Chapter 12
The Language of Intuition
The once-daunting symbols now weave a narrative. I can feel the subtle shifts in energy and meaning, navigating the spreads with growing ease. The tarot is becoming an extension of my own inner voice.
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The air in my small room, once thick with the scent of old paper and a nameless, electric tension, now felt… familiar. The heavy velvet cloth draped over my table, a stark black against the pale wood, no longer seemed like a shroud but a stage. The cards, spread out before me in an innocent-looking tableau, were no longer a jumble of cryptic images. They were speaking. Not in booming pronouncements, but in whispers, in the rustle of their edges, in the subtle tilt of a figure’s head
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