I never wanted to be a healer. Tarot reader? God, the concept made me cringe. I was a writer. A teacher. Respectable, enviable careers that offered plenty of freedom.
Strangers would approach and say, “You have a gift. You’re special. You’re an old soul. You’re a healer.” I heard it so much that it deeply irritated me. I didn’t even know what “healer” meant. It was either creepy New Agers or 700 Club preachers who made people leap from wheelchairs. If it was meditators who looked like they woke from a bad nap, forget it. Psychics charged ridiculous amounts, so I lumped them into scammers who took the vulnerable for a ride. I wouldn’t be anything like them. I was spiritual, yes. Woo? No.
But my Higher Self, God/dess or sheer frustration at not finding what I sought (a job that would fulfill my spirit) dropped all kinds of clues. It was my choice to notice or discard them. I was constantly called an “old soul” and a “leader” since childhood. I had visions and premonitions. I could sense a room before entering and the people within. As the years progressed and I said goodbye to my family’s religion, the Tarot began to appear: on bookshelves, coffeetables and nuns handing me decks. And if I said, No no no, I’m certain that the clues would continue to arrive throughout my life. I was reluctant, yes — but as I continued to explore, my curiosity outweighed the fear.