My doctor’s office called last week with an update on my hysterectomy.

What started out with me answering the phone with such enthusiasm that I nearly sprained my finger ended with me wandering into the living room for a giant ugly cry.

While my doctor is still hoping to get me in before the end of the year, it’s looking more likely that my surgery won’t happen until February. Maybe later.

When I got off the phone, I had the strangest sensation. It was as if this information were a tangible thing, just sitting there on the desk, and here was my body and my brain, looking at one another, wondering who was going to deal with it.

It’s hard to get through an entire day right now, and the idea of doing this for another three or more months is…well, it fucking sucks.

It reminds me, actually, of getting sober.

I’ve been sober for many years now, but I vividly remember what it felt like to be sober for ten minutes. How ten minutes was literally all I could handle, and the idea of being sober for eleven was unbearable.

Until it wasn’t. And then here we are, a decade later.

There are many moments when I honestly cannot conceive of dealing with this pain for another ten minutes.

I certainly can’t wrap my head around three months. So…I’m not going to ask that of myself.

I’m going to focus on the next ten minutes.

I’m going to write romance.

I’m going to sculpt miniatures, like this little book-and-cookies scene I made for my book club.

I’m going to read a bunch of books. (I’m currently reading The Age of Innocence, and I just finished a biography of Emily Dickinson. I also recently read—and loved—this and this and this. Oh, and this.)

I’m going to write in my journal and draw tarot cards.

Speaking of tarot…

I tried a weird tarot thing.

I’d been journaling on financial stuff and my writing career, and I sensed the presence of more than one inner part, all of whom had different feelings on the matter.

A couple of parts were wary of letting my writing support me, while one part was downright antagonistic. I decided to draw a card representing each one, but the twist came in the form of an energy spectrum.

Allow me to explain. *rubs hands together gleefully*

First, I created a spectrum from Wary on the left to Antagonistic on the right. This wasn’t fancy. I literally just drew lines in the carpet with my finger.

I then shuffled the deck with the intention to connect with these inner parts, and I drew the first card, leaving it face down. Holding the card between the lines of Wary and Antagonistic, I slowly moved it to the right, feeling for resistance or attraction, and then to the left.

At a particular location on the spectrum, I sensed the card “locking in.” The energy no longer tugged me left or right; it wanted to stop right there, thankyouverymuch.

I repeated this process with two more cards, one for each part, leaving all of them face down until I was finished, because I didn’t want to see what the card was and unconsciously nudge it one way or the other.

The results were eye-opening.

The spectrum helped me see how these cards were interacting with each other, and the different ways each of them influenced my mindset and actions.

For instance, one of the wary parts thought I needed to put up a front of nonchalance, stuffing down any insecurities and certainly not showing how much I care.

The more antagonistic part was anxious about needing help from others, because, growing up, it learned that help always came with sticky strings. Better to do everything solo, even if that meant stalling out well before the finish line.

I feel like this example is just scratching the surface of this technique, and I can imagine all sorts of spectrums, tailored to specific situations, that would yield juicy layers from a card reading.

Plus, it just feels fun and witchy to play with energy. ✨

Hidden Connections

What I didn’t realize when I started drafting this essay was how interrelated the hysterectomy call and my weird tarot technique actually were.

Whether I’m faced with an ever-moving surgery date or an amorphous career path, no matter how many notes and stickers I add to my day planner, life is really just the next ten minutes—or really, right fucking now. This moment. That’s all we know for sure.

And whatever this moment brings, all I can do—all life is asking from me, from all of us—is to make room for it.

I don’t need to figure it out or fix it or freak out. I might have inner parts that believe otherwise, but I can make room for them too.

There’s space for all of it.