Standing at the Threshold of the Major Arcana

There is a strange feeling that accompanies the end of a long journey.

Not triumph.

Not relief.

Something quieter.

The sensation of standing at a doorway, one hand on the frame, knowing there is still an entire landscape waiting beyond it.

As I continue working on the Phantasmagoria Tarot, I find myself approaching that threshold. Many of the Major Arcana paintings have taken shape over the past months and years, emerging slowly through layers of research, revision, symbolism, and paint. While several pieces are still works in progress, the vision of the Major Arcana has become clearer than ever before.

The figures that inhabit this deck have become familiar companions. They have followed me through uncertainty, grief, transformation, illness, inspiration, and countless hours in the studio. Each card has asked its own questions.

The Fool asks what it means to begin.

The High Priestess asks what remains hidden.

Death asks what must change.

Judgment asks what happens when we finally hear the call that has been echoing beneath the surface all along.

Together, they form a narrative that feels less like a sequence of events and more like a psychological landscape—a journey through memory, identity, shadow, and rebirth.

In many ways, the Major Arcana has become the backbone of Phantasmagoria itself.

Yet despite the progress, these paintings are not finished.

Some still require revision. Others need details refined, symbolism strengthened, or compositions reconsidered. Like the themes they represent, they continue to evolve. I have learned that tarot imagery often reveals itself gradually, and forcing a card to completion before it is ready rarely produces the result I am seeking.

So they remain in conversation with me.

Works in progress.

Living things.

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At the same time, I find my attention increasingly drifting toward what comes next: the Minor Arcana.

This is both exciting and intimidating.

The Major Arcana often receives the most attention because it contains the grand archetypes—the dramatic transformations, revelations, and spiritual milestones. The Minor Arcana, however, is where life actually happens.

It lives in ordinary moments.

In work and exhaustion.

In relationships and conflict.

In celebrations and disappointments.

In the quiet repetition of daily existence.

If the Major Arcana tells the story of the soul, the Minor Arcana tells the story of being human.

And there is a daunting beauty in that.

Seventy-eight cards can feel like a mountain when viewed all at once. It is easy to become overwhelmed by the scale of the project and to focus on what remains unfinished rather than what has already been accomplished.

But perhaps that feeling is fitting.

After all, every tarot journey begins with The Fool standing at the edge of an unknown path.

As I look toward the coming months, my goal is simple: continue moving forward.

Not perfectly.

Not quickly.

Just consistently.

To return to the studio.

To keep sketching.

To keep painting.

To trust that each completed piece becomes a stepping stone toward the larger vision.

Phantasmagoria has always been a project concerned with transformation, and perhaps creating a tarot deck is its own lesson in that process. The work changes. The artist changes. The meaning changes.

What matters is continuing to answer the call.

So while the Major Arcana remains unfinished, it also feels alive in a way that completed things rarely do. And as I stand at this threshold, looking toward the Minor Arcana waiting in the distance, I am reminded that every deck—like every journey—is created one card at a time.

The path forward may be long.

But the next card is waiting.

Judgement

The Judgment card is often misunderstood if you read it as punishment or moral reckoning. It’s less about being judged—and more about being called.

In traditional imagery (especially in decks like the Rider–Waite Tarot), an angel sounds a trumpet while figures rise from coffins. It looks apocalyptic, but it isn’t about destruction. It’s about awakening—a moment where something inside you can no longer remain buried.

Core Energy: The Call You Can’t Ignore

Judgment is the feeling of: finally seeing your life clearly recognizing a pattern you’ve been repeating realizing you can’t go back to who you were

It’s not gentle like The Star, and it’s not chaotic like The Tower. It’s sharper than that—clarity with consequence.

Themes Inside the Card

1. Resurrection (But Not Literally)

Something “dead” rises: an old version of yourself, a truth you avoided, a creative voice you buried

This is why the imagery matters—the coffins aren’t graves, they’re containers. You outgrew them.

2. Self-Evaluation Without Illusion

This is one of the few cards that asks:

Can you be honest about who you’ve been?

Not harshly. Not with shame. But with a kind of total clarity.

It’s the moment where excuses fall away—not because you’re punished, but because you’re ready to see.

3. The Past Returns for Integration

Judgment often brings: people reappearing, old memories resurfacin, unresolved situations asking for closure

Not to trap you—but to complete something.

4. Decision That Changes Identity

Unlike smaller decisions, Judgment choices alter your trajectory: leaving a relationship, choosing your art seriously, redefining your sense of self

It’s less “what should I do?” and more:

Who am I now that I know this?

In the Context of the Phantasmagoria

It’s the moment after the waiting.

The test result arrives

The body reveals something

Or even more unsettling: nothing is found, but something still feels different

Judgment isn’t always closure. Sometimes it’s recognition.

You could see this card in your world as:

a figure rising not from a coffin, but from their own body, translucent skin, inner organs illuminated, a sound (not necessarily divine) pulling them upward—maybe a frequency, a hum, a medical machine, a memory

In that sense, the real question of the card is:

Are you listening outward—or inward?

Judgment is not the moment you are condemned, but the moment you can no longer pretend you do not hear yourself.

The Liminal Body

There is a particular kind of waiting that dissolves time.

Not the soft waiting of seasons turning, or paint drying into its final truth—but the suspended, fluorescent waiting of medical tests. The kind where your body becomes both oracle and enigma. Where every sensation feels like a message you cannot quite translate.

In the language of tarot, this is the realm of the unseen card—the one that exists between the spread and the self. It is the inhale before revelation.

