eight of keys

A. saw the future on Monday and told me what was to come. It started with tarot cards on a scrap of fabric she had laid on a sunny patch of grass. Not tarot, but some lefty re-invention of the tarot set, with images of hipsters and single speeds instead of sword mages and skeletons. We were out in Dolores Park. She got a sunburn. I got a vision.

She said, Ask the cards a question. I thought a minute about this.

B. and M. were sitting in the grass next to me, B. lackadaisically eating potato chips, M. doing I'm not sure what. We sat on a slope and looked down toward Dolores Street. I asked B. why so many people were out in the park on a Monday morning. Don't they have work? I said. I guess we didn't either. 

My question was: Will I find the direction I am looking for by the end of the year?

Context for the question. After a blistering, bewildering, exhausting May and June, I spent July doing a monthlong no-fruit diet. A detox plan. Finding my center, spotting the ground. No drinking, or only cosmetic drinking, meaning where you hold a glass as you would a purse, for the colorful visual effect, but you wouldn't drink out of it any more than you would drink out of a purse. Sleeping, reading, writing, and strengthening my back. Therapy. Acupuncture. Spending time with old friends, Mom, Dad, Grandma, and a border collie mutt. Focusing on work and finding a home. And most importantly, no fruit!

(Let me gaze upon your euphemism.)

I finished the detox plan, accomplished a bit of what I wanted to accomplish, and then ended July unexpectedly filled to the brim with love: I spent last weekend at queer Asian summer camp, the NQAPIA Leadership Summit in San Jose.

The recurring theme there was making room for ourselves where there was not room before. Over a hundred activists squeezed into an LGBT community center, sharing skills and stories and an unarticulated feeling that we were working together toward something we all wanted. Someone taped a handwritten sign reading "Gender Neutral Bathroom" over the triangle-skirted Bathroom Woman placard. Five homos sardined in a bed, with a sixth lying like a plank across the top. We hustled tables and chairs to fit everyone at lunch. I tapped undiscovered resources in my heart during a heavy conversation with a beloved old friend. We aspired for more than the .02% of total nonprofit funding we get now.

Making room. Finding a spot in a schedule. Rearranging the furniture. Clearing space for a new demographic: gay, Asian, hot as fuck, ready to fight.

So.

As the weekend wound down, I wanted a hint of what was to come. A. recommended tarot.

The cards I chose were the six of keys, the eight of keys, and the ten of bones. A. read to me from a small black book the explanations for each.  Keys symbolize readiness for forward movement, transitions, opportunities, and next steps. I use my fourteen keys to open doors, start cars, and unlock bikes. Bones are currency are wealth: energy, health, emotional strength, money. Ten bones is the most wealth one can acquire. 
 

 (In traditional tarot this card is call the Ten of Pentacles. In activist tarot this card is called the Pen of Tentacles.)

I understood these cards to be answering not only the question I posed to them in Dolores Park, but also the questions I'd been mulling over since the start of the conference.

For example, on Saturday morning, E. had screened her trailer for the Asian Pride Project. It was about fifteen minutes of interviews with LGBTQ API folks and their family members, a mix of bright faces acknowledging triumphs and challenges. K. talked with a smile about her Japanese father lauching into a lecture on historical Japanese homosexual practices throughout the millenia when she came out to him; R. said he didn't have the vocabulary in Chinese to describe what he was experiencing to his parents. Many of us watching in the cafeteria of that modest suburban community center suppressed sniffles when E.'s grandmother said E. wouldn't meet her grandmother's expectations of a husband and family, and then burst into loud, relieved laughter when E.'s grandmother said that dating girls was okay as long as they were educated and financially stable. Same status expectations from an Asian granny even for a partner of a different gender!

I looked around the room while the video was screening.  I had closed the blinds so we could see the projector but the brilliant California daytime spilled through and illuminated the room anyway. Solid, tireless B.G. adjusted the PA speakers to minimize feedback. There was an asymmetrical haircut or two that I had grown so fond of in just a short time. An old friend from New York gave a new friend from San Francisco a massage. Half eaten pastries and banh mi scraps lay on paper plates on the tables. In one corner, the stylish young interns from one political advocacy group sat together, a little wide-eyed but eager to learn, roll up sleeves and help. Their teddy bearish boss, who asked such intelligent questions about decisionmaking at our board meeting on Thursday. The silver-haired elder who loved the sound of her own voice, the sharp Chicagoan who reminded us that not all Asian folks had Asian parents, the important community leader who made me feel special when she showed a few minutes of Clintonesque personal interest in me a few years ago, when I was more wide-eyed myself. How I swoon for a bow tie and a checked shirt. What were we doing here? Why did we take off work to crowd into a cafeteria in San Jose? Where did we find the patience for frustrating, unfocused meetings? For the difficult labor of building something from nothing? What wellspring of good feelings made us grin at each other passing in the hallways? How do we bottle that spring for refreshment when the conference becomes a distant summer memory? How did we all know to take off our shoes when we entered each others' hotel rooms?!

These were the kinds of questions I wanted answered.

Monday after the conference, in Dolores Park, A. concluded her description of the ten of bones card by saying: "You will be getting used to the feeling of being full."

Or . . . something like that. I was too preoccupied with the prospects of my good fortune to hear the actual thing said. I loved to think about my metaphysical pockets crowded with keys and coins. Of the image of a hundred people unlocking bikes and riding into the starry night. This we call a movement. I practically applauded when A. finished her reading.

Let me find the takeaways for you:

Now is a good time to be alert and alive. The answer to all of my questions is yes.

(Get in your go-cart and go little sister, get in your go-cart and go

Get in your go-cart and go little sister, get in your go-cart and go

Get in your go-cart and go little sister, get in your go-cart and go

Get in your go-cart and go little sister, get in your go-cart and go)