I want to be 'The Fool'

The Fool travels light, close to the edge, basking in the sun

In November, an underwear company sent me a bra (that I ordered) and some Tarot cards (that I didn’t). Over a month later, the cards have lifted me up in ways I never expected—while the bra has proved less supportive. C’est la vie.

The bra, wireless in a creamy eggplant hue, was on super sale (with free shipping to boot), presented in my Instagram feed by the Algorithm® as the steal of the century. It was a no-brainer. Boom—add to cart. Eager to get a deal, and too susceptible to false urgency, I frothed as a timer warned me to “Hurry! Items in your cart are in high demand!,” (although surely the timer says that to all the carts).

Caught up in the thrill of discounted undergarments—and visions of the new, better me I would be with this bra hoisting my knockers to the heavens—I barely noticed the message on the checkout page telling me that my shipment would arrive bundled with a fun freebie.

Then, I forgot all about it. The transaction was so frenzied, I’m not sure my hippocampus fully recorded the memory.

Weeks later, when the garment arrived with a surprise Tarot deck, a flashback of the purchase jolted through the haze of daily life. Ah yes, the bra that was going to me make me a completely different person. I’ve lived ten lifetimes since I ordered it, but here it is.

The package found me in an angsty place. I’d recently discovered I would need surgery to remove a benign tumor in my parotid gland in December—and hospitals, doctors, needles, the entire medical milieu, are among my top fears. Prior to this summer when I suddenly became so dizzy I couldn’t walk straight, I hadn’t gone to the doctor in over a decade (aside from a few desperate trips to Urgent Care for antibiotics) and hadn’t had blood drawn in almost 20 years.

Now knowing I would need surgery, I’d already begun perseverating on everything that could go wrong—death, permanent disfigurement, awaking from surgery thinking only a few hours have transpired only to discover I’ve been in a coma for a decade and my parents are dead and my husband remarried. You know, your run of the mill anxious hell-spiral playing on repeat. (Spoiler alert: the surgery went fine.)

Medical shitstorm aside, the transition from one year to another is a reflective time for me and I’ve been trying to recalibrate from last year’s sleepier goals to a growing desire for a more energetic pulse in 2023. I want to be more committed to writing and brave and generous with the work I create. To be less afraid of being seen. To allow the world to witness my work—and to make work that is reciprocal such that the world, too, feels witnessed by it. These goals require learning to accept uncertainty and embrace action, even when the outcome is scary or unknown and carries risk of being ridiculed or misunderstood. On an intellectual level, this seems within my grasp. But on an instinctual level, it is impossible at times.

Although in retrospect it seems glaringly obvious, I only recently realized one (among many) of the foundational reasons for my pathological aversion to uncertainty: In 1991, when I was eight, a plane and helicopter crashed into each other directly above my elementary school, killing seven people and blanketing fiery debris across the recess field. Ever since, my nervous system has been bracing for explosive disaster—scanning for danger in a tense, protective pose, clenched and contracted. This defensive posture is not always in the foreground of my consciousness; the vigilance runs faithfully in the background, like an antivirus program on your computer, processing risk at a low hum. Sadly, it’s not very discerning. It will assess the low-level risk of vulnerability from, say, publishing this substack post at the same threat level as surgery or nuclear war. At a baseline, under the hood, we’re on high alert.

Then, there are times—like this day in November when a bra and a pack of Tarot cards landed at my doorstep—when this subconscious preoccupation, this risk-avoidance script, trumpets into the foreground. Here I was, obsessing about my plans for the future, and worrying about untold medical mayhem, when a tool for divination fell into my lap. Catnip for the anxious mind. I couldn’t resist the cards; they felt meant for me, meant to be.

Although I hadn’t dabbled with the Tarot since college, I had fond memories of its utility as a resource for accessing clarity. But I needed a refresher. Research revealed I would first need to go carefully through the deck, familiarizing myself with each card, and noticing which ones felt resonant. Most were neutral, eliciting few intuitive pings or pops. Until I came to ‘The Fool.’ When I held this card between my thumbs, a soaring, excited sensation thrummed from my gut to my throat, expanding my ribs and opening me up. My spine straightened, eyes widened.

‘The Fool’ depicts a happy traveler on the edge of a cliff, traveling light with only a flower and a bindle, tilting their head back to bask in the sunshine. The Fool is not cowering or compressed or hypervigilant; they’re not on high-alert or scanning for danger—their shoulders are relaxed, arms open, limbs lose, meeting the world with contented wonder, carefree and unafraid. They are at ease on the edge.

Without remembering anything about this card from my dalliance with Tarot decades ago, the words “freedom,” and “liberation,” came to mind and I felt so comforted that I was reluctant to move on to the rest of the deck—but I did. After studying each card, they all fell flat compared to the connection I’d felt to ‘The Fool.’

Next, I did a simple three-card self-reading. The internet refreshed my memory on the proper procedure. First, I shuffled the cards profusely, meditating carefully on my question as I felt them flip through my fingers. I’d been feeling blocked, stunted, fearful, and unfulfilled with my creative practice and foggy about the path forward so I focused on a question phrased a couple different ways in my mind, “What can I do to move forward,” and “What is stopping me from taking the next steps towards the life I envision?” I felt the question(s) deeply as I shuffled.