I imagine this space as a figure seated in a dim corridor, somewhere between the High Priestess and the Hanged Man. Not passive, but suspended. Not powerless, but held in a tension that asks for surrender. Their body is luminous and translucent, threaded with quiet constellations—organs glowing like distant stars, each one whispering a secret not yet spoken aloud.

Waiting becomes its own ritual.

We are taught to seek answers, to chase clarity like a fixed point. But the body, like the cards, does not always reveal itself on command. Sometimes it asks us to sit in the ambiguity, to trace the outlines of fear without letting it consume the image.

There is a kind of grief here—anticipatory, for futures that may never arrive. And yet, there is also an intimacy. To wait for news about your own body is to be drawn into a deeper listening. To notice the rhythm of your breath. The quiet labor of your heart. The strange, sacred fact of your aliveness.

In Phantasmagoria, I would paint this as a corridor of mirrors, each reflection slightly altered. In one, the figure is whole. In another, fragmented. In another, radiant beyond recognition. The cards are scattered at their feet, but all are face down.

Because sometimes, the truth is not in the knowing.

Sometimes, the magic—the terror, the transformation—lives in the waiting itself.

Clearing the air

I started some Spring Cleaning and started to realize I shouldn't just focus on my physical space but other areas of my life as well. For the month of April I'll be taking a social media break but I'd like to come back to my blog at some point during they time.

Unfortunately I found that there may be a leak in my corner of the art studio. I still have to mention this to the landlord who has yet to fix the leak in the kitchen. I have realized some of the stagnat air. Hoping for a burst of much needed energy.

Trying to steal the energy from the changing season. But alas I pulled a muscle on my leg and I can't keep jogging like I was trying to. Have to take a few days off to get physically and mentally back in the swing of things.

No makeup or fancy clothes. Just my favorite hoodie and some unfinished art pointing it's finger at me. 

I'll get to it I just can't wait for Mother Nature to get out the last of the cold breezes and rain. I want sunshine for days and skirt weather. 

How are spending this time of transition?

Dancing 'on' Two Pentacles

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Dancing on Two Pentacles

I’ve been thinking about balance. Or maybe what passes for balance when your life is full of contradiction, chaos, and too many things demanding pieces of you at once.

Right now I’m working on the Two of Pentacles — the card of juggling, of instability, of keeping multiple plates spinning while the floor feels like it might fall out from under you at any moment. The irony isn’t lost on me. My life looks messy on paper, and in real life, it feels even worse. Work. Art. Relationships. Bills. Emotional labor. The little invisible weights that no one applauds you for carrying. And somehow, you have to smile while keeping the rhythm, pretending you’ve got it together.

Painting it is almost meditative. I let the brush stumble over the canvas like I stumble through my own life — messy loops, high saturated pigments, strokes that refuse to be neat. The two coins float and twist in a storm I can control only by letting go. The swirl of watercolors bleeding into each other, the way oils smear when the paint is thick, it’s all a reflection of the precariousness I carry.

Instability isn’t always chaos. Sometimes it’s rhythm. Sometimes it’s a dance you didn’t choreograph but are learning to move with anyway. My cat curls next to me, unimpressed, flicking a tail as if to remind me: “This is not the end of the world.” The tiny constant companionship anchors the juggling act.

I think of balance differently now. It’s not holding everything perfectly. It’s choosing which weights are yours to lift and which to let crash. It’s laughter in the middle of panic. It’s rage and softness coexisting. It’s painting a card about juggling while your own life feels like a two-ring circus.

This Two of Pentacles isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. Awareness. The terrifying exhilaration of keeping everything in motion without losing yourself.

Sometimes the coins drop. Sometimes the floor cracks. And that’s okay. Because the act of getting up, brushing off paint, adjusting your rhythm, and starting again — that is the point. That is the magic. That is the ritual of living fully, even when your hands are full and the world feels like it’s tipping.

Balance isn’t static. It’s a heartbeat. It’s a wobble. It’s the storm and the calm at once. And as I paint this card, I realize: the dance itself is sacred.

Emerging from the Cocoon (Covered in Paint, Teeth Gritted)

Winter always tricks me into thinking I’ve disappeared.

Not dead — just buried under layers of waiting. Waiting for heat. Waiting for time. Waiting for my nervous system to stop buzzing long enough to remember I have hands, and those hands make things that matter.

For months I’ve been in a cocoon phase. Not the Instagram kind. Not the “soft healing journey” kind. The cramped, itchy, half-feral kind. The kind where the studio is a dining room table that still has crumbs on it. The kind where you only get thirty minutes every other day and you have to decide whether to make art or stare at the wall and recover from being alive.

And still — something has been shifting.

I’ve started painting again. Slowly. Awkwardly. Like stretching a limb that fell asleep years ago. Acrylic first, because oil asks for time and warmth and patience I don’t always have. Multiple tarot pieces moving at once because my brain doesn’t walk — it paces. The pentacles coming through first, grounded and stubborn, like they’re reminding me that growth is underground work.

Right now I’m working on the Ace of Pentacles — opportunity, money, new beginnings — which feels almost sarcastic and deeply necessary at the same time. A quiet promise sitting on a loud little canvas. My cat curled beside me like a small familiar, watching every brushstroke like it’s part ritual, part surveillance. Paint water on one side, coffee on the other, fur inevitably embedded somewhere in the texture.

High saturation pigments. Small surfaces. Loud little paintings that feel like they’re whispering secrets while screaming at the same time.

Not masterpieces. Not polished. Alive.

And honestly — the cocoon isn’t just about art.

I just had one of those explosive, soul-rattling arguments with my partner. The kind where your chest feels like it’s cracking open and you realize how tired you are of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. I’m fucking exhausted from being made to feel small. From folding my body and my voice and my needs into neat little shapes so someone else doesn’t feel comfortable.

