The Spirited Life
The official website of Paul Quinn: author, teacher and intuitive consultant

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The following is a replay of a conversation I recently had with my friend Joe Plugger, who has a knack for asking all the right questions …

JOE: Hey, Paul!

PAUL: Hey, Joe!

JOE: You haven’t blogged for a while, my friend. What’s new?

PAUL: Let’s see … the hangnail’s gone. I saw Avatar in 3-D on Imax. And I’m teaching a Tarot class next month in Chicago.

JOE: A Tarot class? You mean, like, teaching people how to predict the future?

PAUL: Actually, I don’t focus much on prediction. My real passion is showing people how to use the cards as an intuitive tool to access their inner wisdom.

JOE: Inner wisdom about what?

PAUL: Themselves. Their relationships. Their day-to-day situations. Life.

JOE: And what’s, like, the point of knowing that?

PAUL: Well … a sense of clarity, and with it the freedom to make choices that make our lives work better.

JOE: That’s absolutely fascinating. Please, please – keep talking.

PAUL: The cards help us to see ourselves and events symbolically, as archetypes, and therefore more objectively. And that has a way of making our personal dramas feel much less overwhelming. With these insights we’re better able to calm the mind and heart, act with greater purpose, and enjoy a stronger sense of being spiritually guided.

JOE: Whew, that’s deep! All that from a pack of cards?

PAUL: Like I said, the cards are just a tool. But when used respectfully and creatively, the Tarot can indeed lead to powerful “aha’s” and offer life-changing perspectives.

JOE: You said “indeed”– are you British or something?

PAUL: No, but I’m a big tea drinker. And I wear a monocle.

JOE:  A great look for you. So, how do you teach people to read Tarot cards?

PAUL: Glad you asked! My class incorporates lecture, storytelling, meditation, movement, games, demonstrations, solo and partnered activities, journaling and more. It’s a total immersion that helps people absorb the Tarot intellectually, emotionally, physically and spiritually.

JOE: So, it’s more than a how-to.

PAUL: Definitely. It’s a soul classroom. An inspiration incubator.

JOE: I got one of those in my sunroom. So, when’s your class?

PAUL: It’s three consecutive Saturdays – March 13, 20 and 27 – from 9:30am to 4:30pm at Unity in Chicago, on the north side of the city.

JOE: Who’s it for?

PAUL: A wide range of people. Anybody who’s curious about the hidden wisdom in the cards and in themselves. That includes people who are new to the Tarot and those with more experience.

JOE: If I register for the class, will you give me a discount?

PAUL: If you register with a friend, you’ll both get $20 off the tuition.

JOE: OK, I’m in! Paul, I gotta go now and get myself a copy of your critically acclaimed book, Tarot for Life, already in its second printing!

PAUL: Thanks, Joe — you always say the right things!

I picked up my first Tarot deck in 1998. About two years after my initial gung-ho immersion in the cards, I did a reading asking whether it was time to “hang out my shingle” and invest in a Tarot website, flyers, ads, business cards—the works. In response, the cards didn’t just say “no,” they screamed it. And their stubbornness matched my own. Each week I’d do another reading on the subject, hoping to get the green light I felt I deserved.

With each shrill negation from the cards I felt more disheartened, and more than a little betrayed. How could something I felt so passionately about be so coldly discouraged, so consistently? Eventually, I gave up on the question, grudgingly resolved to keep a low profile with my Tarot activities for (big sigh) Lord knows how long.

I know today that the cards’ irritating denials had my best interest at heart. Though my enthusiasm for the Tarot was genuine, deep down I did not truly believe that I could make a place for spiritual consultation in my life. I quietly feared the stigma of being associated with “occult” things, and felt that making money from Tarot would strip it of all sacredness. Had I then pushed forward with my entrepreneurial zeal while ignoring my own unresolved objections, I would have set myself up for almost certain financial self-sabotage. (Hello, Tower!)

