Change

I don’t believe in Tarot cards, although I like the idea of Tarot cards. Deep down I want to believe there is a universe that’s watching me, or if not watching, is vaguely aware of my existence and cares for me. I want to believe that the universe can love and it chooses to love me. Basically, like all humans, I want to know that I matter. And so, it was with nonchalance and a little embarassment that I pulled a card from the Native Spirit deck after a meditation walk. It was “Spirit of Fire,” a card all about taking the leap, accepting the change that is coming. Maybe the universe does exist. Maybe she does listen to me and care for me. And also maybe she’s got a really sick sense of humor.

Change is hard for me. Many years ago, when I was young, I would say to people, “I love change. Change is exciting.” It was a useful lie, but not one that I told very well. It was always a lie that I felt had no legs. It was obvious I didn’t like change in the way I attempted to control whatever little pieces of my life I’d tricked myself into believing were controllable. It was obvious in my near constant anxiety as I moved through the world. It was obvious in every action I took to keep things the same. But the lie helped me believe that maybe, if I said it enough, I could make it true. The problem with this is that the lie always came up against the reality of being myself. Of being someone who found joy and excitement in many things, but one of those things was decidedly not change.

Change may be sudden or it may be slow, but it is always pending, unless of course, it’s actively happening. And that’s when every fiber in my being starts to resist and push back and scream and cry and say no no no I don’t want it to be this way. I don’t like that it’s different, I yell. I convince myself that change can only be bad, and that there’s nothing good that can come from it. And this is a reasonable fear, if I think about what change means to me.

To me, change is hearing that your aunt died suddenly in the night, after you just saw her two days ago at dinner. Change is watching your grandfather have a stroke while talking to you as you wait for your mom to come pick you up. Change is having the two most formative and important people in your life die within three days of each other, the second one resolving to stay until the first one has peacefully passed. Were there good changes as I was growing up? Of course there were. Do I remember them? I do not. Or rather, to me they did not register as change. I remember them as a nice thing that happened.

I had a wonderful childhood filled with long summers, gardens, baking, sweet little old ladies that made tea with me, and days laughing together over I Love Lucy and our really confusing Canasta games. And I remember all this like a calm and lovely story that was occasionally punctuated with large, permanent, and scary changes.

But this is just life. When you are very young, surrounded by older people, sickness is bound to happen. As a child you just don’t understand that this is normal and so you don’t realize you need to expect it. But as an adult, you can sometimes see when the world around you is shifting, or when you need to shift, even if you don’t feel ready.

And so, here I am at another crossroads. A huge potential change that I’m pushing against with every part of me. A change that is a good, potentially great. A change that will allow me creativity in my work, more time to pursue things that I find interesting, and the chance to grow something more of my own. But still, I fight back. I think of the word change. A heavy word. A dangerous word. A curse.

And I’m back at the “Spirit of Fire” card. Telling me that this is a time of transformation. A moment of risk. An opportunity. A change. And so I will try. It probably won’t be graceful, and I’m still crying from time to time, but I’m crying less. Instead, I think of the universe. Maybe, if I believe in her, she will also believe in me.