(Bad) Intuition

 

When my grandmother was in the ICU, I wasn’t worried.

When I saw her, intubated, wrists tied to the bed so she couldn’t remove the contraptions keeping her alive, I wasn’t worried.

I didn’t say good-bye because I wasn’t worried.

A few hours later, my grandmother died.

And I had the audacity to be blindsided by this.

Yes, she had leukemia. Yes, the ICU meant that nothing was fine.

But I had felt it, I had known that she was going to be okay. 

I had always believed my grandmother to be a witch in her own right, a soothsayer of sorts, and she had declared “the good Lord” would take her husband first, because he would be useless without her. Turns out she was only half-right about that. 

I had borrowed her assurances to buoy myself through her battle against cancer, and for the first time in my life, I knew what intuition felt like. That cool, calm certainty. That immediate, irrational, instinctive feeling in my gut. 

And it had been so, so very wrong.

For the longest time, I thought divination put the “art” in “con artist.” The language was just vague enough that you could drop a phrase here, point to an image there, and some hopeful querent would latch on and offer up enough about themselves for the reader to seize and exploit, all the while coaxing something out of their pockets.

Life, in general, hardened my heart against all things spiritual, but -- as these things usually happen-- I realized I needed a change. I needed to change. 

I approached cartomancy with an attitude more likely found when making New Year’s Resolutions. I’m not going to be a jerk about this, I told myself. I won’t roll my eyes at all the woo-woo stuff. When I lapsed back into my cynicism, I kept repeating to myself: But what if it works?

When learning cartomancy, there are endless approaches. Indubitably, the most common piece of advice you’ll hear is: USE YOUR INTUITION. 

Nobody warns you that sometimes your intuition gets it wrong. All you get is “listen.” 

It sounds nice and easy. In theory. What if you, like me, have the spiritual sensitivity of a stone?

One time, I picked out a tiger’s eye pendant from a display and the seller said, “Excellent choice. This one has high vibrations.” I said, “That’s nice.” 

Another time, a passionate crystal shop owner excitedly handed me a sandstone and said, “Feel this.” I held the pretty, smooth rock in my hand and hoped the crinkle in my eyes was enough to show the smile behind my mask. “That’s cool,” I said, handing it back, having felt nothing. Dead as a doornail, your intuition.

When I received my very first Tarot deck (the classic Rider-Waite-Smith, of course), I took the time to look at each and every card. I wasn’t getting much at first. Strange people, strange garb, strange situations. Then I got to the Eight of Wands. I took a picture and texted it to a friend (and seasoned cartomancer) with the caption: “Wow. I hate this card.” It made me tense, uneasy… and I couldn’t put my finger on why.

My friend quickly responded, rattling off her knowledge about the exciting and fast-moving energy of the card. 

My intuition was off, according to the accepted “meaning” of the card, but looking back on this now, I have to laugh. My gut feeling was right-- for me. I wish I could say I work well under pressure, and maybe I do-- if I’m under pressure for, like, one thing. Like... a modest stack of essays to grade. Add one little grain of sand to my designated burden, and a wave of cold heat floods my veins and I shut down. The image of the eight wands falling look like meteors-- striking-- attacking, like they’re dealing blows left and right-- all those tasks, all those projects, demanding attention, demanding speed.

Looking back, I now know that my “faulty” intuition wasn’t faulty after all. I’m not clairvoyant, but when my grandmother was getting ready to leave this world, I felt like I was-- and it felt good. Thinking-- no, knowing everything would turn out alright gave me a clarity of mind in the moment to watch over my young cousins and keep them occupied. We made collages out of magazine cutouts while our parents huddled and told the doctors: “Do Not Resuscitate.” It let me focus on others and not on myself-- and I will treasure that time, because once our matriarch was gone, it was as if the strings holding us together as a family suddenly fell slack.

I rarely remember my dreams, and when I do, they’re complete and utter nonsense. Not long after my grandmother’s funeral, I dreamt of her. I was in her house, watching over the young cousins, as she had done for most of her life. And right there, by our side, sat our grandmother. In tears, I asked my family: “Can you see her? She’s right here with us.” They shook their heads, so I started describing her to them. I told them how she smiled. How happy she looked. How peaceful.

I have a reluctant heart. It’s something I’m working on. My intuition isn’t fine-tuned. I’m working on that, too.

But I know my intuition comes through when I need it to. I’m learning that the feeling isn’t wrong. Maybe it’s enough, for now, to accept that I’m not going to understand it right then and there.  

When I read for friends, I’m always worried I’ll say something so blatantly off the mark that they will never trust me with the cards again. 

I swallowed hard when I drew a reversed 10 of Cups for a friend I hadn’t seen in over a year. Completely in the dark, I ventured that there was something that needed dealing with in her home life, something in the way of a peaceful and “whole” family dynamic that she envisioned for herself. Her best friend, listening closely, couldn’t help herself: “We were talking about this earlier today! Your boyfriend needs to finalize his divorce!” 

There are 77 other cards I could have drawn at that moment. How can it be coincidence? That’s what I keep asking myself, but I’m learning that if it’s not possible to stop questioning, it is possible to change the question. But what if it works?