I bought my Tarot deck when I was 23. I tore open the shiny black box with the cellophane window (ominously and enticingly displaying the Death card, no less). I upended my new deck onto my dining room table. Of course, I sped right past the introduction in the accompanying, “Reading the Tarot” manual. I thought to myself "How hard could this be?" Seriously! And, I flipped through the pages straight to the chapter titled, “Meanings.” Yay! Now we are cooking with gas! I shuffled the cards. Threw a Celtic Cross spread (go big or go home!). Finally, I was going to have the answer to why my mother-in-law despised me so. Here it was! Only, well, there it decidedly wasn’t. What I had before me may as well have been a commentary on flavored cream cheeses. So I did what any true reader of the oracle would do in a...
