My Tarot story

“Love at first sight. Hit me like a bolt of lightning,” is how the saga unfolds.

Flashback to 1982, when Internet was science fiction and smartphones were as elusive as a unicorn at a rodeo. Books on the arcane? Honey, those were as rare as seeing Madonna in mom jeans. Libraries? A labyrinth of vanilla genres, with nothing even whispering occult or astrology. If you wanted a pinch of the esoteric, you were on the waiting list, darling—the celestial VIP lounge of bibliophiles.

In those days, networking didn’t mean LinkedIn invites but underground societies. Makes you think of drug cartels, doesn’t it? No, no, it was way sexier: people ordering books on the hush-hush, titles as exotic as your late-night dreams. Coming all the way from Germany to Zagreb via Belgrade, taking a full lunar cycle sometimes. That’s right—a moon’s time to unlock cosmic secrets!

Now here’s where it gets sizzling. My Mama, a social sorceress, had the hook-up. Oh, did I mention I was just a little starlet, but already mingling with the mystics? Our living room was like Hogwarts, but more boho-chic. Think Reiki initiations, auras and chakras discussions—stuff that’s mainstream now but was the cool kids’ secret menu back then. The conversations were so elevated, even the ceiling was getting enlightened.

But wait, let’s not gloss over the zesty detail: kids at school thought I was a witch and even buried me in snow! Ah, their little minds couldn’t grasp the fabulousness of parallel universes or mind control. A neighbor even called our home “Witch Central.” Sarcastic much? Nah, maybe he was just jealous he wasn’t on the guest list!

The Chess Match of Awareness

We had THOSE books, honey, a smorgasbord of esoteric delight, all thanks to Mama’s scientific noggin. This woman wasn’t just an armchair astrologer; she was born with the Sun in Pisces and both her Ascendant and Moon lounging in Scorpio. So yeah, she was the real mystical deal.

You couldn’t pull a fast one on her; she was like a human lie detector with a sixth sense. Answer her phone call, and boom! It’s like she had your entire cosmic blueprint. Restaurants? Oh, our playground! We’d scan people at other tables like they were QR codes, reading their auras, guessing their professions, and decoding their vibes—full-on spiritual stalkers, and then we’d saunter over to see if we aced the spiritual quiz. At the beach? Pfft, sandcastles are for amateurs. Mama decided we were leveling up with telepathy practice.

She was that kind of badass, and I tip my astral hat to her. But it wasn’t all third-eye and no play; she wanted to back it up, you know? Put some empirical meat on those spiritual bones. Hence, our home looked like a Hogwarts library after an occult shopping spree—kudos to Mama!

Let’s talk about our library’s VIP section: psychology. Mama was head over heels for it. She’d say, “Doing psychology without astrology is like writing with a quill next to a typewriter.” Yeah, we’re talking pre-laptop era, darling. And she had a serious crush on Carl Jung, a love affair penned in the margins of dog-eared books.

So, drumroll, please… That’s how the universe dealt us the TAROOOOOOOOOT!

Five years old and already vibing on a higher frequency, I heard Mama animatedly gush about the “magical cards” that were soon to arrive.

“What are magical cards, Mama?” my little self piped up, thrilled to the moon and back.

Let me tell you, it was like waiting for a cosmic Christmas, and you better believe we tore into that package like it was sprinkled with fairy dust. So yeah, when I say “tarot,” it’s not just a deck of cards—it’s our family’s legacy wrapped in the veil of the cosmos.

Portals into dimensions

“Mama, what’s the deal with these cards?” I’d ask, all wide-eyed innocence and spritely curiosity. And she’d launch into her mesmerizing spiel like a TED Talker for the ethereal realms.

“Think of these as your personal life-hackers, sweetheart,” she’d say. “They’re a sneak preview of life’s coming attractions. Don’t like what you see? Cool, you get to direct your own plot twist. They’re your cosmic GPS, throwing you a ‘heads-up’ about cliffs or dead-ends. They illuminate the obscure, expose the concealed—basically, your metaphysical investigative journalists.”