It hit me hard — that same energy was seeping into my work. Painting smaller emotionally, not just physically. Holding back intensity. Editing my rage and my tenderness before they even hit the canvas.

No more.

The cocoon phase has teeth. It’s where you decide what parts of yourself are coming out alive and what parts get left behind as shed skin.

And here’s the truth: emerging isn’t graceful. It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s crying while you’re cleaning paintbrushes. It’s painting skulls and bodies that refuse to disappear. It’s brown bodies taking up sacred space. It’s softness that bites back. It’s refusing to apologize for existing in a world that constantly tells certain bodies they are not welcome, not beautiful, not powerful.

Every brushstroke right now feels like a small act of rebellion. Against silence. Against erasure. Against the voice that says “be smaller or be alone.”

I’m choosing to be louder instead.

Not fully out of the cocoon yet. Still damp-winged. Still learning how to exist in the open air again. But there’s movement. There’s color. There’s ritual in the act of showing up for thirty minutes and making something honest instead of something impressive.

If winter is about anything, it’s slow growth. Roots cracking stone where no one can see.

And I’m done pretending that growth is gentle. Sometimes it’s an argument that finally exposes a wound. Sometimes it’s anger that turns into paint. Sometimes it’s realizing your body — your loud, vulnerable, sacred body — deserves to take up the whole damn canvas.

The work is coming back.

So am I.

Winters Slow Alchemy (Slow Progress on the Pentacles)

I am making slow progress on the deck. I decided to bring my supplies in from the art room where my water cup was frozen solid.

Slow Magic: Painting the Minor Arcana in Winter

Progress on the Minor Arcana has been quiet. Not stalled—just moving at the pace of breath, bone, and season.

I’ve begun with the Pentacles, an intentional choice. Earth first. Body first. Work, survival, money, craft—the slow mathematics of staying alive. Instead of oil, I’m painting these in acrylic, letting the medium mirror the energy: quicker drying, layered decisions, a willingness to move forward without endlessly reworking the past.

I’m working on two to four cards at a time, passing between them like a pilgrim moving between small altars. When one painting resists me, another opens. When one feels heavy, another feels generous. It keeps the process alive—less like forcing a single vision into existence and more like listening for which image is ready to speak.

Winter feels like the right container for this pace. The world itself is not rushing. Roots are growing underground. Seeds are deciding who they will become. Nothing looks dramatic on the surface, yet everything essential is happening in the dark.

This is how the Minor Arcana wants to be made—not in a rush of spectacle, but through accumulation. Quiet labor. Repetition. Small revelations. Layer by layer. Card by card.

Pentacles teach patience. They remind me that magic is not always lightning—it is often soil, time, and the discipline to return to the work even when progress looks invisible.

Slow progress, yes.

But slow progress is still progress.

And sometimes it is the most honest kind.

http://phantasmagoriatarot.blogspot.com/

The Cantigee Oracle

The Cantigee Oracle: Where Watercolor, Ecology, and Creative Spirit Converge

The Cantigee Oracle is not merely a divination tool — it is an ecological meditation, a creative companion, and a living art object. Crafted with luminous watercolor illustrations by Laura Zuspan and written by Rae Diamond, this deck feels less like a traditional oracle and more like a portal into poetic awareness, artistic ritual, and environmental reverence.

A Wash of Watercolor Dreamscapes

The deck’s visual identity is defined by its fluid watercolor aesthetic — soft yet emotionally potent, dreamlike yet grounded in natural symbolism. Zuspan’s painterly style leans into organic motion: pigment blooms like breath on paper, figures emerge and dissolve, flora and myth intertwine. The circular card format enhances this sense of cyclical flow, echoing themes of seasons, ecosystems, and spiritual return.

Rather than crisp or rigid imagery, the watercolor technique invites ambiguity and intuition. Colors bleed, edges soften, and scenes feel remembered rather than observed — a perfect match for an oracle rooted in transformation, imagination, and the living world. The result is art that feels handmade, intimate, and alive.

Creative Prompts as Sacred Sparks

What truly distinguishes the Cantigee Oracle is its commitment to creativity as a spiritual practice. Each card extends beyond symbolic meaning into actionable artistic prompts — encouraging painting, writing, movement, music, sculpture, storytelling, and embodied expression.

These prompts do not feel like add-ons. They are integrated into the deck’s philosophy: creativity becomes a ritual, a method of insight, and a bridge between inner vision and outer action. Whether you are an artist seeking inspiration or a seeker craving deeper engagement, the prompts transform the deck into a generative engine for making, reflecting, and evolving.

This is an oracle designed not just to tell, but to ignite.

Nature, Spirit, and Responsibility

Interwoven throughout the guidebook is a strong ecological consciousness. Each card explores environmental symbolism and encourages awareness of humanity’s relationship with the Earth. The deck frames spiritual growth as inseparable from planetary care — a refreshing and timely stance that aligns mystical insight with ethical responsibility.

This makes the Cantigee Oracle particularly resonant for eco-minded creatives, nature mystics, and those drawn to earth-centered spirituality.

Who This Deck Is For

The Cantigee Oracle will especially appeal to:

• Artists seeking inspiration beyond traditional tarot
• Creatives drawn to watercolor aesthetics and painterly storytelling
• Spiritual practitioners who value ecology, mindfulness, and embodied ritual
• Writers, musicians, and makers craving symbolic prompts
• Readers who prefer poetic, intuitive, and open-ended systems over rigid structures

Final Reflection

The Cantigee Oracle feels like a collaboration between art, nature, and spirit — a deck that doesn’t simply offer answers, but invites participation, imagination, and creation. Its watercolor visuals whisper rather than shout, its prompts encourage action rather than passive consumption, and its ecological heart keeps the reading grounded in real-world reverence.

