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

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.

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!