Ah, Mama could talk, and when she got going, it was like being in the epicenter of a spiritual whirlwind. The residue of her words would marinate in your brain for days, tickling your thoughts about the magical worlds twirling around you. And oh, the tantalizing notion that you could decode life’s enigmas? That was her siren song, and I was lured in.

So, after 40 days—yeah, biblical scale, right?—of waiting (and nagging her with the eternal question, “When will the magic cards arrive?”), The Tarot and I finally had our meet-cute. The postman handed the package to Mama, and I snatched it like it was the last piece of chocolate in the universe. Cards unwrapped feverishly; now what? I felt the thrill, but it was laced with this awkward apprehension. “Uh, Mama, what do I do now?”

“Relax, darling. Think of them as your celestial squad,” she schooled me. “You concentrate on what’s bugging you or what you’re curious about. Shuffle those bad boys like you’re mixing the ingredients for a cosmic cocktail. When you feel the vibe, pull a card. Imagine a basket of mini-fairies. One pops up to spill the tea, specifically for your query. Chat her up, give her a nod of thanks, then pop her back into her fairy lair. And voila!”

See, Mama made it sound like Tarot was your round table of fairy godmothers, sages, and jesters, all wrapped in a deck of cards, ready to spill the divine deets. It’s like if Google, your BFF, and a mystical oracle had a baby—that’s Tarot for you.

Solutions to Everything: The Ultimate Cheat Sheet

So there I was, tiny me at the ripe age of five and a half—talk about an age where your biggest decision should be choosing between chocolate and strawberry ice cream, right? But, nah. I was staring down a life choice as monumental as whether to leap into the world of ABCs and 123s or keep my reign as the queen of sandbox empires.

Family council was, let’s say, diplomatically split. One faction chanting, “Go, get a head start, be the next Einstein!” and the other camp all, “Why rob the kid of a year of pure, unadulterated fun? Let her be the Da Vinci of mud pies!”

Oh, the duality of it! I was torn like a page from an old, poetic diary. Part of me wanted to dive into school, get myself a posse of fellow tiny humans. The other part of me? That side yearned for the unscripted adventures that didn’t include arithmetic. And the peanut gallery? Mama was Team School, and Papa, bless his heart, was Team Play Forever. Whom to please? Whom to trust? It’s like asking a kid to pick a favorite candy.

Enter stage right: The Tarot. That’s when I laid out my dilemma before the wise, inanimate council of cardboard mystics. With bated breath, I shuffled those cards like I was mixing the elements of fate itself. I felt this cozy safety net envelop me, like I was holding this petite, warm oracle-fairy between my palms—my very own Jiminy Cricket, y’know?

I pulled a card. Eager as a beaver, I pulled another. And ’cause I was feeling it, yanked one more. Then two more in rapid succession, completely ignoring Mama’s whole “less is more” spiel.

Why stop at just one serving when you’re feasting at the smorgasbord of life’s possibilities, am I right?

There it was—me, a kindergartener, using ancient wisdom to solve the dilemma that’s as old as childhood itself. So, darling, that’s how I did it—embraced Tarot as my go-to confidante, mixed with a dash of impulsive curiosity and a sprinkle of blissful ignorance.

You see, and you know

I pulled the first card and—BAM! It was like watching fireworks for the first time, you know? Vivid colors dancing across the card, the kind of shapes that seemed to morph into something new every blink. They’re more than ink and paper; they’re mini-universes vibrating at frequencies only I could hear. Mom was dead-on; these cards had a pulse, a voice, an ambiance. I wasn’t just seeing them; I was vibing with them.

So I flipped over the other four cards. ‘Cause why not? The jury had already given its verdict—school it was—but a little more eye candy never hurt. Each card was a seductive, kaleidoscopic work of art. I was so engrossed that time slipped away, much like the secret ingredients in a mystic potion.

By the time Papa waltzed in, I was practically meditating with my newfound talismans sprawled around me. “Whatcha got there?” he asked, eyes dancing with curiosity.

I shook like a can of soda ready to burst. “Papa, the cards told me school is my stage. Like, it’s gonna be a walk in the park, all laughs and easy A’s!”