This is not just a deck to consult — it is one to create with.

Court Cards

The Phantasmagoria Tarot and the Court Cards are a hauntingly perfect pairing — both are mirrors of identity in motion: masks we wear, archetypes that possess us, fragments of the self that come alive in crisis or creation.

In the realm of the Phantasmagoria, the court isn’t a literal monarchy — it’s a psychic theater. Each court figure is an actor in the drama of the soul, shifting between dream and nightmare, human and archetype.

Below is a poetic-philosophical lens and ritual framework to explore the Court Cards through the Phantasmagoria — for reflection, writing, or spellwork. This is a working document and nothing is set in stone yet.

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🎭 The Court of Shadows: Phantasmagoria’s Inner Theatre

Concept:
The Court represents four houses of consciousness — not people, but presences. Each one whispers a different tone in your internal monologue: the dreamer, the actor, the watcher, and the ghost.

Each suit becomes a dimension of haunting:

• Wands – The Firelight: passion, creation, obsession, the will to act
• Cups – The Reflection: emotion, longing, illusion, nostalgia
• Swords – The Mirror Shard: thought, judgment, perception, distortion
• Pentacles – The Flesh: embodiment, survival, material spellcraft, decay

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🕯️ The Four Roles Within Each Court

Archetype	Function	Phantasmagoric Aspect
Page	The Dreamer / The Haunted Child	The apparition of potential — the innocent who still believes in magic and shadow. A whisper from what you could be if you risk the unknown.
Knight	The Seeker / The Masked Performer	The restless spirit who charges into illusion, desperate for meaning. Represents the motion of crisis — the storm, the transformation.
Queen	The Oracle / The Mirror	Embodiment of power and empathy. She sees what others fear to see. Represents the inner voice that translates chaos into art.
King	The Architect / The Shadow Sovereign	The one who builds systems from smoke — control, mastery, structure. Represents integration, or the illusion of it. The King is always one breath away from madness or transcendence.

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🔮 Phantasmagoria Court Spread — “Masks of the Monarchs”

A spread for exploring the roles you play when the psyche feels divided.

      (3)
   (2) (1) (4)
      (5)

1. The Page – The Voice of the Inner Child: What raw dream, fear, or creative impulse is emerging?
2. The Knight – The Momentum: How am I reacting to conflict or change?
3. The Queen – The Emotional Wisdom: What am I feeling but not expressing?
4. The King – The Authority: What part of me demands control or dominance?
5. The Mirror of the Court: What illusion binds these roles together — and what truth wants to be seen?

Read the cards as a psychological narrative — a play in five acts, performed by different faces of the same soul.

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🕯️ Integration Ritual — “Unmasking the Court”

After your reading:

1. Lay the cards before a mirror or black bowl of water.
2. Whisper:

   “All masks fall before reflection.
   All monarchs return to the dream.”

3. Watch the candlelight flicker on the cards — see which figure calls you.
4. Journal or paint what they would say if they could step out of the card.

Optional: leave the chosen court card on your altar for a lunar cycle — a companion for inner dialogue.

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🕸️ Interpretive Thread: The Courts as Phases of the Psyche

Each rank can also correspond to a cycle of becoming — a ritual of growth through crisis:

• Page: Innocence → Curiosity → Awakening
• Knight: Action → Chaos → Revelation
• Queen: Understanding → Compassion → Power
• King: Integration → Authority → Transcendence

In a Phantasmagoric context, these are not linear but looping — you will always return to the Page, dreaming again after every death.

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Yule Ritual

Had this draft ready to go and forgot to schedule it! Sorry it's late. 

❄️
Here is the Phantasmagoria Tarot Yule Ritual, written as a shadowed solstice rite — part séance, part dream, part rebirth. It keeps the ancient light of Yule but refracts it through the gothic lens of Phantasmagoria: the long night as theatre, the light as revelation, the self as both ghost and dawn.

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🕯️ Phantasmagoria Yule Rite: The Longest Night

Theme:
The Sun dies, but the soul dreams.
The world stands still, and the unseen stirs.
This is the turning — where endings whisper to beginnings, and the heart learns to see in the dark.

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I. The Setting: The Theatre of Midwinter

Prepare your space as if you were about to host a midnight performance for spirits and memories.

You’ll need:

• A single black candle (for the death of the Sun)
• A small mirror or bowl of water (the dreaming portal)
• Your Phantasmagoria deck
• A strand of evergreen or sprig of rosemary (the promise of return)

Place the candle before the mirror. Let the reflection of its flame become your twin sun — one burning in this world, one in the dream.

Whisper:

“The light sinks into the underworld.
The year exhales its final breath.
I enter the phantasm —
to find the flame that never dies.”

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II. The Spread — “The Ghost of the Sun”

A 6-card spread shaped like an inverted flame — a descent before ascent.

      (6)
    (5) (4)
   (2) (3)
      (1)

1. The Shadow of the Year – What part of me has died or dimmed in this cycle?
2. The Phantom Flame – What remains of my inner light, even in the void?
3. The Mirror of Winter – What truth do I see when the world stands still?
4. The Voice Beneath – What message rises from the depths of silence or grief?
5. The Pale Sun – What light begins to return — fragile, spectral, real?
6. The New Dawn – What awakening waits beyond the longest night?

Read the cards as a vision in the mirror, not a list — imagine each image flickering to life, one after another, like scenes in a silent film.

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III. Integration: The Whisper of Light

When your reading feels complete:

1. Choose one card — the one that feels like the heart of your vision.
2. Hold it before the mirror flame and say:

   “From shadow you return to light.
   From ending, beginning.
   From death, dream.”

3. Place that card beneath your pillow or beside your candle overnight.
   Let its imagery weave through your dreams.

In the morning, extinguish the candle and whisper:

“The Sun is reborn — and I am remade.”

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IV. The Archetypal Echo: Cards of the Solstice

In the Phantasmagoria lens, these Major Arcana act as your solstitial guides:

• Death – The longest night itself, the stillness between heartbeats
• The Hermit – The candle carried through the dark
• The Moon – The dream and its distortions, the theatre of the unseen
• The Star – The return of distant hope, fragile yet eternal
• The Sun – The revelation of dawn, the triumph of light through shadow

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V. Closing Words: Benediction of the Black Sun

“I have walked through the theatre of endings.
I have watched my shadow dance in candlelight.

Now, beneath the black sun,
I rise unseen but luminous.
The phantoms fade, but their wisdom remains.
The year turns, and so do I —
endless, eternal, ever reborn in smoke and gold.”

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Changing the Wands

The Phantasmagoria Tarot

I'm having a dilemma. I want to use fire dancers now but my brain is also saying I had some good options before. What do you think best represents the wands? Traditional sticks and paint brushes, or fire wands?

Suit of Wands

The Wands are the fire that animates the unseen. They represent creation, passion, energy, and the will to bring a vision into reality. In the world of the Phantasmagoria, they are the sparks that light the stage — the Dreamer’s breath of life given to art, idea, and impulse. Each card speaks to the movement from inspiration to manifestation, from the flicker of desire to the blazing act of creation.

Ace of Wands

 A fresh flame of passion ignites. You throw yourself into a new project with renewed excitement. You are ablaze with potential.

Two of Wands

 You need to take care to channel your energy in the right direction. You don’t want your flame to burn out so you need to be deliberate in your planning. 

Three of Wands

 After the choice is made you're ready to ignite to fire. You foresee the possibilities of the future. You’re sending out your energy into the universe and anticipating your labor will bear fruits. 

Four of Wands

 It’s time to celebrate your success! You’re in it for the long run and are only passing through the first phase of many. For the time being, relish in your bounty.

Five of Wands

 The next challenge is on the horizon. You need to transform conflicts into a spark that reenergizes your passion.

Six of Wands

 You get a taste of success. Your supporters gift you their energy and you in turn, give them your imagination. This is once again just a momentary success but enjoy it to the fullest until the next challenge arises. 

Seven of Wands

 Stand your ground regardless of the lack of support. You will come out on top.

Eight of Wands

 Keep moving forward and with a quickness in your step. Focus on the task at hand and don’t get distracted. 

Nine of Wands

 You are in transition to come up against the ‘final boss’ so-to-speak. Reserve your strength until you know its time to let it burn. 

Ten of Wands

 You have won the final battle but now you feel you carry the burdens of the world on your back. You could go the road alone or find a way to delegate it. Is there a way to warm the fire again?

Still working on the court cards...

Page of Wands

 

Knight of Wands

 

Queen of Wands

 

King of Wands

 

The Goddess & Tarot

The Goddess and the Tarot

The Tarot is a map of consciousness, and within its architecture runs an ancient river: the presence of the Goddess. She appears not as a single figure, but as a shifting, multifaceted intelligence. She is mother, muse, destroyer, dream-walker; the pulse between night and waking; the archetype that reveals the self through myth, intuition, and embodied knowing.

Tarot’s goddess lineage is older than the cards themselves. It echoes the great mothers of Anatolia, the weavers of Greece, the shadow queens of Mesopotamia, the Celtic dreamers, the global lineages of creators and destroyers. In the Major Arcana and the Minor, her fingerprints are everywhere.

Below is a way to understand the Goddess through the tarot’s structure.

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1. The Goddess in the Major Arcana: The Great Archetypes

The High Priestess — the Lunar Gatekeeper

The clearest embodiment: She is the veil, the subconscious, the guardian of liminality. She governs dreams, divination, intuition, the womb of the unseen. She is the threshold you cross to encounter yourself.

The Empress — the Living Body of the World

Abundance, fertility, creation, sensuality. But also the grief and cost of creation. In a spiritual sense she governs art-making, gestation, and the desire to bring something into form. You can invoke her when painting your deck.

Strength — the Tamed Lion & the Untamed Soul

A quieter goddess: the one who reminds you that power doesn’t always roar. It is sovereignty expressed through compassion, self-holding, and integrating shadow with tenderness.

Justice — the Cosmic Weaver

Not morality, but balance — the loom of cause and effect. The Goddess as the one who keeps fate from collapsing. She is Ma’at, Themis, the scales of truth.

Temperance — the Alchemist

The divine mixer. She is the goddess of transformation, integration, and the healing art of holding contradictions at once. She shows up whenever you blend realities — spiritual and daily, traumatic and transcendent.

The Star — the Goddess in Her Most Celestial Form

Pure spiritual guidance. The Star is the re-enchanter, the source of hope, the cosmic mother who whispers that the journey is not yet lost.

The Moon — the Dream Witch

The Moon is the Goddess in her nocturnal, surreal, chthonic aspect. She governs fear, intuition, psychic sensitivity, nightmares and wisdom. She’s the Phantasmagoria’s patron saint.

The World — the Return to the Cosmic Mother

The spiral completed, the dancer in the wreath. The World is the goddess of wholeness, completion, and cosmic belonging.

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2. The Goddess in the Minor Arcana: Elemental Feminine Currents

Cups — The Water Goddess

Emotions, intuition, dream logic, memory, healing.

Here she is river, rain, ocean, blood. A goddess of flowing things, including tears and art.

Pentacles — The Earth Goddess

Body, resources, work, the physical world, slow growth.

She is the granter of food, shelter, craft, discipline.

Swords — The Air Goddess

Intellect, language, boundary, clarity, conflict.

The darker goddesses often live here: the ones who cut away illusion, who sharpen us through ordeal.

Wands — The Fire Goddess

Desire, vitality, magic, passion, creativity.

She is the Muse, the spark, the witch-light flickering between worlds.

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3. The Goddess as Process: Descent, Initiation, Return

Many spiritual traditions describe a feminine descent — Inanna entering the underworld, Persephone’s abduction, the dark night of the soul. Tarot mirrors this:

The Fool → High Priestess: the call from the unknown

Hanged Man → Death → Temperance: the underworld ordeal

The Star → The World: resurrection and restoration

The Goddess is the initiator, the one who leads you into the dark so you can return with a different voice — perfect for your work with trauma, nightmares, and the threshold between sleep and waking.

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4. Ways to Work With the Goddess in Tarot

• Invoke her through ritual spreads

Ask:

“What face of the Goddess walks with me now?”

“Where am I resisting her invitation?”

“What must be surrendered to enter the next cycle?”

• Use the lunar cycle

New Moon: Priestess

Full Moon: Empress / High Priestess

Waning: Moon / Death

Waxing: Strength / Star

• Integrate her into your art practice

Let the goddess archetypes influence your palette, symbolism, or the dreamscapes in your tarot deck.

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5. For Your Phantasmagoria Deck

Given your themes — nightmares, dreams, trauma alchemy, sleep thresholds, and gothic sensibility — your Goddess archetype may appear more like:

A dream-walker

A shadow midwife

A nocturnal muse

A liminal guide

A veil-lifting psychopomp

She might move between the Moon, High Priestess, and Death archetypes — not as separate cards, but as one presence slipping between forms.

Tarotgiving

Here are several ways you can weave tarot into Thanksgiving, whether for personal reflection, group rituals, or creative writing:

🌻 1. Thanksgiving Tarot Spread (Gratitude & Reflection)

A simple 5-card spread that works well before or after the meal:

1. The Harvest – What blessings am I reaping this year?

2. The Table – Who or what nourishes me most?

3. The Offering – What can I give in return?

4. The Empty Plate – What is missing or needs healing?

5. The Seed – What intention or hope am I planting for the season ahead?

This spread blends reflection with forward vision, like the turn from autumn to winter.

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🔥 2. Family or Friends Ritual Spread

If you’re sharing tarot with others, try a “Circle of Gratitude” reading:

Everyone pulls one card about something they’re grateful for or what they bring to the table (metaphorically and literally).

Discuss how the cards interconnect — what’s the story of your shared harvest?

This can open tender or funny conversations without turning too heavy.

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🕯️ 3. Ancestral Reflection

Thanksgiving also evokes lineage and remembrance.

Use tarot to connect with ancestral wisdom:

Pull a card asking, “What wisdom from my ancestors wants to guide me now?”

Or, “What family pattern am I ready to release?”

This is especially potent if you light a candle for loved ones who’ve passed.

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🍂 4. Gratitude Journal or Tarot Art Practice

Draw one card each day of Thanksgiving week:

Write or paint about what that card represents that you’re thankful for.

For example, The Empress might represent abundance, nurturing, or creative fertility; The Six of Cups could represent cherished memories.

You could even create a small “Tarot of Gratitude” sketchbook — a personal seasonal ritual.

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🦃 5. The “Harvest Cross” Spread (for deeper reflection)

A four-directional spread:

North (Earth): What I’ve manifested or built

South (Fire): What passions have fueled me

East (Air): What ideas or lessons I’ve gained

West (Water): What emotions I’m ready to release

Center card: The Heart of Gratitude — what truly sustains me

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🌙 6. Shadow & Celebration

Because family gatherings can stir emotions, tarot can help you ground and prepare:

Pull a Shadow Card before the event: “What might trigger me today, and how can I stay centered?”

Then a Light Card: “What energy can I embody to stay open and joyful?”

The Tarot Almanac

Review of The Tarot Almanac: A Seasonal Guide to Divining with Your Cards by Bess Matassa:

In her latest work, Bess Matassa invites the reader into an immersive year-long journey with the tarot: The Tarot Almanac is less a quick reference and more a companion, a calendar-inflected guide that ties the rhythms of the year (seasons, astrological signs) to the 78 cards of the tarot. 

From the outset, this book positions itself as a “path to uncovering each card’s meaning as it relates to the astrological energies of the calendar months.” 

This book offers rich material for deep reflection as well as practical engagement. I’ll walk through how the book is structured, what it offers (and where it may leave you wanting), and how it might serve (or challenge) a reader like you.

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Structure & Content

How the book is organised:

An author’s note and introduction set the tone—light-hearted but grounded in ritual, intuition, and the idea of bonding with the deck. 

A “How to Use This Book” section explains the monthly practice: you’ll work with one (or more) Major Arcana cards, some Minor Arcana cards, and court cards, spread through the month. 

Twelve monthly chapters (January through December), each aligned with a zodiac sign, its element, keywords, and a set of cards to work with. Within each monthly section you find:

An introduction to the month and its astrological/seasonal flavour.

Work with a selected Major Arcana card; commentary, prompts, perhaps ritual ideas.

Work with Minor Arcana and court cards: reflection, prompts.

A card spread (layout) for the month.

“Taroscopes” (tarot-style horoscopes?) for the month. 

At the back: a “Card-by-Card Mini Reference” (cheat-sheet meanings), index, notes. 

What it offers:

The monthly structure gives rhythm and ritual: for a reader committed to a year’s practice, this offers a way to live with your deck, rather than simply consult it.

The blending of tarot + astrology + seasonal magic resonates with the cycles of change: from artist’s death and rebirth metaphors, this approach supports transformation and deepening.

Writing prompts, reflection questions, rituals: for someone who journals, reads, creates (like you) this can become a rich companion to your art practice and personal/spiritual development.

Encourages using your deck in a transactional way: e.g., “meet your deck” each month, work slowly. This mirrors the slow ritual of art-making, of turning the internal kaleidoscope of the self.

What it demands:

Time & commitment: To truly reap the benefits you’ll want to root yourself in a monthly practise. If you pick it up only sporadically, you’ll get some value but less of the cumulative depth.

Some prior fluency: Reviewers note that parts—especially in meditation/visualisation sections—assume you know how to do this. 

A willingness to journal and reflect: It’s not just “read and glean”; it’s “work with and live through” the book.

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My Reflections (Through Your Lens)

From your perspective—waking early, living within disciplined schedules, seeking to blend art, spirituality, ritual, and introspection—this book has particular resonance.

Morning ritual potential: Since you wake at 4:45 am, the quiet hours before dawn are a fertile space for ritual. Use the monthly spread in The Tarot Almanac as part of a pre-work quiet practice: draw a card, reflect, journal. The season-based structure supports an evolving practise rather than a static one.

Artistic and symbolic resonance: The monthly pairs of card + astrological sign + seasonal theme invite you to see your artistic self through repeating cycles of change, death, rebirth—ideal for your blog about tarot, art, and the creative struggle. For example: when the sun moves into Scorpio (let’s say late October), you might work with the card selected for that month and reflect on transformation, underworld, emergence.

Duration matches your schedule: The book’s structure supports living with the deck rather than rushing. It dovetails nicely with your non-work hours (after 5:30 PM) when you aim to make art, read, do yoga. You could designate part of that time to reflect with the book.

Balance of structure & freedom: Although the book gives monthly “chapters”, you can pick up at any month, or cycle through at whatever pace suits you. Reviewers say you don’t have to start in January. 

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Strengths & Weaknesses

Strengths

Rich, layered: Combines tarot, astrology, season-craft in a unified vision.

Reflective prompts deepen your relationship with the deck and yourself.

Good as a tool for long-term engagement rather than one-off readings.

Visually and conceptually forgiving: You can work at your own pace, revisit chapters.

Weaknesses

If you’re looking for quick reference or pure card-meanings without ritual, it may feel heavy or slower than you want.

Some instructions are light or rely on the reader’s prior experience—e.g., “meditate on this card” without step-by-step. Review-er comments suggest this. 

Because it spans 12 months in one framework, there’s less space for in-depth deep dive of every card individually; the focus is on rhythm and season, not exhaustive card-dictionary.

If you already have many tarot journals and seasonal practices, some of the prompts may feel familiar; the book’s novelty is in its structure more than radically new card-meaning interpretations.

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How to Use It (and How I Have Thus Far)

Given my life rhythms and creative focus, here are some suggestions:

Choose your starting point: If you pick this up mid-year (or at any phase), begin with the current month’s chapter (rather than waiting for January).

Morning or evening ritual: For example, draw the Major Arcana card for the month, reflect in your journal before yoga or art time.

Layer it into your writing/blog practice: Use the monthly prompts and write an article or blog post reflecting on your tarot-theme for the month. 

Art practice integration: Each month’s card and seasonal theme could become a mini-art project. E.g., create a piece of visual art, or a mixed-media piece, responding to the court cards for the month.

Yoga & ritual synergy: Use the seasonal/astrological energy as a theme for your yoga practice: e.g., when the sign is Fire, bring more dynamic flow; when Earth, grounding; tie this with the card energy.

Journal the transformation: If you’re working on improving your relationship (screen time reduction, quality time) and living a structured schedule, you can use the book’s prompts to reflect on relationship dynamics: what card is showing up when you choose connection vs screen? What seasonal motif is relevant?

Review & revisit: Every few months, flip back to previous chapters and reflect on what changed. The almanac structure supports cyclical revisiting rather than linear completion.

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Verdict

The Tarot Almanac by Bess Matassa is a beautiful, ritual-rich tool for anyone who wants to deepen their tarot practice in alignment with the seasons and astrology. For me—an artist-spirit with a schedule, journaling practice, and an interest in deeper symbolism—it offers fertile ground.

If I were to rate it in my terms: I’d give it 4 out of 5 stars. It’s engaging, thoughtfully structured, and creatively inspiring—but its value depends on your willingness to work with it rather than simply read it. Since you already live with discipline and rhythm, you’re well-placed to derive its full benefits.

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Final Thoughts:

This almanac is a companion of the hearth, urging us to sit quietly with our decks as the sun moves through the zodiac and our inner world churns like autumn leaves. Each month the cards unfold like a ritual door — we are invited not simply to read, but to become the reading: to move through sign and season, to witness our own archeology of self. In a year of steady mornings and retreating twilight, I found this book a quiet altar on which to set my scrapped canvases, my half-written poems, my longing for connection beyond the screen. It is not for the casual glance, but for the steady gaze.

Sword Suit

The Suit of Swords in the Phantasmagoria

If the Wands are the flames that summon the vision
and the Cups are the waters that reflect it,
then the Swords are the light that slices through the smoke —
the cutting awareness that reveals the structure of illusion itself.

