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The Church of Mother May I

I had it all planned I was going to watch the sun rise this morning from the Manhattan side of the East River, down at John Lindsay River Park. (Talk about a throwback of a reference.) Still delightfully depleted from May Day intuition readings, I felt a little too weary for such a strident call time. But even during Quarantime, Sunday is the only time when you can park anywhere in New York City, so my alarm was duly set.

Instead I woke to a soft rain coating everything and Grace’s little nose twitching as it does when she senses something extra fine. Her nose always knows, because the air smelled better than I remember it ever smelling in NYC–fresh, fresh, fresh, with none of that metallic rot that’s prevailed over the last 10, nay, 20 years of eco-terrorism. The peonies and lilacs by my bed only made the air finer.

So no sunrise, but coffee in bed, familiar and witch basking in the sweet smells and sounds–in the dueling songs of starlings, doves, pigeons cheerfully waging turf wars.

After you-hoo, I insist.
Oh, no, after coo-coo-you!

Only after I drank a second cup as well a big glass of lemon water–and, oh, sure, the last shrimp taco from Saturday supper–did I know how I felt and what was needed.

Which is to say: There’ll be no non-churchy church services this afternoon because this feels like a Sunday to receive rather than download information. And in Mother Mary May, we don’t heed quaranTime. We heed soul time.

If you have the means and time, dig your digits into some soil, unplug your devices, and fly in that sky inside you. Then next Sunday, let’s share what we find.

It’ll be Mother’s Day, about which many of us have complicated feelings. So we’ll reclaim this Hallmark holiday–give it back to Mother May, Mother Earth, the Mothers we carry within us. More than that, we’ll celebrate the divine feminine principle.

Til then, if you wish to gift a Mother’s Day reading to yourself or a loved one, book here. I bid you a peony-scented start to a beautiful week.

The Church of Real Work

Behold this image of the aftermath of yesterday’s readings and Sky Inside live Instagram services–the nonchurchy church portal I’ve been creating since Quarantime began. These are such trying times but deeply tuning into people is always uplifting. Because whenever I tune into a person, I always encounter their divine self— what I call their best self or the soul.

It’s only when we’re disconnected from this divinity that we fail ourselves and others.

I’m especially grateful for this work because Taurus season is a time to be beautifully of use. After many weeks of shelter-in-place dormancy, we must re-activate ourselves—dance around, primal-scream at our demons, do whatever it takes to release our static energy and salvage our sanity through service to ourselves and each other. For me this service entails translating people back to their best selves–whether through the vehicle of tarot cards in my capacity as an intuitive or through film and television reviews in my capacity as a critic. (We’re still taping Talking Pictures via Zoom for PBS.)

The larger point is that each us is a beloved child of the universe with a unique calling that make us feel most ourselves. That’s not capitalism’s division of labor. That’s a divine division of labor. So let’s each grab a tool—be it a pen, a guitar, a microphone, a garden shovel, a sewing machine, a smartphone, a spreadsheet, a callsheet—and do what we uniquely can to make this world better. Marge Piercy says: “The pitcher cries for water to carry and a person for work that is real.” Real work is the most practical magic of all.

For a reading to determine how you may uniquely be of service, book here. Taurus season readings are pure pleasure.

The Church of Gentle Luxury

I’m sitting with Grace by the window in a treasure trove of sunlight and clouds–of white fur and pleather cubes, and a sapphire velvet chaise lounge draped with blue-flowered and animal-printed pillows and throws. Joni is spilling over both of us and I’m trying to figure out which of us—me, Grace, maybe even Joni–fashioned this little alcove. The question fills me with more pleasure than the morning already has. Which is a lot, actually.

It sounds ridiculous, suggesting my cat arranged fabrics and furniture to create this robin’s egg dreamscape by the window. Can’t you see her dragging everything in her cunning little teeth? But if she didn’t actively arrange this child’s dream turned inside out, she certainly inspired it with her perfectly composed paws, her caramel stripes and gleaming eyes. With how she absorbs and exudes beauty.

God I love her. I have zero idea how I’d do intuition work or anything else without her practicalmagic, anything without her reikitty paws-on healing.
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"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy