Catana Tully in Rome, 1969

Twenty five years ago, I had a powerful reading that launched my search of self and threw me into therapy. A few days ago, by sheer providence and on Facebook (!) I stumbled upon the tarot reader of long ago.

We agreed to meet in the early evening on a late summer day. She lived on the second floor of a two-story house on a picturesque, tree-lined avenue like so many in New England. I looked at the clear evening sky and enjoyed the setting sun’s rays. There was a mild breeze, already on the cool side, and as I walked up the stairs of her front yard, an odd feeling overcame me, which intensified as I approached the house. It occurred to me with alarm that this could well be a reading with an outcome I didn’t want to know.

It was dark in the wood-paneled hall, the stairs creaked as I stepped on them, and I had to catch my breath. A middle-aged woman in a long dark green wool dress answered the door. She had graying hair, gray eyes, and a slight friendly smile came over her lips as she gestured for me to come in. Lit candles cast a pallid light on her sparsely furnished, tidy living room that smelled of incense. I accepted a cup of peppermint tea and homemade ginger cookies. Four or five cats moved about like spirits before exiting the room.

The table was covered with a multicolored velvet cloth; on it, a thick white candle waited to be lit for the reading. The walls were graced with etchings of cities and the general décor was somewhat Spartan, not necessarily what I would have imagined a ‘witch’s’ home to be.

I shuffled the cards, a small deck with clear simple images, and cut the deck three times, as instructed. Her expression was serious as she proceeded to arrange the cards in a pattern. The first card, the central card that dictates the purpose of the reading, was the King of Pentacles, inverted. Within the context of the other cards it made for a most disturbing reading.

She began slowly. “Although everything seems fine in your world, you are uncomfortable in it. You need to solve a mystery,” her eyes focused on the central card, a mask with a triangle in the middle of the forehead in which a star shone. “What I can tell you, is that something was done to you when you were very little. Something quite awful, tantamount to… and please consider the term as one used too freely to address many areas, but tantamount to child abuse.” She didn’t look at me and wasn’t waiting for my reaction.

“That’s absolutely impossible,” I protested vehemently. “I was a child who was always loved and respected. In fact, I know of no other instance where parents doted so completely, and in every way on their child. This direction is absolutely absurd!”

“Granted,” she said, folding her hands, “the term ‘child abuse’ is strong, but it doesn’t necessarily mean physical abuse.” Finally looking up at me, she added, “It can also be of a psychological nature.”

I had gone for the reading to learn the nature of my increasingly annoying bouts of… for lack of a better word, insecurities. I suspected psychological issues could be involved. But this! The expression in her eyes and the calm that surrounded her put me at ease, however, and although I felt vulnerable, I was comfortable. She must have sensed that, for she continued.

Pointing to the center card, she added, “The King of Pentacles, in the position it has in this reading, stands for your social and cultural environment. When the card appears like this, it means that you need to re-evaluate your concept of the world. There is something askew in the perception you have of yourself in the world.”

“Look,” I laughed, “I’m a practical, logical person. I see things clearly… maybe I’m a bit too self-controlled…”

“That’s all well and good, of course, but your perception of yourself, your knowledge of who you are at this point in your life is only part of what you need to know. You need to see yourself in your totality.” The soothing sound of her voice and her calm, observant eyes touched me deeply. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I managed an uneasy smile as she returned to the cards.

“Who influenced your perceptions? What was there that made you repress half of what you stand for?” Again a great sense of discomfort arose in me: she could only he talking about my German parents. I needed air. I needed to make time. She was on her way to having me discuss core issues. My story in itself wasn’t difficult to tell, so I inhaled deeply and shared it with her.

I could feel her listening to every word as I shared with her that I sailed under a false flag, as I liked to refer to it. She was silent as she assimilated the information with the message in the cards. Looking up at me, almost inaudibly, I heard her say, “You will probably need to go back to memories of your biological parents. What do you remember of them? What role did your adoptive parents play? It’s in asking and answering questions like these that you will learn your whole story.” Looking up at me, “Several women surround you; there seems to be much confusion around them and who they represent in your life,” and being very sure, added, “all three are, or were a mother to you. You need to clear mother issues. Who was the German mother?”