In the original 18th–19th century phantasmagoria shows, the audience sat in darkness, surrounded by shadows and specters projected by hidden lanterns. When the operator turned up the light, the ghosts dissolved — and the crowd saw only a room of mirrors, pulleys, and glass plates.
That instant of revelation — the collapse of illusion into understanding — is the domain of the Swords.

The Swords correspond to air, the element of thought, clarity, and communication.
In your deck’s world, they are the intellect’s blade: the mind questioning what is real, cutting through fantasy, yet still ensnared in its own reflections.
They show the tension between truth and perception, knowledge and delusion, illumination and destruction.

Every Sword card becomes a moment of awakening:
a flash of painful insight, the shattering of denial, or the liberation of understanding.
Just as light exposes the dust in the air, thought reveals both the brilliance and fragility of our beliefs.

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Phantasmagoria Symbolism

• Element: Air → illumination, clarity, communication, fragility

• Theme: Thought as revelation; the pursuit of truth amid illusion

• Light Symbolism: The lantern beam that cuts through darkness, revealing the mechanism behind the ghost

• Shadow Aspect: Overthinking, harsh truth, analysis that kills wonder, intellect as isolation

• Aesthetic Motif: Glass, reflection, transparency — the fragile beauty of understanding before it breaks

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In the Phantasmagoria Tarot, the Swords might appear as instruments of revelation:
blades made of light, crystalline edges, silhouettes half-seen through smoke.
They belong to that eerie moment between knowing and unknowing —
when the ghost fades, and you must decide whether the truth you’ve uncovered is more terrifying than the illusion itself.

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⚔️ 

Samhain

Samhain and the Tarot

Samhain (pronounced “sow-in”) marks the turning of the year’s wheel toward darkness — the final harvest and the ancient Celtic new year. Traditionally celebrated from October 31st to November 1st, it is the midpoint between autumn and winter, when the veil between the living and the dead grows thin.

It is the season of endings and renewal, when the outer world dies back so the inner world may awaken. This makes Samhain one of the most powerful times to work with the tarot, because both share the same essence — revelation through darkness, transformation through reflection.

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The Energy of Samhain in Tarot

Samhain calls forth the archetypes of Death, The Moon, and The High Priestess — cards of liminality, intuition, and change. It is a time when the subconscious stirs, inviting you to listen rather than act.

Key themes include:

• Release: Letting go of what has run its course (Ten of Swords, Death, Eight of Cups).
• Descent: Moving inward to understand shadow and hidden wisdom (The Hermit, The Moon).
• Communication with Spirit: Ancestors, intuition, and dreams (High Priestess, Judgement, Cups suit).
• Transformation: The composting of old energy into new potential (Tower, Death, Ace of Pentacles).

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How to Work with Tarot During Samhain

This is not a time for forecasting or goal-setting. It’s a time for listening — for letting the cards speak from the underworld of your own psyche.

You might:

• Perform a Shadow Spread — asking, What must I release? What seeks rebirth within me?
• Draw a Spirit Card — a message from an ancestor, guide, or unseen influence.
• Pull a Year’s End Reading — to close one creative or emotional cycle before the next begins.
• Use your deck for meditative journaling, noting recurring symbols that echo through dreams or memory.

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Samhain and The Phantasmagoria

In your deck’s world, Samhain is the Night of the Curtain — when the theatre of the Dreamer is silent, yet every shadow waits to perform. The stage is empty, but the air hums with memory. It is both funeral and genesis — a rehearsal for rebirth.

The Dreamer walks among their own creations, each spirit and illusion whispering of unfinished stories. Samhain reminds them (and you) that art, like spirit, never dies — it only changes form.

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Here’s a Samhain Tarot Spread designed specifically for The Phantasmagoria Tarot: A Painter’s Guide to Illusion and Revelation.

It’s built as both a spiritual and artistic ritual — a way to commune with your shadows, your ancestors, and the ghosts of unfinished work.

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The Samhain Spread — “The Night of the Curtain”

Theme:

When the lights dim and the curtain falls, what remains illuminated within you?

This spread invites you to enter the liminal theatre of your soul — to listen, to release, and to gather inspiration from the unseen.

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Preparation

Read or sketch by candlelight or soft silver light.

Choose a dark cloth or paint-stained paper as your reading surface.

Keep a bowl of water (reflection), a small stone (grounding), and something that belonged to an ancestor or past self (memory).

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The Spread (6 Cards)

1. The Opening Scene — What Fades from the Stage

What story or identity must I let go of?

The mask that no longer fits, the performance that has ended.

2. The Shadow Player — What Haunts Me Still

What unhealed energy or memory lingers in the wings?

The ghost that seeks acknowledgment, not banishment.

3. The Mirror Veil — What the Spirit World Reflects Back

What message do my ancestors or guides wish to share?

A symbolic image from beyond the curtain — subtle, intuitive, dreamlike.

4. The Lantern of the Hermit — My Hidden Gift

What wisdom is reborn from the ashes of what I’ve lost?

A truth, talent, or creative spark that endures through endings.

5. The Silent Audience — What I Must Listen For

What truth speaks only when I am still?

The whisper beneath noise, the breath between brushstrokes.

6. The Final Bow — What Emerges Transformed

What new form will my energy take in the coming season?

The soul’s encore — art, clarity, or quiet peace.

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Optional Artistic Ritual

After the reading, paint or draw one symbol from each card that resonated most — six fragments of transformation.

Layer them on a single page or canvas, as if building a dream collage of your own psyche.

When complete, sign it in silver or white ink — your name as a seal between this world and the next.