Sometimes, the “no’s” we get from the Tarot (aka “Life”) are simply telling us the timing isn’t right; we have more work to do, inner or outer; the elements needed to succeed are not all in place. At such times it serves us to be more strategic, taking small steps toward our goals, rather than insisting on “all or nothing” or “now or never.”

How about yourself? When has a “Do it now!” desire turned into “Glad I waited”?

© 2009, Paul Quinn. All material on this site is copyrighted. If you’d like to use anything, please let me know, and include my name and a link back to this site. Thank you.

When my godson, Rob, was 4 years old, he was fascinated with bones. His mother had introduced him to a local shop that sold fossils and other geological artifacts, and Rob got hooked. He acquired a few tiny bird skulls, a few small shark teeth, and various delicate pieces of cartilage from god knows what. I contributed to his growing collection with a real prize from my father’s art studio – a steer skull homage to Georgia O’Keeffe.

It was during Rob’s brief bone-fascination period that his mother, Nancy, received news of the death of her friend, Carlos. Sensitive to his mother’s loss, Rob quietly asked her what would become of Carlos’ body. “He’ll be buried, honey,” Nancy replied. Rob considered this for a moment, and then asked tentatively, hopefully, “Could I have his jaw?”

Here was a young child’s innocent curiosity in the structure of things, an adoration of the natural world, and not — I’m happy to assure you — the macabre obsessions of a future serial killer.

Rob left for college last week. His major? Science, of course.

Of all the Court cards in the Tarot, I’ve always felt particular affinity with the King of Cups: tactful, sensitive to people’s needs and trustworthy; the King stays calm and centered when the waves get rough.

Let me tell you right now that my inner King of Cups abandoned me outright a few weeks ago, at a time in which I needed him most. Here follows my tale. (Warning: reading this may induce severe cringing and wincing. Proceed at your own risk.)

For several days the internet connection in my home office had been touch-and-go, so I arranged for a technician to come out and fix it at his earliest availability. He was to come in two days, a Thursday. Meanwhile, a business colleague of mine invited me to join him on a conference call, which happened to be scheduled for the same time as the technician appointment. I agreed to join the call with the caveat that I might need to leave the call briefly to meet with the technician.

Two days later I was on the conference call. My colleague introduced me and others from his creative team to the clients, a pleasant group from a company in Canada. About thirty minutes into the call my technician rang the buzzer. I walked with the cordless phone to the door. “Be right with you,” I whispered, covering the mouthpiece, as I took his coat and led him to my computer. I took the phone into the kitchen and soon announced to everyone that I was hanging up but would try to rejoin the call as soon as possible.

The technician fixed my desktop computer problem in thirty minutes, and wanted to check the kitchen laptop to make sure it, too, was getting a strong internet signal. As we walked into the kitchen he startled me with an apology.

“Listen, I’m really sorry about interfering with your business call,” he said. “I used to work at home and I know how intrusive it can be have to stop what you’re doing to deal with repairmen and contractors.”

Simply shrugging and telling him “no problem” would have been sufficient. But I was touched by his conscientiousness, and felt moved to minimize the inconvenience. “This was not a call I wanted to be on anyway,” I offered grandly with just the right hint of confidentiality. “In fact, I’m glad you got me off of it.” I hadn’t meant a word of it, but the technician’s humble nod told me he found my faux confession reassuring. We began discussing the laptop.

About two minutes later the cordless phone made a sound. A terrible, ominous one. The continuous beeping sound that lets you know a call has just ended and that you need to hang up the phone.

My hand shot up to my forehead. My mouth, wide as my eyes, whispered in  slow motion, “OHHH SHHHHIT!”

My heart thumping like a jackhammer, I desperately emailed three words to my colleague: “Was I audible???”

His one word response:

“Yup.”

