Musings

Allow me to share with you some of my ideas, beliefs, research findings, and just simple thoughts on the Tarot and related areas. In addition, please Click Here to read excerpts from my regular column The Common Reader.

Journey Inward:
Tarot Reading at Wainwright House

Memories in words rarely capture the essence of sensation. At best, they present a splendidly festooned body lying in state. A gorgeous seashell deprived of its secret, internal symphony. So then heed well this caveat as I describe the events of a few hours spent on a recent late spring afternoon.

Prior to my visit to Wainwright House, the place was unknown to me, save for its superlative reputation and several attractive photographs. The fact is I should have been aware of its existence since the estate’s purpose connects so closely to my own. And even though knowledge of it arrived through a circuitous path, once planted within my sphere, a persistent need to journey there grew steadily.

I am a Tarot reader. As such, I work with, at least outwardly, the simplest of tools—these being seventy eight cards adorned with evocative pictures. I employ them in an intimate and profound process. This might be described as an effort to release seekers’ inner-truths in hopes of their beneficial transformation.

Wainwright House is a place of spiritual exploration. Its location is the verdant county of Westchester, hidden within a quiet corner of Rye, New York. The great mansion is set amongst fine gardens slopping down to a small harbor that leads to the Long Island Sound. Recently, a spiral maze was cut into the extensive lawns, mirroring the inward sojourn undertaken by its many visitors. Built a little over three-quarters of a century ago, the impressive house and its outbuildings contain rooms in which to meet, meditate, and even dine; amongst these, a library and solarium are of especial appeal. A smaller homestead upon the property serves as lodging for those attending more lengthy retreats. Wainwright’s earliest supporters include some of the most respected figures of 20th-century American history, including one president. The learned figures that have offered and continue to bring enlightenment to its guests are among the most reputable spiritual specialists in the world. It seems only fitting how the grounds were once the site of a farm. Continuing in that tradition, a bounty of sustenance for the soul is ready for harvesting year-round.

My journey to Wainwright was a pleasant one as I traveled there with an artist of no small repute, a companion quite interested in Wainwright from more of an architectural and aesthetic perspective. He would be far from disappointed in what was found there. As we made our way though the impressive gates and along the graveled drive, the house came into view. The youngest son of the original landowners had designed it along the severely elegant lines of a chateau in memory of a particular French mansion he had once admired. At the time of our arrival, the sun was following its downward course over the tiled rooftops, through a quartet of chimneys, and toward the harbor’s edge. The golden light of the fiery orb glinted back in welcome from the tall windows as we approached.

Once through the open portal, we were greeted warmly and allowed to roam freely through the place. We did so gladly. The building’s many charming rooms were disposed in an orderly and well-tended state. After chatting amiably with several of Wainwright’s exceptional administrators, the artist and I separated—he to wander the property’s stunning waterfront, while I was ushered into the library.

If my artist companion had taken up palette and brush to devise the dream-place in which I was to perform my readings, this would most assuredly be it. High-ceiled and lined with bookshelves containing many intriguing volumes, the venerable room was embellished further by a fine-looking hearth and handsome Aubusson. Precisely as requested, a not overly-large table and two chairs had been arranged for my use in one snug corner. I opened each of the surrounding casement windows to allow in the gentle breezes scented sweetly by the house’s flowering greenery.

The library’s French doors led immediately onto the solarium. Through their panels, the gloaming’s burnished light set the room ablaze. I require very little in terms of accoutrements when I undertake my Tarot work—my trusty, well-worn cards, without question; a small candle nestled in a stained-glass holder, a treat; and a tiny bowl of seawater, a worthy indulgence. Fortified by these tokens of elemental forces in such a setting of inimitable enchantment, I found myself simultaneously infused with a profound placidity and an eagerness to encounter the first querent of the evening.

What was scheduled to be a scant two hours of Tarot exploration with several invited guests extended to nearly double that span. But indeed, I was happily unaware of this fact since the entire affair was a sheer delight on every level. Naturally, confidentiality prevents me from divulging the particulars of the readings of that night. But of the nine individual sessions I completed, each was marked by a consistent profundity quite unusual within the efforts of a single evening. In retrospect, I attribute this to the unique combination of the aforementioned components and the open willingness of all of the seekers to the experience at hand.

The term “psychopomp” derives from the Greek word meaning a soul guide—the most famous of these being Hermes in the mythology of that ancient culture. The term has been applied to a variety of figures in as many realms offering assistance through unknown and oftentimes treacherous regions. In all humbleness, I perceive my role as Tarot reader to be the very same. Nevertheless, I have no pretension of possessing the definitive roadmap for safe passage through every mystical terrain. Instead, I require my seekers to grasp along with me the lamp illuminating our mutual path. It is the shared discovery that leads to lasting transformation—in which while I may reveal several avenues of meaning, the one taken is chosen and must ultimately be traversed alone.

At evening’s end once all of the guests had departed, the old house was still once more. A momentary drama arose in locating my companion who had not been seen for several hours. Finally, he responded to the calling of his name across the gardens. The artist appeared from out of the darkness, claiming his discovery of what the Indian mystics call nirvana. He explained later his conveyance to such a state as being nothing more than a homely, wooden rocking or gliding chair stationed along the lower lawns. Upon this, he had positioned himself to watch the night as it descended upon the harbor. In a very painterly recounting, he went on to describe his observance of the small woodland animals and waterfowl that make their home on the property as they prepared for slumber, the soft rustling of the trees, and the tiny amber lights cast from distant boats. Rightfully so, my companion prized the solemnity he had found that evening as something of a rare treasure. I conferred without reservation.

I only hope the preceding account expresses, at least with some small accuracy, the true wonder of my time at Wainwright House. It will remain embedded jewel-like in the crown of memories that I am privileged to wear and continue fashioning as the result of my work with the cards. I am blessed.