I am having one of those weeks.
Within the past seven days, I had to cancel a concert, I lost my live-in cat care for next week while I'm at Ashokan, and I turned down a future engagement because I was already committed on the date, only to find that the gig I agreed to was moved to a date I can't do, and the one I turned down has already gone to another artist. What else? Let's see. The bluetooth headset for my phone has learned how to shut itself off, and does so blithely, but only on the business calls (and don't tell me it's an inanimate object, because I have news for you: there's no such thing!). A dear friend I'd hoped to see when he came over from England is not coming after all. A play in which I was cast has been postponed. People I urgently need answers from are not responding to my calls, while my mom is annoyed because I don't call her often enough. Little lightnings everywhere.
And tumblings down. None of these things are big. but they are all coming at once. Ouch! It makes me think of the tarot Tower card.
For me, tarot cards are wonderful tools for focused meditation. The cards are works of art that I can lay out on my kitchen table now and then (unlike La Grande Jatte or Michelangelo's Moses), and the archetypal images speak to my dreaming mind.
The card above shows all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and they are hammering on the tower. Blam! Crack! Blow, winds, blow! Kapow! The squiggly symbol on the left side of the tower, just above the falling guy, is my birthsign, Capricorn.
In this simpler card below, the Tower is called La Maison Dieu, the House of God. When things are flowing very smoothly, I feel God's presence, and all places are God's house. Then I stub my toe, sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively, and I am kicked to the curb. I feel as if I am pelted so hard, with so many little (and round!) problems, that they've knocked me right out of the tower. Clunk! and… well, there I was, and here I am.
One other thing I noticed in this particular card: the tower has three windows. Third century martyr, St. Barbara, was told by her father to watch over the building of a bath house as he was traveling. In his plan, there were two windows; in her cosmology there had to be three, for the Holy Trinity. So, she altered the design, and added the third window. When her father returned, he was so outraged that he drew his sword and attempted to kill her on the spot. Last October, I was privileged to be involved in the world premiere of Holy Women, a cantata by composer Robert Sirota and librettist Rev. Victoria Sirota Robert. St. Barbara's aria, gloriously and madly sung by Abby Fischer, still rings in my mind's ear. Rumor has it that there is to be another performance, this time in New York City. I will post the date as soon as I know more.
And in the meantime, mind the gap.