The technician looked at me as he would a man ascending the gallows. I gamely chuckled a fatalistic “oh, well,” paid his bill, and saw him out the door. For the next several minutes I paced around the house, reliving the awful moment of discovery, releasing foul words with each new wave of mortification. That the team on the phone had to contend with our background conversation would have been disruptive and embarrassing enough; that I, a person who puts a premium on decorum and graciousness in business relationships, a self-identified King of Cups, had insulted the good people on the call (to needlessly pacify a technician!) was too much to bear.

I called my colleague and apologized. “When we hang up I’m going to walk into Lake Michigan,” I said with grave resolve, “and I’m going to keep walking until I get to Michigan or die, whichever comes first.”

His response surprised me. “I heard what you said, but I really don’t think the client did.”

I survived the day on that hope alone.

The next day I had lunch at an Asian restaurant with my friend Tom, who never lost his expression of dread as I rehashed the details of my phone disaster. The meal concluded with fortune cookies. I showed my fortune to Tom so he would know I wasn’t making it up: “Be tactful; what goes around comes around.”

Yup.

(This blog entry originally appeared for a few days several months ago, and then disappeared in a server mishap, so I’ve re-posted it for those who asked about it.)

A few months ago I was asked to do a Tarot reading for a man (I’ll call him Ray) serving time in a federal penitentiary for a gun violation. A few weeks before he was scheduled for release, a cellmate had lunged at him with a knife. The violent struggle  ended when Ray wound up killing the man. Ray was found guilty of murder, received a long sentence, and now spends his days in solitary confinement. I have never seen or spoken to Ray but I held his highest good in mind as I shuffled my Tarot cards and did a reading in my office, which, at 9x 10, is 4 feet larger than Ray’s cell.

There were no surprises in the cards that turned up. They depicted the frustration endemic to incarceration, the sense of missed opportunities, the yearning to be delivered from present circumstances. While the majority of the ten cards showed the obvious, two offered hope.

The card at the top of the spread, a position I call Higher Self Advice, was the Knight of Wands, reversed. The risk-taking and bravado symbolized by the Knight of Wands gives life an edge, spurring us to flirt with danger and push the rules—qualities useful for an entrepreneur, for example, but disastrous for a gang member, which Ray had been and for which he now suffered the consequences. The fact of the card’s reversal pointed to the need for him to develop the opposite of these shadow impulses, namely a cool head and the discipline to think before rushing into action— not an easy path to follow in a cellblock, but a path to karmic betterment just the same.

In the Outcome position of the layout was the Hanged Man, which I assured Ray (in my letter to him) was not an allusion to capital punishment! At face value the Hanged Man, shown suspended by a rope from one leg, is about waiting and restriction—the very definition of prison life. Yet the Hanged Man’s head is encircled in a halo, and his expression is serene. I wrote to Ray that this aspect of the card showed him evolving toward a sense of calm acceptance amidst his circumstances, a feeling of peace within the restriction.

A few weeks later I received a letter from Ray thanking me for the reading yet saying nothing about its impact. And yet, what could he have said? “Thanks, I’ll do that?” or “Got it–I’ll try to be more accepting?” Life gives us messages all the time, and in many different ways. It’s not always easy to hear them; acting on them, if we feel there is value in doing so, is something we can only do in our own way and time.

© Contents of this site copyright 2009. No portion may be copied or reproduced without the express written permission of Paul Quinn.

There’s a wonderful secondhand bookstore in my neighborhood that I’ve browsed and shopped for at least seven years. The frequency of my visits qualifies me as a Regular Customer. Yet every time I walk in, the proprietors regard me as if they (A) have never seen me before and (B) merely tolerate my presence. The greetings, which I initiate, are met with a darting of the eyes and a hasty, barely audible “hi.” Having consistently observed them treat other customers this way, I view it as their quirky little pathology and don’t take it personally.

But it bothers me enough to write about it.

