Well favored, the Two of Sticks is about planning, progress, decisions and discovery. With such careful steps and the courage to attempt something less than comfortable, these two dancers have managed to find stability and freedom in an apparently precarious pose.

Ill favored, with poor planning, these two dancers start to tremble, upsetting their delicate balance. As the future quickly becomes uncertain, they must make a hasty plan to dismount.

I am feeling stuck. I have no plan. I feel as if my balance depends upon a partner whose next move is unknown by anyone but the omniscient. I feel stuck in this posture. Although it is where I want to be, my inability to make a plan makes it seem as if I fail to accomplish anything, ever.

I could blame failure of accomplishment on the fact that my baby doesn’t nap without me by her side or holding her, but that seems a cop-out. She’s so cute! How can I blame anything on her? I would rather blame it on the fact that I fail to use my time wisely and I don’t plan anything successfully. Especially not naps.

I would like to write a cohesive companion book for this deck. What are the steps I need to take in order to be able to do this successfully? What’s the plan, Shanahan?

Upright: hard work, great achievement, burden of responsibility, stress

The man in the image has harvested a crop that he has worked hard to grow. His goal has been achieved, but his responsibility has not lessened. The bounteous harvest is no easier to carry than the fields were to work. Lest he lose everything he has invested, he needs to move on to the next part of business and sell his ware. Unfortunately, there are not enough people to help him market the load. There is, perhaps, a more efficient way to accomplish his task than to do it all himself. Unfortunately, although he was quite inspired to create a boon of goods, he remains quite uninspired as to how to lighten his load. There are two main ways to go about it: (1) drop some (2) ask for help. Hopefully he does not turn full-face and make someone else do all the work.

*   *   *

When I lived in Fairbanks, AK, I biked everywhere, year-round. When I went shopping, I carried groceries home on my back. One time, I bought a bunch of groceries, loaded my bike, and then decided to check out what was on sale at the craft store. They were selling mis-measured picture frames for five and ten bucks each. So I bought a bunch of very fancy frames. Quite a few, really. Some were very very large.

Thus, my backpack was over-loaded with groceries, I had about eight picture frames tied to the outside of the bag, and I had a dozen eggs strapped to the top of the bike rack. I started to bike home through the snow. Only ten miles to go! I could do it. I knew I could. There was no doubt in my mind that I could do it. I’d carried heavier. I’d biked through deeper snow. I could do it.

Of course, I didn’t have to. There was nothing to prove to anyone. Not even to myself. I called a cab. It felt real good, calling that cab.

The Nine of Sticks shows three camouflaged people battling with sticks amongst the trees. Are they fighting amongst themselves or grappling with a common enemy? How clearly do they see each other? How long has this been going on? Are they making headway or merely holding fast on the defensive?

The Nine of Sticks is about fighting it through to the end. The task at hand is almost complete— so close it seems as if it should be completed already.  Yet there is still more work. The work is perhaps more difficult than first imagined. There are unseen obstacles. Sometimes, such obstruction seems deliberate, as if hidden enemies wait around each corner or behind every tree. Try and try again. Be patient. Be resilient. Be vigilant and carry on. Some times, the greatest battle is the one that takes place in one’s own head.

*   *   *

I have dreams that I find a desk—
the sort with the front that swings open
to reveal cubbyholes and drawers
and within drawers there are partitions
and under the partitions there are boxes
and within the boxes there are divisions
each opened one after another because
inside there is something secret.
Each time I dream I find the desk
I am overwhelmed with excitement.
Nothing bad ever happens in these dreams.
No one ever finds me snooping.
I have no intent to take anything;
my only intent is to look
to find the last within-within.
The excitement is in opening one compartment
and finding another compartment to open.
There is nothing else.
There is nothing hidden but hiding places.
There is no enemy but that of waking up
before I find the ultimate within—

The Page of Sticks is a light-hearted free spirit who encourages change, exploration and discovery. Unburdened, she comes and goes as she pleases. A creative restlessness smolders within her, emerging as spontaneous sparks from her exploratory mind. With or without a plan, she will give anything a go. Her enthusiasm is impressive, though she does need to be careful to remain focused, lest she lose interest in the project at hand and ultimately waste her own time and the time of those she snared in her net of energy.

Ultimately, her passion for living life to the fullest leads her towards a greater understanding of the world. With persistence and balance, her understanding matures her to a person whose creative vision can change the world. However, if she is overly-aggressive, impatient, pessimistic, superficial, lazy, or refuses to co-operate with others, she is heading down a path where her greater understanding of the world will most likely be learned at the school of hard knocks.

The Handshake

I met Willis in a bar in Fairbanks, Alaska.  We were both finalists at a  poetry slam and mutually curious of one other through the stories told by friends. “Will you live with me?” he asked. I don’t remember if there was prior conversation; he had not yet sat down at my table. I replied “yes” with little hesitation. Perhaps I took the question a bit more seriously than he had meant it.

I found a house for us: a giant, uninsulated box with a heater in one downstairs room and no running water. Pipes would never have survived. Two winters prior, four acquaintances of ours had lived there and nick-named it “The Icebox.” Three women lived upstairs and a man named Jon lived downstairs— for the most part— in the front room. Using “prostate issues” as his excuse, he pissed in apple juice jugs. When the jugs froze in his room, he left the juice-colored contents on the kitchen counter to thaw. Willis and I kept our bicycles in Jon’s old room. Both of us biked everywhere, year round. Due more to obsession than lack of money, neither of us owned cars.

When we moved in, there was an empty paper towel roll on the holder in the tiny kitchen. It is immortalized in the background of a photograph I took of Willis playing guitar in the dim light of the television. The empty tube remained until we moved out. Neither of us generated any trash to speak of.  Although we were similar in many ways, I will never know if he adored me half so much as I adored him or if he merely found me curious and unannoying. We seldom spoke. We never argued. I adored him.

It was in this house, in the large, unheated upstairs room, where I illustrated a good number of tarot cards. I worked in thick insulated camp boots, a hat, fleece pants over long-johns, a few long sleeve tops and a fleece jacket. My hands were cold. I was working on the Four of Sticks: agreement, contract, good communication, ceremony or rite, harmony, community. I did not want to illustrate a definitive celebration, such as marriage; I wanted to leave the context of the agreement open to interpretation. Thus, I settled on a handshake. Many deals have been sealed and many great things have been settled on a handshake.

As it was eleven years before I would live in a house with internet, reference was not easy to come by. I eschewed models. The handshake was giving me unusual trouble. I had been working on it for perhaps over an hour when Willis came home. I stood as he came up the stairs.

“Willis?” I called, hesitantly. Truly, we never spoke.

“What,” he said, and came into the room.

“Will you shake my hand?” I asked. He held out his hand and I took it (I touched him!). He looked at me curiously for the half-second it took me to examine the placement of our fingers. I let go, hoping it would be enough. “I need to draw a handshake,” I explained.

He grunted some understanding sound and went off to go about his business. I sat down immediately to draw before the image of our clasped hands faded from my mind. I need not have hurried; the mental image of that painfully shy, awkward moment remains forever burned into my retina.

Perhaps due more to his good graces than to mine, we lived harmoniously together and parted peacefully. We lived on that handshake: the Four of Sticks.