The Paralysis of Preparation: When Study Becomes a Cage

The Paralysis of Preparation: When Study Becomes a Cage

There’s a peculiar kind of hunger that comes with making art in the world of tarot. A hunger not just to create, but to consume—books, decks, essays, podcasts, fragments of wisdom passed through centuries. I tell myself each purchase is fuel. Another history book to give me context. Another shimmering deck to show me what’s possible. Another voice to remind me that the journey is endless.

And yet, here I sit. Surrounded by knowledge, dazzled by the richness of it all, and too paralyzed to put pen to paper, brush to card.

It’s a strange paralysis, born not of ignorance but of *excess knowing*. I want to do justice to the archetypes, to the lineage of artists before me. I want my deck to sing with authenticity, not simply echo the Rider-Waite or Thoth. And so I circle the work, convincing myself I need *just one more book*, *just one more deck* before I can begin.

But here’s the truth I am learning: no amount of preparation will quiet the terror of creation. Tarot itself whispers this lesson. The Fool never waits until he has the perfect map; he steps into the unknown with nothing but faith and a small satchel. The Magician does not own every tool; he raises what’s already before him.

Maybe the paralysis isn’t a curse but a threshold. A place where I am invited to trade endless learning for the raw imperfection of making. Because in the end, it is not knowledge that births a deck—it is courage. It is the willingness to let my hand move, messy and unsure, trusting that wisdom will catch up to me along the way.

Perhaps the real initiation is this: to stop hoarding the voices of others, and finally let my own speak.