And then Papa dropped some wisdom, like a beat in a rap battle. “Sweetheart, those cards may be your compass, but you’ve gotta walk the path. It’s like having a golden ticket to a lottery win, but if you don’t play, you ain’t getting the jackpot.”

And with that, he exited, stage left, leaving me to marinate in that fresh slice of reality pie.

So there it was: life lessons served on a platter of arcane artistry.

The obsession begins

Dad, back then, was like a shot of espresso in my hot cocoa fantasy—a bit jarring but necessary. He shattered my illusions just enough to sprinkle some reality dust. Fast forward to now, and I can’t help but tip my hat at him. Why? ‘Cause he gifted me the golden ticket of wisdom: prophecies are your possibilities, babe, but you’ve got the joystick. Willpower’s the currency, and the choices you make? They’re the spins on that cosmic slot machine.

So I became hooked, bewitched, entirely enamored with those mesmerizing cards. Mom tried to rain on my parade at first— “Don’t get obsessed!” she’d scold. But we struck a deal, a magical contract if you will: homework first, then Tarot, and all this on the hush-hush. Especially from Mr. Rationality—aka Dad.

Oh, but darling, I plunged into those cards like a diva into a pool of glitter. Tarot was my new curriculum, except it didn’t feel like drudgery. No, it was like inhaling oxygen infused with stardust. I studied those cards like a lover studies each freckle, each curve of their beloved. A contradiction, you say? A paradox? Oh, absolutely.

Here’s the catch: Mom despised the fortunetelling mojo of the cards. The very thing that made my little six-year-old heart do a samba. It’s a cosmic paradox, I know—this duality between Dad’s advice of “you forge your destiny” and my wanton desire to be a pocket-sized oracle. As a kid, you don’t just want to know the future; you want to own it, doll it up, and sell tickets to the premiere. You want to be the wizard who’s got the 411 on every cosmic hiccup, ready to flash the red light of caution.

And just like that, a pint-sized enchantress was born, hiding in plain sight. Like a sly fox dressed up for a masquerade, forever torn between prophecy and free will, and forever enchanted by it all.

First practice

So picture this: in your building lives this punk-goth queen with purple hair, right? Think MTV meets Hogwarts. You know the type—couldn’t care less about the world, decked in leather and fishnets, looking like a rebellious angel straight outta an 80s music video.

There you are, both of you fumbling for keys outside your building when you casually drop the hint about your “secret weapon”—your Tarot deck. Next thing you know, you’re in her room, the walls a tribute to Joy Division and teenage angst, trying to predict if the dude she’s crushing on might show up at Kset this Friday.

So there I am, laying out the cards for Mihaela, breaking mom’s cardinal rule of “don’t take the cards outside and don’t tell a soul.” But come on, this was like auditioning for the cool club. We’re just about to high-five because the cards forecasted some hot romance between her and Bojan when her older sister, Davorka, saunters in.

Fresh from work and tired, Davorka perks up when she sees the cards on the table. She asks for a reading, and oh boy, did I dive in. Shuffling, drawing, interpreting—Bam! Money. Not just chump change, but the “you’re the next contestant on the Price Is Right” kind of money. It looked like a windfall was coming her way in a couple of months, no strings attached.

Davorka just waves it off. Working the post office counter, she says, doesn’t exactly put her on the fast track to sudden wealth. She has no sugar daddy or a long-lost rich aunt, so the reading seemed far-fetched.

Gotta admit, her dismissal poured cold water on my psychic parade. But hey, I was a Tarot newbie, a fledgling fortune-teller. Maybe I got it wrong, or maybe the Universe had its fingers crossed.

We chit-chat a bit more before going our separate ways, each wrapped up in our own little destinies, as complex and unpredictable as a Shakespearean plot twist.

I got it right!!!

Life is bouncing between school and Tarot, like the pendulum on a cosmic clock—tick, tock, tick, tock. I’m hitting the books, dead set on never feeling that “doused with water” vibe again. Fast-forward three months.

I waltz through the door one day, and mom greets me with that “we need to talk” glare. My brain does a quick scan: grades, good; room, clean; Tarot cards, safely tucked in their box. What could have possibly ignited this firestorm?

