Tiny Tarot Story
Read a short story inspired by the Hanged Man.
Right. Here we are. I am here. Miles above from my house. My house is a speck of dust in the cosmos, smaller. And home? A quaint human concept. There is no space for that in outer space.
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Why did I do this? Why did I put myself here? It’s a good question. It might be my last, though, so I probably shouldn’t worry about it all too much. Up here, out here, there is no up or down. My body moves in surprising directions on this tether, my last connection to the ship, to humanity. I wonder what would happen if it snapped. It’s a good question, and it might be my last. You'd think, in space, I'd be having all these philosophical breakthroughs. But no. I'm still thinking about myself.
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I’m reminded of something I used to tell my daughter in house—home. I tell her, the first time she tried to stand, she didn’t know if she could, but she did it anyway. That's the only way to live: Not know if you can, and do it anyway. That is how progress is made. Still. I must admit it feels strange to have walked the farthest anyone ever has walked. I wonder if I'll ever feel right-side-up again, or if this will stay with me, zero gravity. If the ground will feel like a disappointment. A limit.
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In a few minutes my crew is supposed to reel me back in. Supposed to. I’m suspended until then, powerless. There’s nothing I can do. When I return, if I return, they will have questions for me about the edges of the universe. I hope I can answer them. I hope i can turn this experience into wisdom. My head where my feet should be. My head not in the clouds, but between the stars. Where it always was.
See this post in Instagram.
The Hanged Man Reflections
Musings
Earlier this year, I hosted a storytelling challenge on Instagram in which people wrote a short story tied to each card of the Major Arcana. Naturally, many of the stories contained similar images. For the Lovers, people wrote about lovers, obviously. For the Emperor, a powerful masculine presence played a role.
The Hanged Man, though—the thread connecting those stories surprised me. Because on the day of the Hanged Man, people wrote about outer space. Astronauts in an unusual state of suspension, the liminality of zero gravity. all explored the theme of “deliberate discomfort.” Astronauts in outer space aren’t comfortable, necessarily, floating around. And yet they put themselves there on purpose, in the hopes that those hours eating freeze-dried ice cream and doing God knows what to go to the bathroom to lead will lead to progress.
It’s understandable why why we reached for astronauts, myself included, even though—as many an elementary schooler teacher tried to pass on with varying degrees of subtly—the vast majority of us will never reach the stars. Orbiting Earth from a spaceship is a more glamorous embodiment of the Hanged Man than the way the card normally shows up in our lives. And show up, it does.
The Hanged Man is found in those mid-winter Tuesdays at the office, when the sun goes down at 3 p.m. before you could notice the daylight. The period three or four months after a break-up when you’re wobbling, like a newborn colt, but on your way to recovery. The times, scrolling Instagram, when it seems like everyone else was cast in a more interesting TV show.
And most of all, the lulls. The time in a character’s life before the novel begins and after the novel ends. The connective tissue.
That, to me, is the Hanged Man.
I organize the story of my life into a series of phases in which Things Happened and Things Didn’t. My journals bear the evidence of this, just like tree rings change depending on the amount of water they get. I write more frequently during the juicy bits; less frequently during the lulls. I happen to be living in a “Things Happening” chapter; my hand is stained with pen ink. Sometimes I take a picture of myself and think, “Did I just eat sparkles, or is that glow organic?”
But for months, even years, I was the Hanged Man—eating popcorn with my parents on Friday nights (it was fun!), reading three books a week because I had nothing else to do, rebuilding my sense of self. Looking back, all of that waiting around was important: It was the vehicle that got me here. I was always moving, even if I felt like I wasn’t.
Once I started reading about spirituality, I gained a newfound appreciation for those chrysalis phases, when the path isn’t carven and clear. When it feels like there’s no path at all. That’s because you’re in a cocoon.
To quote Deepak Chopra in The Spontaneous Fulfillment of Desire: “Usually we see only cause-and-effect relationships: This causes that, which causes this, which causes that—linear trajectories. Yet beneath the surface, something else is happening. Invisible to us is a whole web of connections. As it becomes apparent, we see how our intentions are woven into this web, which is much more context-bound, much more relationship, much more holistic, much more nurturing than our surface experience.” Things are still happening, even when it feels like they’re not.
There’s a song from Sondheim’s Into the Woods that perfectly touches on the illusion of life being divided into moments and everything else: “Oh if life were made of moments / Even now and then a bad one--!/ But if life were only moments, / Then you'd never know you had one.” Moments may be what we remember, but all the other seconds are taking us to those moments. All the other seconds matter, too.
The Hanged Man challenges us to remain aware and alert, even during periods of boredom and discomfort. The lulls are progress, too, in their way. So when you’re in a Hanged Man moment, don’t beckon the ending, don’t rush the process. You’re hatching.
Recently, the Hanged Man appeared twice in a tarot reading I got from the amazingly talented reader Dylan McCabe. I knew exactly what card was telling me, based on my question. (Even though I said things were “happening” for me, these things feel new and strange, kind of like how the guy in Hanged Man card felt when he first decided to invert himself).
The Hanged Man’s message was conveyed via loudspeaker: This position may not be familiar. As a result, it may be uncomfortable, and so you may be tempted to bolt, go back to sleeping on your side—whatever your usual way of contorting is. But it’s time to stick around for a while. There are lessons to be learned by seeing the world from this angle.
I’m not really waiting around, is the thing. What I’m doing is more active than that. In the stillness, I’m growing, I’m learning. And I wouldn’t be doing either of those things if I kept on doing exactly what I did before: Walking on and on and on without pause.
So: I’m taking a deep breath. Swinging around a bit. Seeing if I can find delight in being upside down. After all, it’s a temporary state.
Journaling Prompts
Are you in a phase of life when things are happening, or in a lull period? How can you tell?
Do you avoid uncomfortable situations? When a time discomfort led to growth?
How easy is it for you to surrender to the moment? When was the last time you did?
What happened the last time you decided to “wait and see?” What did you see while you waited?
What is your relationship to patience? Do you have stores of it, or are they always dwindling? How can you cultivate more patience?
Start a Story of Your Own
Write a story of your own inspired by the dynamics present in the Hanged Man card, starting with this sentence. If you email me your story, I’ll share it in the next newsletter.
He left her alone in the cabin with a promise: He’d be back in three months with an answer. Three months of winter. Clarissa wondered if she’d ever see spring.
Extra Credit
Put a pot of water on. Instead of doing something else, meditate for a few minutes. Then check the water. Cultivate patience along with your pasta!
Make a timeline of your life. Identify the high-intensity moments and the lulls. How did the lulls prepare you for what came after?
Do a plank. Really! What embodies “purposeful discomfort” better than suspending yourself in the air through sheer determination?