My favorite local greeting card shop, a funky, cheerful place, is run by people who—no matter how many times you come in—will greet you with indifference or wariness, and sometimes a withering combination of each. I’ve never considered myself a suspicious-looking person. In fact, some have commented that I look like a grown-up Opie of Mayberry.  And still I get the once-over.

(Note: As a Caucasian, I realize that I am able to write about this casually with a sense of bemusement; for black and brown skinned people, being treated as objects of an establishment’s distrust is an insult of far greater magnitude, occurring for many on a distressingly daily basis. My issues pale in comparison.)

My friend Bob shares my disappointment in the state of merchant hospitality. He recently told me about a camera store he had patronized for over a decade in which the owner never bothered to learn his name or acknowledge him as a familiar face. Deciding that it was no longer okay to feel invisible and unappreciated, Bob eventually took his business elsewhere, a move he admits was overdue.

Bob and I have expressed our mutual bewilderment at how any business owner could fail to understand the importance of hospitality. Why do so many seem unable to express in words or attitudes, “Thanks for coming in! Glad that you chose our business and not our competitors’! I’d like to you to feel good about spending your money here. You are the reason we’re here at all, and it’s my pleasure to help you enjoy the experience so you’ll tell others about it.”

If you’re snickering at the preceding paragraph, perhaps it’s because you too have come to expect indifference.  This is why experiences of genuine hospitality stand out. Whenever I visit my sister in Eugene, Oregon, I’m struck by the consistent friendliness of the people in service roles. Eye contact, greetings, and smiles appear to be the norm. After a sixteen-year-old grocery bagger engaged me in light conversation one morning, I exclaimed to my sister, “Talking teenagers? You do live in a magical place!”

I doubt the bagger’s hospitality is something he picked up in a customer service seminar. The kid just gets it. He likes people, finds them worthy of respect. He’s comfortable in his own skin, unafraid of human interaction.  He may even feel a personal investment in the store, and care about its success.

In Tarot terms, the bagger embodies the essence of THE LOVERS —not the romantic, sexual aspect of the archetype, but the part that informs our ability to focus on people other than ourselves, to connect with our fellow human beings through a core sense of commonality, relatedness, and goodwill.

I’m not saying that hospitable people can’t be found outside of Eugene, Oregon (there’s a postal clerk in my neighborhood who makes Disney theme park characters look inattentive). Nor do I propose that introverted shopkeepers be denied their business licenses. I’m just asking for a little more of their notice, a little engagement. I want merchants to act as if giving them my business makes a difference. If THE LOVERS offers the gift of recognition and appreciation, wouldn’t it be nice to find more of them behind cash registers?

In stories of angelic visitations and interventions, heavenly emissaries appear in many forms.  At their most spectacular, angels make their presence known as shimmering, radiant light, leaving awestruck beholders forever transformed.  Operating at subtler levels, angels have shown up in human form to provide critical interventions for people in peril, only to quite literally disappear upon completion of their divine task.

“My” angel took the latter form.

I was 21 years old, reclining in the examination chair of the family dentist, whom I’ll call “Dr. S.” I should tell you that I never liked Dr. S.; as a young child I would gag during dental exams, and he would give me tight slaps across my cheek, not sharp enough to be heard in the waiting room outside the sliding doors, but hard enough to make me cry. “Stop it,” he’d say in a menacing tone, his face close to mine. The motherly hygienist, Mary, was never present during these exams, and I felt too ashamed to tell my own mother about Dr. S’s tactics. Many years later he would lose his license after it was discovered he had fondled several female patients.

“You’ll need a root canal,” Dr. S. informed me as he poked my tender molar. No longer covered by my family’s dental plan, it dawned on me that I would have to pay for the dental work myself. And then a brighter thought: I could choose my own dentist – someone I actually liked. As if he had heard me and wanted to leave me with something to remember him, Dr. S. suddenly dug into my tooth. I cried out like a wounded animal, my neck and back arcing off the chair, heels digging into the vinyl foot rest, tears streaming down my face. I had never experienced such agony, though it lasted but a few merciful seconds.

