I'm tumbling in space.

Hold on tight.

Here to chat tarot? Join us as we chat about the suit of Cups over on this week’s discussion thread.

My scooter is the exact shade of a seafoam green marker in a Crayola 10-pack. It sounds like a lawnmower and can break a few of the speed limits around St. Louis. I always wear my helmet, and I end each ride with a few new freckles: gnats that never saw me coming, their fragile bodies reduced to a smattering of black dots across my cheeks.

Some of my best and truest thinking is done on my scooter.

I’ve come to understand that I see things most clearly when I am forced to minimize, to cut out the noise that surrounds me. Though riding a moped requires a keen sense of awareness (especially in the city, where drivers careen across lanes without so much as a turn signal), the other distractions of driving are removed.

There’s no AC to adjust on a scooter. No playlist to scroll through. No GPS to interrupt my reverie while directing me to my destination. When I’m on my scooter, underneath the hummingbird hum of the engine and rush of the wind, I can hear myself more clearly than ever.

So I talk to her.

As I ride, I imagine that she is sitting behind me, her arms wrapped around my waist and her mouth close to my ear. She tells me how strange it feels to know that the Earth is at the exact place it was 365 days ago and how, despite this sameness, everything feels different.

She points out the potholes on the road that have stretched and cracked and grown, expanded by rain and ice. She shows me the places I pass by that I will soon leave for good: the blazing fluorescent of the donut shop. The arching spire of the church. The beckoning finger of the secret path up to the grocery store I buy my vegetables from each week.

Some nights, she and I ride together without a destination in mind. I hold a soft conversation with myself, whispering secrets into the wind like gossips caught in a tornado. As I reach my top speed, the hovering insects become blurred stars in hyperdrive, and I am a meteor, a rocket ship, an abandoned flag once anchored on the moon, now hurtling through space. The amber glow of my headlight cuts a narrow path forward, one that offers the barest outline of what’s ahead.

As darkness holds me, I keep one hand on the present and reach the other towards the past. I let myself go back. Back to the rolling fields of my childhood home, the ones I jumped over with the yellow dirt bike my father originally bought for my brother. I remember the tickle in my stomach when cresting the tiny hills back home, the same sensation I feel now as I bump over freshly-poured pavement.

I go back to the soft grass in front of my house, where I turned cartwheels and made stars in the air with my body. To the times when I slipped and landed on my back, gasping as the wind rushed out of my lungs. I breathe deeply in the present, remembering what it felt like in the moments when I could not, and inhale the scent of the rain-washed roads around me.

Now, I ride next to myself as I am and as I was. I match her speed and release one of my hands from its tight grip around the handlebars. I feel the wind slicing through the spaces between my fingers as I reach for the girl I was.

I seek, for a moment, to touch my hand to hers, to remember what it felt like to be a child tumbling through space without a direction in mind. To remember what it is like to not care so much about where I will land next.

To enjoy the feeling of weightlessness that comes in the moments when your head is below your heart. When the only thing propelling you forward is a tiny engine and a whole lot of trust.

For a moment, our fingers intertwine. We are a directionless duo, faces to the wind and hearts ablaze with possibility.

Soon, the moment passes. She begins to fade, to lose speed. Our grip loosens. I ride on alone.

Later, after I have shed my helmet and hidden my scooter away from prying eyes, I lie in my bed and take my own hand. I braid my fingers together, hold tight, and breathe.

No matter where I tumble to next, I know that this is guaranteed.

In moments where you feel directionless, what grounds you? I’d love to hear how you navigate times when you’re tumbling through space.

✨The Me of Now

Enjoying: the mindfulness class I’m teaching during summer school. Armed with my Yogi Beans manual, I’ve been hanging out with rising 6th and 7th graders each morning and doing yoga. We’ve made mindfulness jars (designed to help you appreciate the beauty of a still and busy mind), designed mandalas, learned a ton of poses and played some really fun movement games. Next week, we’ll be making malas!

Avoiding: my tarot deck. I’m gonna be real—I am really glad that tarot is not my full time job or anything because I definitely go through phases with it. I don’t know if I’m avoiding it per se, but I haven’t felt motivated to pick up my deck and read for myself or others. This is reflected in the amount of bookings I’ve had lately as well…I’m a firm believer in the universe matching the energy we’re putting out. So I’m taking this as a time to sit with why I pull cards. Stay tuned for my thoughts.

Craving: a really, really good watermelon. We had a little garden growing up, and we grew watermelons. One of my core memories is sitting on the steps leading up to my house (according to my memory, they were light blue, and the paint was always peeling) and eating watermelon. We always sprinkled salt on our watermelon and spit out the seeds (no watermelon babies for me). I struggle to find good ones here in the city, but here’s my short criteria: yellow field spot, not too heavy for its size, and a brown stem. Any other tips for me?

Reading: this essay by Lauren over at We’re All Friends Here, where she talks about continuing to listen to her intuition even after a rejection. I love her writing and her honesty. If you haven’t already subscribed, scoot on over to her page and enjoy her lush explorations of life and spirituality.

Joining: Substack Grow, which is sort of like a boot camp for writers who want to grow their publications. I got the acceptance email earlier this week, and I have already connected with a few folks who are writing about similar topics (yay, more tarot besties!) and am excited to see what new approaches I can take to this newsletter. I’m cautiously optimistic about continuing to expand my reach, but I am also like, “who’s paying for writing in THIS ECONOMY?” What do you think? Is it a fool’s errand to expect people to pay for words? Should I make like Cracker Jack and include a prize? A temporary tattoo of a tarot card sounds nice.

I know that leaving a comment isn’t exactly user friendly on Substack (hey, Substack gods, can you make that easier?), but I love hearing from folks! Send me an email if that’s easier or…

Back on Tuesday with (maybe!) an essay on a Crucian treasure that has a lot of symbolic meaning to me.