As promised, here's the short story inspired by the king of pentacles, that steadfast and grounded archetype who has been making frequent appearances in my tarot readings lately.
In Sunday’s Weekly Draw, I gave you a story prompt involving a seasoned writer mentoring a struggling novice. The image of a wise old mentor, a figure of stability and experience, felt intrinsically linked to the king of pentacles energy. So, let’s dive into this tale of wisdom, craft and the enduring power of words.
Jasper was a writer, or at least, he was trying to be. His apartment was a testament to his aspirations: bookshelves crammed with classics and contemporaries, a sleek, minimalist desk, and a worn-out armchair that had witnessed more writer’s block than any piece of furniture should have to endure. Right now, it was witnessing a particularly stubborn case. The cursor blinked mockingly on his empty document, a digital taunt in the face of his creative paralysis.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. Jasper remembered a peculiar old bookshop he’d passed several times on his way home from work. It was a place where time seemed to slow down, a sanctuary of leather-bound volumes and the faint scent of old paper. Maybe, just maybe, there was a solution hidden between its dusty shelves.
The shop was even more enchanting on the inside. A labyrinth of wooden bookshelves stretched to the ceiling, and the only sound was the soft turning of pages. At the counter stood a woman with a face etched with stories, her eyes holding the wisdom of ages. Her hair was a mix of silver and black, and her skin bore the map of a life well-lived. She was tall and lean, with a presence that commanded respect. Jasper felt an immediate connection to her, as if they were old friends meeting after a long separation.
Behind the counter, a large, ornate frame held a single tarot card: The high priestess. Her enigmatic smile seemed to gaze directly at Jasper, promising secrets and revelations.
"You look like a writer," the shop owner said, her voice a low, resonant hum.
Jasper was startled. "How did you know?"
The woman chuckled, a sound like wind chimes in a summer breeze. "It's a gift. Or a curse, depending on the day."
Jasper laughed nervously. "More like a curse right now."
The woman nodded sympathetically. “Ah, writer’s block. A formidable foe, is it not?”
Jasper groaned. “You have no idea.”
The woman, whose name tag read simply ‘Awen’, gestured toward a worn armchair by the window. “Let’s talk about it. And perhaps, a little divination might shed some light on the matter.”
Jasper hesitated, but something about Awen’s aura was compelling. Magnetic, even. He sank into the armchair, feeling a strange sense of calm wash over him. Awen pulled out a worn tarot deck and began to shuffle the cards with deft fingers.
“Now, young writer,” Awen began, her voice low and soothing, “tell me about your story.”
As Jasper spoke, Awen listened intently, her eyes never leaving the cards. When he finished, she laid out three cards in a simple yet profound spread. The first, the fool, stood upright, its wide-eyed innocence mirroring Jasper's own uncertainty. The second, the magician, upright as well, suggested a spark of creativity and control within him. The final card, the empress, was reversed, hinting at a blockage in inspiration and abundance. Awen studied the cards, her brow furrowed in concentration. A long silence followed, broken only by the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner.
Finally, Awen looked up. "Your story is like a garden," she began, her voice still very low and soothing. "You have the potential for great things, a fertile mind and a strong will. But your garden is overgrown with weeds. Something is hindering your growth, a block that’s preventing your story from blossoming. You must clear the path before you can plant new seeds.”
“Weeds?” Jasper asked, confused.
Awen smiled. “Fear, doubt and impatience. They are your garden’s worst enemies.”
Jasper nodded, taking in her words and trying to understand.
"The empress reversed suggests a fear of abundance," Awen continued. "Perhaps you are afraid of the success and healing your story might bring, or you doubt your ability to create something truly meaningful."
Jasper was taken aback. He hadn't considered such a possibility.
"Both are common fears among artists," Awen reassured him. "But every garden needs tending. With patience and care, even the most barren land can bloom."
Jasper felt a weight lift from his shoulders. The fear of inadequacy he hadn't realized he harbored began to dissolve. Awen's words were like a gentle rain, nourishing the parched soil of his mind.
"So, how do I tend this garden?" he asked, a flicker of hope igniting within him.
Awen smiled, her eyes twinkling with ancient wisdom. "With diligence and faith. Write every day, even if it's just a single sentence. Explore your garden, discover its hidden corners and don't be afraid to experiment. And keep in mind that seeds need time to grow."
Jasper nodded, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. He left the bookshop with a lighter heart and a small, leather-bound notebook tucked into his pocket. It was a gift from Awen, a place to cultivate his words. “Write in it every day,” she said again. “Even if it’s just one sentence. Let your thoughts flow freely, without judgment.”