For my troubles, the dental assistant slipped me a new toothbrush and dental floss. As I left the chair (voluntarily this time), the memory of the terrible pain and the fear of its return left me trembling. Yet an even deeper nerve was struck, an existential horror at the fact that such pain was even possible. Physical life, it suddenly occurred to my young, invincible self, could include sensations that had the potential to be unbearable. I left the examination room feeling shaken, vulnerable, and in great need of comfort.

As I made my way to the exit, self-conscious about the still-streaming tears in my eyes, I noticed that a guy in the waiting room was watching me.  He was roughly the same age as myself, with brown hair and a slight frame. To say he was “smiling” at me does not begin to describe what was actually transmitted. Something about this young man’s smile beamed palpable waves of peace and reassurance into me that instantly washed away my fear. I felt total love, compassion, and encouragement  from this person, and a feeling of safety and calm so soft I felt like I was floating. I knew I was going to be okay.

And all this transpired in my ten or twelve steps from the examination room to the exit door.

I paused in the parking lot, wanting to go back and try to express my gratitude for the man’s gift of spontaneous healing. I feared, though, that I would be unable to adequately express my appreciation and humility, especially for something so seemingly simple as a smile.

On the other hand, the feeling of grace was so extraordinary that I had to allow for the possibility that he might not even be there—or anywhere in physical form. Angels work fast, and they don’t stick around for thank-you’s.

Whether my angel was human or a Winged One in human form now seems beautifully irrelevant. The work of angels and humans is not so different. Bestowing love is an act of the Divine, no matter the vessel.

Have you had encounters with angels? Write me about it — I’d love to hear from you.

“…an essential connectedness and unity underlie all the levels of reality.”
-  John Stewart Bell, physicist

A dozen years ago I was strolling the busy French Quarter in New Orleans when I noticed the slow approach of a small, mule-driven flower cart. The man seated on the cart kept it close to the sidewalk, making it easier for passersby to stop and select from his buckets of gladiolas, daffodils, and irises. Yet, as colorful as the flowers were, my attention drifted to the mule.

A feeling of appreciation suddenly came upon me not only for this particular animal, but for every beast of burden that has toiled nobly, patiently for man since the invention of the harness.  I found myself hoping the mule was well treated, even loved, as she hauled the flower cart without sign of complaint in the hot midday sun. As the cart came nearer I began to flow good thoughts toward this humble animal.

“Thank you for your service. I wish you a contented life. You are loved.”

Just as the mule and I were about to pass each other along that bustling walkway, me silently beaming blessings, she dipped her head in my direction and gently brushed my forearm with her muzzle.

I am not trying to pass myself off as Saint Francis in this anecdote. Or Dr. Doolittle. Nor do I claim any full-time, Tarzan-like rapport with the animal kingdom. There were actually several factors conspiring together that enabled this meaningful man-mule moment.

Being on vacation, I was especially relaxed and present, pleasurably taking in the French Quarter’s lush courtyards, out-of-the-past facades, and strolling Dixieland bands.  I walked with a sense of discovery, no agendas or expectations (and, in case you’re wondering, no alcohol!). In that receptive state, my heart and eyes open, I had caught the essence of the mule and sent out a current of feeling for her well-being, which, to my utter joy, she acknowledged.

Message sent, message received. It’s that simple.

And that wondrous.

Albert Einstein wrote, “Our task [is to widen] our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.” In the Tarot, we see this idea depicted almost literally in the traditional image of the World card. A woman representing expanded, unified consciousness floats joyously in the center of a sphere surrounded by animal and human figures. The card underscores the mystical truth that as creative expressions of the divine Source we are each connected to everyone and every thing. And the feeling that so effortlessly arises from this awareness is love.