After a couple minutes, I was ready to draw the cards. I cut the deck, placing them in three piles—one representing the past, the second representing the present, and the third representing the future—and pulled the top card from each stack slowly, with intention.

First, the card for the past—the Knight of Wands—symbolizing a time in my past when I was less afraid, and was courageous enough to take bold action.

Then, the card for the present—the inverted 9 of Cups—in its inverted position representing stagnancy or stuck-ness, and a propensity to look outward for answers instead of within.

Finally, the card for the future—I audibly gasped as I drew The Fool.

Of all the possibilities in a 78-card deck, after exhaustive shuffling, the one card I’d loved deeply, to which I’d felt magnetically attracted, appeared as my beacon for the future. A guardian angel on the edge of a precipice. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I felt so held and protected in that moment, that I cried.

Looking up more official interpretations of the card only reinforced what my intuition had already told me—The Fool symbolizes freedom and liberation earned by taking bold action towards the unknown. The Fool challenges us to move towards uncertainty—to advance, not retreat, no matter what internal alarm systems are blaring.

One internet explanation of ‘The Fool’ says: "When this card appears in a reading, it denotes tremendous energy and the beginning of a journey. The Fool sets out without knowing exactly where he's going, but the will to follow his heart and trust the Universe compensates for the lack of experience. The limitless energy and potential of the Fool signify a force that is moving forward. When the Fool is looking at another card, he charges that card with his creative energy."

I had to stop and read that last sentence again because The Fool in my reading was looking directly at the inverted nine of cups—the card representing my present—saying, “girl, you already know what needs to be done.”

The internet explanation continues: "The Fool often signifies a leap of faith. It's time to believe in yourself and do what you thought was impossible, until now. What are you waiting for?” My stomach flipped. More tears.

None of this is revolutionary knowledge or advice. I already knew I needed to further shed avoidance and step into acceptance of the unknown—to rebel against my nervous system. And to harness more energy and commitment for my creative work. But it was still poignant to have this intuition validated so sweetly in a time of inner turmoil—to feel taken care of by The Fool.

In a recent edition of a newsletter I write about work and leadership, I shared an article covering the Quaker-inspired tradition of “clearness committees,” wherein you convene a panel of guides to dedicate several hours to a tough problem you’re wrestling with. The panel asks questions, but they do not tell you what to do. The goal is to help you access your own divine inner wisdom. The committees are premised on two Quaker precepts, “that all people have within themselves meaningful resources for finding their way in life . . . in the Quaker tradition, it’s sometimes called the inner light or the inner teacher,” and, “the second principle is that we also have voices of distortion within us—voices of greed, fear, anger, envy, and violence—and if you wish to rely on your inner teacher, it’s very important to have a mechanism for sorting out what voice it is you’re hearing and following.”

Fear, since girlhood, has been my primary “voice of distortion.” And unexpectedly, this deck of cards became my clearness committee, not telling me what to do or revealing what the future holds—but facilitating access to my own wisdom; they provided a powerful container for self-reflection. The cards don’t promise cut-and-dry answers and they don’t offer certainty. Instead, they ask you to sit with a question and hold it deeply. And to trust yourself—to remember that often, everything you need is already within you, waiting to be illuminated.

I don’t pretend to be an expert interpreter of the Tarot or even a deep believer in divination. But I do believe in using tools that help us access our own inner light. And these arrived right on time.

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Last year, setting my intentions for 2022, the vibes were all about rest, easiness, the releasing of muscles after the prolonged contraction of 2020-2021. I’d been clenched and tense and all I wanted was to let go. I dreamed of this for everyone, not just myself. The whole world was heavy; every person on Earth needed a nap.

Now, replenished by rest, I’m ready for ruckus. This year, I want to act the fool. To harness an upbeat beginner’s energy that could be misconstrued as naive.

The Fool asks us to rethink our preconceptions. A top fear for so many of us is feeling embarrassed, ashamed, silly, foolish. We think of a fool as an object of derision. But The Fool is unscathed. The Fool in the Tarot recasts our worst fears in a revelatory light, revealing a figure not to be pitied, but exalted as a symbol of hope—delighting in the sunlight, smiling, facing their journey with lightness—happy, brave, and free. Who knows what peril awaits over the edge, at the bottom of the cliff? Not The Fool, who looks up towards the sky, towards possibility, not at all worried about what lies down below.

The truth is safety is an illusion. No amount of rumination or obsession or anxious hand-wringing can prevent catastrophe or insulate us from discomfort, judgement, criticism, or shame. We can’t see the future, not with tarot cards or a crystal ball, but we have access to inner guides—and conduits to their (our) insights.

The Fool shows us that freedom lies not in being able to anticipate every setback, crucible, or heartache; it lies in accepting uncertainty as a default and meeting it with courage.

So in 2023, I want to be The Fool. May I embrace opportunity and uncertainty with the same zeal I do flash sales for bras on Instagram. May I run the risk of discomfort and disappointment if it means moving towards a more creative life, mustering the energy to complete and share my work. May we all have the courage to step into the life we envision, even if it make us foolish.