He began writing in his new notebook that very evening, the words flowing more freely than they had in weeks. It was messy, raw and often nonsensical. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before when sitting down to write. His only way of describing it was “pure magic”.
Days turned into weeks, and Jasper found himself returning to the bookshop regularly. Awen became a confidante, her wisdom a steady beacon in the stormy seas of creativity. With her guidance, he began to chip away at the writer's block, one word at a time.
"Writing is like gardening," she'd say, sipping tea from a mismatched mug. "You have to tend to it daily, even when it feels like nothing is growing. Trust the process, and the harvest will come."
The garden within him was slowly coming to life.
One afternoon, as Jasper was sitting at his favorite table in the corner bookshop — a table Awen set up just for him — pouring over a particularly stubborn paragraph, Awen approached him. "You seem stuck, my friend," she observed.
Jasper nodded, feeling a familiar wave of frustration.
"Let's try a different approach," Awen suggested. "Close your eyes and imagine your story as a world. What does it look like? Smell like? Sound like?"
Jasper closed his eyes, and a vivid image formed in his mind. A sprawling city, with towering buildings that reached toward the sky and hidden alleyways teeming with life. The air was filled with the sounds of laughter, music and the distant rumble of traffic.
"Good," Awen said, her voice soft. "Now, imagine yourself as a tourist in this world. What do you see? What do you hear? What do you feel?"
Jasper opened his eyes, a surge of excitement coursing through him. The world he had created was alive, vibrant and full of possibilities.
As weeks turned into months, the garden within Jasper began to flourish. Characters emerged from the shadows of his mind, each with their own unique voice and story. Plots unfurled like intricate tapestries, filled with twists and turns that surprised even him. The once-blank pages of his notebooks were now filled with a world of his own creation.
With each new chapter, Jasper felt a growing confidence. The fear that had once paralyzed him was replaced by a sense of exhilaration. He spent countless hours lost in his world, forgetting about the outside world and the pressures of everyday life.
One evening just before closing, as Jasper was engrossed in his writing, Awen walked over to him with a knowing smile. "I sense a shift," she said, her voice filled with quiet pride. "Your garden is blooming beautifully."
Jasper looked up, his heart filled with gratitude. "It's all because of you," he replied. "You gave me the tools and the courage to start."
Awen shook her head. "The tools were always within you. I merely helped you find them."
As Jasper continued to write, he realized that the story he was crafting was not just about the characters on the page, but about himself. It was a journey of self-discovery, a testament to the power of human resilience and the infinite possibilities of the imagination.
The manuscript was finally complete. It was a tangible manifestation of countless hours of labor, doubt and triumph. As he held the finished product in his hands, Jasper felt a surge of disbelief mixed with profound satisfaction. He had done it. He had created a world, breathed life into characters and woven a story that resonated with a depth he hadn't known possible.
He returned to the bookshop, a mixture of excitement and trepidation in his heart. Awen greeted him with a knowing smile, her eyes already holding a hint of the pride she would soon express.
"I sense a new chapter beginning," she said, her voice filled with warmth.
Jasper handed her the manuscript, his hands trembling slightly. "I finished it," he managed to say.
Awen took the manuscript, her fingers lingering on the cover. "I look forward to getting lost in your world," she said, her voice filled with anticipation.
Days later, Awen returned the manuscript, her eyes shining with approval. "You have created something extraordinary, my friend," she said, her voice filled with reverence. "Your garden has blossomed into a magnificent forest, teeming with life and wonder."
Jasper was overwhelmed with gratitude. Awen had been more than just a mentor; she had been a catalyst, igniting the spark of creativity within him. As he left the bookshop that day, he intuitively knew this was just the beginning. The world was waiting for his story, and he was ready to share it.
Years later, Jasper's books filled shelves around the world. His name was synonymous with storytelling, his words weaving intricate tapestries of human experience. Yet, he often found himself drawn back to the old bookshop. The bell above the door still tinkled with the same familiar chime, and the bookshelves held the same promise of adventure.
Awen was there, too, her hair now a crown of pure silver, but her eyes still held the same glint of wisdom. They shared tea and laughter, the comfortable rhythm of their friendship unchanged by the passage of time.
"You know," Awen said one afternoon, as they watched the rain splatter against the window, "every story is a seed. You planted yours, nurtured it and watched it bloom into something beautiful."
Jasper smiled. "I couldn't have done it without a little help from a wise old gardener."
Awen chuckled. "Nonsense. You had the seed within you all along. I simply provided the right soil."
As they sat in companionable silence, Jasper realized the greatest story he would ever write was the one unfolding in his own life, a story of growth, friendship and the enduring power of the written word.
The End
Pure magic. Thank you for the inspiration and lovely reminder. It is all within me. ❤️