from death is not just futile; it’s unhealthy.
Death is required for transformation. Without it, our planet becomes stale, inert and uninhabitable. The Earth needs death in order to cultivate growth, and so do we.
Much of what’s delayed this write-up is related to my own experience with death lately, in all forms. As I start to move forward from here, I can see just how much of myself has evolved and changed, and yes - even died - in a very short amount of time.
The last article I wrote was on the Five of Cups, and if you read it or follow me on Twitter, you’ll know much of it related to having gratitude for the short amount of time I knew I had with my beloved Aussie, Maggie. If you’re not a “pet person,” you may not understand the level of despair I felt when she passed away in her sleep only a couple days after I posted that article.
Right or wrong, I have mourned her more deeply than the losses of some humans in my life. She had been by my side for 14 years- literally my entire adulthood. Through life threatening medical events to devastating trauma, Maggie was with me through some of my darkest days serving as a constant light and source of joy. Rolling with the utter chaos that were my 20s, she always reminded me to relax into the moment and flow rather than fight against the current. I often didn’t succeed in doing that; I’m nothing if not a stubborn fighter even when it ends with me beating my head against the wall.
She was my friend; companion; “child” (don’t @ me with the ‘fur baby’ critiques on this one); and caretaker all rolled into one.
Her death alongside some other major life changes set off a severe bout of bipolar depression that knocked me on my ass, sent quite a few of my plans into chaos, and generally derailed my momentum especially related to creative progress and querying.
There are few things that frustrate me more than my struggle with Bipolar I. I won’t spend this particular article describing the ins and outs of life with the disorder, but I can tell you it’s busted its way through medication and the best laid plans more than once. Given that I’m an extremely driven planner, the periodic interruptions Bipolar causes are infuriating to me: I feel weak, even though that’s simply not true. I feel insecure because I fear what people will think or what they may be saying about me when I’m struggling— even when I know the people who matter in my life aren’t the ones who would be judging. I feel stale, stagnant, stuck when I’m in a down cycle. Of course, obsessing about all of the above only makes it worse.
And that’s where I was in the first couple weeks after Maggie passed…utterly stuck as I wrestled with sorrow.
Heavy, right? Sure is, and that’s why Death is frightening. It means losing something which is dear; it means pain.
Since February, I’d been planning on heading into the WV wilds with a dear friend for the summer solstice. Our trip was set to take place just one week after Maggie died, and I nearly canceled given my mental health. I’m incredibly thankful I decided to follow through.
Before COVID, I hiked at least every other weekend. The outdoors are more sacred to me than any church or temple I’ve even been in. Whether swimming in the ocean or exploring hidden trails in the forest, I’m always at my most peaceful in nature. I lost quite a bit of that when COVID swept through the country.
As apparently everyone in the DC Metro Area suddenly learned there were trees and mountains less than an hour outside the city, the trails in my neck of the woods became so crammed, it was impossible to socially distance. There were no parking spots at any trail heads, and trying to find a quiet place to reflect was a joke. Tourism was booming even if none of the restaurants and shops were open. I’m thankful everyone took an interest in our beautiful planet, but it certainly dampened my ability to get out and enjoy it myself. I wasn’t willing to risk my family’s well being just so I could be stuck in a traffic jam on the trails while some schmuck hacked directly onto my shoulder (true story).
What this meant was that I had to go further out in the state— the places that aren’t trendy yet. While I loved exploring the more remote and stunning parts of WV, the amount of time it took to travel there and the risk of exposure along the way resulted in a lot less movement and meditation. Without even realizing it, my spiritual wellness began to take a major hit. Life in indoor isolation became about what I could produce both in my remote job (which I was exceptionally fortunate to have) and in my writing. Everything revolved around how much I could accomplish and how quickly. My productivity began to define my identity.
Life jumped in to kick my ass a few times over the pandemic, turning my ability to churn out material on its head, but I kept pushing forward even when I knew I was cruising for major burnout. My refusal to take time out to just exist in nature and see the wonder all around was slowly choking me, but I couldn’t pause. Pausing would mean having to really think about what was happening to the world and my life; I would have to confront my fears and maybe even battle with depressive cycles if I stopped. There was no way in hell I was going to do that.