“Sit down,” she says, ice lacing every syllable. Never a good sign.

I park my bewildered self on the couch, prepping for the worst. And that’s when she drops it: ground-floor neighbor Davorka came by, handing over this fat wad of cash. I mean, we’re talking vintage Tito-era dinars, those big red-and-blue bills. She had struck gold on the lottery—a lottery she never even plays. But she played it, she says, because of the vibes she caught from my Tarot reading.

Now, before you think it’s all coming up roses, here’s the kicker: As Mom utters the word “Tarot,” her voice hits that certain octave that sends shivers down your spine. I can’t even relish the fact that my reading was spot on. Mom’s gaze turns into a laser beam of disdain and irritation, like an irate dragon hovering above, and I shrink under her glare as if dodging molten lava and icy lightning bolts.

Yeah, I could practically hear the “I told you so” caught between her clenched teeth, wrapped in layers of parental fury and disbelief.

Prediction or creation?

You see, Mama had a bone to pick with fortune-telling. “Sure, kiddo, Tarot’s the bomb for psychological insights and decision-making, but using it to tell the future? That’s for the clueless souls who can’t handle their own life,” she’d say. Think of it as her remix of Lord Chesterton: “I don’t believe in a fate that falls on people no matter what they do, but I do believe in a fate that falls on them if they do nothing.” Preach, Mama, preach!

So, when her daughter—yours truly—starts laying cards and spilling futures all around the block WITH HER TAROT DECK, well, you can imagine the chaos that erupted. Mind you, this wasn’t just any deck; this was The Deck. The one that you invest a decade of your life in, wait for nearly two months to arrive from Germany, and treat like a home temple’s sacred relic.

But hey, all is fair in love, right? The Tarot and I were going steady, and I broke every rule of the house temple. Cha-ching! My first earnings from card-reading came alongside my first smackdown from the domestic dragon—two weeks without MTV and video rentals. A small price to pay for eternal wisdom and temporary rebellion, if you ask me. But Mama Dragon had a soft underbelly; my exemplary behavior earned me a one-week reprieve.

Inspiration above inspirations

So there it is, the epic Tarot and I became star-crossed lovers. While other hobbies came and went like fleeting summer flings—basketball for a year, judo for two months, dance for four, acting for five, painting for three, and choir singing for two whole months—Tarot stuck around like the fine wine that only gets better with age. Yep, we’re 40 years strong, and each moment still feels like our first electric touch. Oh, don’t we all wish our love lives were as resilient and effervescent?

The Tarot, you see, is the ultimate guru in teaching you that life is a series of first moments. Each card you draw, every bit of arcane wisdom or sassy sprite you encounter, is like meeting them for the first time. Sure, you think you know what The Fool or The Empress is gabbing about, but plot twist! The message might be enigmatic, urging you to dig deeper. The cards are merely the entrance, the VIP pass, but the real gig, darling, is the cosmic dance you discover when you gaze deeper into those mystical windows.

So yeah, every encounter with the Tarot is a ticket to the never-ending gala of your soul—where each revelation is the opening act for a headliner that promises to rock your world.

Constant vigilance

Sure, knowing the lingo—astrology, numerology, the whole metaphysical alphabet soup—gives you the cheat codes. But every rendezvous with Tarot is like meeting a new cake in a bakery window. Oh, you thought you knew the flavor? Honey, you have no idea. It might be chocolate today, but Aunt Universe might toss in an extra dollop of cosmic cocoa tomorrow just to keep you on your divine toes. 🍰

You see, Tarot isn’t just some deck of cards—it’s the pulsating, twirling, ever-spinning dance floor of life. Here’s a wordplay for ya: “Rota” is Latin for “to turn.” Rota. Tarot. Coincidence? I think not. It’s the cosmic Circle of Life, baby. And every shuffle is a twist in your soul’s tango with the Universe.

So go ahead, dance like no one’s watching. Each twirl with Tarot is both a grounding spin and a heavenly pirouette. It’s life’s sweet and savory reminder that the only thing that doesn’t change is change itself. Buckle up, stargazers and card-slingers, ’cause Tarot is your ticket to the ever-changing cosmic cabaret.