© Contents of this site copyright 2009. No portion may be copied or reproduced without the express written permission of Paul Quinn.

I recently flew to Denver for a conference. Arriving late afternoon on a gray day, I rolled my suitcase to the airport’s ground transportation area and was dismayed to learn that taxis into the city were nearly $70. Hoping to make the trip more economical, I decided to ride in a van. Considering all the passengers climbing into it, I realized the trip would involve numerous stops and quite likely add considerable time to my trip to the hotel. Still, I reasoned to myself, the van was $30 cheaper.

The driver stowed my luggage and I slid into the second row, taking a seat at the window.

Though the van was already packed with passengers, departure was delayed; it appeared the driver was hoping to recruit just one more fare. As we waited, I felt increasingly agitated. The cloudiness of the day hung heavily, and I had the sense of being trapped – not in a claustrophobic way, but that I had put myself in a situation that now seemed unnecessarily unpleasant and restrictive, just to save $30 I could well afford. If I valued my time and well-being, it occurred to me, I wouldn’t be sitting in this van.

“Excuse me,” I muttered, shimmying past several passenger knees, and hopped out the door a free man. The driver reluctantly returned my suitcase, and I headed back to the taxi stand. Despite the additional wait ahead of me, I felt great relief at having opted for more expedient transport.

I had walked only a few steps when I heard, “PAUL!”

Two friends of mine, Brian and Janice Marie, who had flown in from New York for the same conference, were waving me to join them in a cab at the front of the taxi queue. I said a silent prayer of thanks for the guidance that had propelled me from the van, and enjoyed a direct and delightful ride to the hotel.

When I saw the first proposed cover design for my forthcoming book, Tarot for Life: Reading the Cards for Everyday Guidance and Growth, I did not like what I saw. It was far too flat and conservative. A stately font and somber colors betrayed the vitality promised in the title. Even the vibrant Sun card, though it appeared prominently, couldn’t compensate for the overall blah vibe of the design.

Fortunately, the publisher agreed, and the cover designer went back to the drawing board.

For the revised cover, I provided the designer a list of some of my favorite cards as well as those I preferred not to see (The Devil and Death somehow didn’t seem inviting enough), but it was her job to decide which cards would appear where.

I instantly liked the new cover. I appreciated its inclusion of numerous cards, fun fonts, and engaging colors. Here was something people could enjoy looking at, perhaps even getting them curious enough to buy the book!

One detail on the cover, however, bothered me a little. At the bottom left, the Magician and Two of Swords appear next to my name. I had no problem with the Magician: who wouldn’t want to have one’s moniker alongside the archetype of intention, mastery, and meaningful change? But the neighboring card, one traditionally signifying indecision and inaction, seemed poised to cancel out the magic. A potential spoilsport.

For a few days I contemplated asking the designer to replace the Two of Swords with another, more empowering card. The ineffable High Priestess perhaps. Or the noble Chariot. Something that would look more majestic next to my name. Something that would make my ego hook its thumbs in its suspenders and rock proudly on its heels.

But, in the true spirit of the Tarot, I decided to “let the cards fall where they may.” And, like the Peanuts gang deciding that Charlie Brown’s tree wasn’t so bad, it occurred to me that there was something wonderfully right (for me) in the pairing of the Magician and Two of Swords. I am blessed to enjoy a Magician-like “anything is possible” strand in my DNA, which has enabled me to create many good things in my life.

But there have also been times when I have overdone the “doer” role. I now choose to see the Two of Swords not as a killjoy contradiction to the Magician, but as a symbol of the value of “just sitting with” an idea, allowing time to reflect on its character and weigh its options before applying will and skill to make it happen. The Magician and Lady of Crossed Swords, in any sequence, could make an effective team: employ single-mindedness/embrace paradox; weigh the consequences/take action.

I also like the color balance of the two cards, which was all the designer had in mind when she placed them there, never imagining the author would attempt to read so much into it!