But I broke anyway.
There were a hundred different things during the thick of the pandemic that should have forced me to pause, but in large part, I barreled through them. It wasn’t until here at what could maybe-possibly-kind of be the end of the worst that I finally bottomed out. Driving out to the middle of nowhere for our solstice retreat, I realized just how starved my spirit felt after two years of less than regular hiking in the woods.
What happened from there was one of the most transformative experiences I’ve ever had. Along with my friend, we disappeared from the busy world and into our authentic selves. Neither of us opened a laptop the entire trip. We didn’t peruse social media every few minutes, and not a single film was streamed. Instead, we spent our time simply talking with one another; exploring waterfalls, caves and rivers; practicing our more “woo-woo” traditions that we don’t often share with others; reading books we brought for each other; and just existing. I didn’t put on makeup or jewelry, and pretty much lived in hiking gear until I jumped in the shower at night.
I had almost forgotten what it was like to be in my own skin, just as I am— no fighting or running; no struggle to produce more or be better. For the first time in nearly two years, I remembered what it is like to be me without judgment.
And you know what? It felt good to meet up with me.
I was surprised with how much I’ve changed since the pandemic hit— how much stronger I am, but also how very jaded parts of me have become. As pieces of the outer-facing me fell away over those few days to reveal the Allison that exists beneath the shell, I saw the transformation that had been taking place inside the cocoon.
This is representative of Death just as much as loss and pain.
Without the massive upheaval happening in my life because of Maggie’s passing and the disintegration of other plans, I would not have approached the weekend with the same kind of vulnerable stillness that I did. Without the pandemic and the challenges I encountered during it, I would not have crawled into that cocoon at all.
Without the disruption and loss, I wouldn’t have experienced transformation. To me, that seems worse than death. What is the point in staying stuck in one physical, mental and spiritual place forever, especially when we know we’re on a journey rather than at a destination?
Pictured: the modified Death card from the Woodland Wardens Oracle Deck
I could write about the changes I’m noticing about myself since I returned from that trip a month ago, but that would likely get boring real fast for everyone involved. The important part for our purposes is simply the recognition that the Death card symbolizes far more than loss or endings. Rather, it creates space for change and rebirth. From the ashes of who we were before emerges a (hopefully) wiser person.
This is the sentiment I’ve carried with me over the past month, the Death card being a tool of reflection as I think on who I was versus who I am now. It’s allowed me to meditate on aspects of myself and stretch my legs again. Through death, I’m getting to know the new me and allowing the bits of my old shell that no longer serve me to flutter away in the wind, even when letting go feels scary.
One final note on the Death card and its role in my life recently—
Before Maggie passed, we had spent months talking about welcoming another rescue dog into our home. We held off on it because we didn’t want to disrupt Maggie’s space and really, her medical treatment was costly enough without adding in more housemates. When she passed, it wasn’t long before we started thinking about bringing in another rescue, not to replace Maggie (that would be impossible), but to pay forward the love she gave us. If there was a singular lesson she taught me during those 14 years, it was to always love more.
So, we did.
Our little Tenney Roscoe (or “Tenney Monster” depending on the day) was born at the local animal shelter on April 10th— right around the time Maggie was born all those years ago. While we’d intended on adopting an adult dog, through a series of disruptions, Tenney chose us.
Here I am trying to remember how to train a puppy, desperately searching my mind for what I did with Maggie 14 years prior. And amidst the chewed up laundry, late night potty breaks and epic leash-training failures, there are sweet, sunny memories of Maggie waiting that I had forgotten about entirely. Tenney has given me the gift of remembering my sweet Mags’ first years by entering our world unexpectedly.
Death and rebirth; loss and gain; transformation— you can’t have one without the other, and there’s profound beauty in that cycle.
I can’t wait to see this part of the story unfold.
Until next time, may you stay perpetually and creatively weird in this magical world around us <3
Allison
