A woman wants to know if her husband is cheating on her.
A man wants to know if his wife is going to file for divorce.
A businessman wants to know if a proposed investment would be a wise move.
A high-school graduate wants to know whether it would be best to go to college or join the workforce.
A litigant wants to know if the lawsuit will be won or lost.
An ill woman wants to know the prognosis for her malady.
These people all expect a straight answer with no verbal tap-dancing and no mincing of words. What do we tell them?
I don’t know about you, but I’m leery of unqualified “Yes” or “No” answers since I don’t think the cards speak that language with any great clarity or precision. They’re big on qualifiers, though: “Yes, but . . . ;” Not unless . . . ;” Maybe if . . . .” Almost every scenario is conditional, requiring some action by the querent to make it so (or not so, as the case may be). This is where the concept of “empowerment” trumps that of “fortune-telling.” We like to say that nothing is carved in stone, and everyone can avoid or at least mitigate unhappy consequences (or encourage happy ones) if only they have the foresight to make informed decisions. Our job as diviners is to furnish the hidden knowledge that can be translated into such foresight as long as the querent pays attention and follows though on it.
My personal belief is that the track into the future has been laid but the switchman may choose to reroute the train at any time before the destination is reached. It may never be known whether that choice results in avoiding a tragic train-wreck or simply delays the ETA. I like to talk in terms of possibilities, not certainties; but when the testimony in the cards is very plain I might stick my neck out and describe likelihoods or probabilities, always making it clear that each of these potential outcomes hinges upon the querent’s action or inaction in response to the insights offered by the reading. We as readers tend to get very good at variations on “maybe,” such as “could,” “may,” “might,” “suggests,” implies,” “seems,” “appears,”and the like, limited only by our creative command of the necessary weasel-words; intransitive verbs like “will,” “would,” “won’t,” “can’t,” “wouldn’t” and “couldn’t” don’t get much play, and we shy away from the absolutes “always” and “never” like the plague.
As we diligently try to pound our square pegs into the round holes of the querent’s situation, none of us should be naive enough to assume that every utterance of the oracle is the whole truth. I know it doesn’t sound very spiritual or mystical but, if we’re honest about it, our observations are always tempered by a certain cautious hedging; the better we are at bringing intuitive conjecture together with hard-headed plausibility in a single sentence, the more well-received – and ideally the more accurate – our pronouncements will be. As Launcelot says in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, “truth will out,” and I’d like to be there every time it does to make the appropriate mark in the tarot tally-sheet, but I rarely am.
I often talk about the “theater of tarot” as a performance art: the mystique of choosing the deck and the significator, the niceties of properly framing and focusing on the question, the razzle-dazzle of the shuffle and cut, the storyteller’s inspired hocus-pocus of deciphering the cards. But perhaps the biggest feat of legerdemain we perform is our clever avoidance of being maneuvered into an unequivocal “Yes” or “No” answer. The rabbit we pull out of our magic hat may be all fluff and no flesh, but like the Tarot de Marseille’s stage-magician, we divert the observer’s gaze away from that fact with a calculated sideways glance. But we do it with carefully tailored words rather than gestures. I know I haven’t heard you do it, but I can almost guarantee you have on occasion.
So if I’m confronted with “Yes, but is he cheating on me?” I stare sagely at the cards, pause pregnantly, and declare something like “The situation appears to offer the opportunity.” In other words, a definite “maybe.” But if I’m asked a medical, legal or financial question that entails professional liability on my part, I will unfailingly decline to do the reading in those particular terms and may suggest a different approach. I’m perfectly happy to announce “The cards advise you to get a second opinion,” but you’ll never hear me say “The cards inform me that your doctor is a quack.” There are more ways than one to get at the truth, and being prudently oblique may be best for all concerned.