Tarot. Supposedly a means of looking behind the “veil” and divining the future. Personally, I couldn’t tell you whether a deck of 78 pieces of colourful paper has any more ability to divine the future than a mass-produced hunk of liquid-fill plastic you demand answers from by shaking violently. As for the opinion that tarot cards are a product of the occult and something demonic designed to corrupt the innocent souls of God’s children…  

Well.  

Once I did a tarot reading for a friend using my Cat Tarot deck, which is exactly what it sounds like: ancient archetypes reimagined as judgmental housecats. She wanted to know what the universe had in store for her. The universe, speaking through a handful of  watercolour kittens, informed her that every single one of her problems was her own fault. 

I laughed as the crabby grey cat of Justice, biting the hand that pets it, demanded accountability for the results of her decisions, while the chonky Siamese holding court over seven bowls of kibble admonished her for daydreaming instead of taking the initiative.  

If tarot is demonic, then my demon is a passive-aggressive feline who wants my friend to stop texting her ex and maybe clean her room.  

And honestly? That reading affirmed my decision to dabble in tarot. Not because I believed I was communing with spirits—unless the spirits are shaped like disgruntled housecats—but because the whole experience proved that tarot, in my life, functions less like a portal to the underworld and more like a cardboard-based accountability coach with whiskers. 

Of course, not everyone shares my interpretation of hand-shuffled enlightenment. On a rare night I was released from work before every shop on Rideau Street shut its doors, I stopped at the Indigo and poked around the tarot shelves for a new addition to my collection. I was admiring the Cats Rule the Earth deck (which I thought would complement my Cat deck nicely), when a voice from behind me goes, “Hey girl!”  

I turned to find a gaggle of girls peering at me from the other side of a display table. Their apparent leader lifted a Bible like she was unveiling a prize on The Price Is Right and said, “Hey girl, you should step away from that. It’s demonic. Better to pick up one of these!”  

And from the very depths of my agnostic soul, an unstoppable impulse rose up. Before I could process my own words, I heard myself say:  

“Thanks! Satan and I wish you girls a lovely evening!”  

And then I left.  

I didn’t bolt like an embarrassed anime girl, of course not, but I did achieve a brisk, spiritually fortified power-walk—because nothing puts pep in your step quite like accidentally wishing a group of strangers a pleasant evening on behalf of Satan. I spent the next few minutes wandering down Rideau Street wondering whether or not I should feel proud of myself for delivering the most polite blasphemy Ottawa has ever heard.  

But the thing is, encounters like that don’t actually change how I see tarot. If  anything, they just highlight the gap between what people think tarot is and what it actually does for me. 

Tarot is a form of meditation. A way to slow my brain down long enough to hear myself think without paying two hundred dollars an hour to some dismissive, nosy stranger whose therapeutic approach is better suited to preschoolers. Instead, I surround myself with decks themed after Edgar Allan Poe and Disney villains and let them help me sift through my thoughts. 

The cards don’t predict my future or summon spirits; they just give my brain  something symbolic to chew on while I untangle whatever fresh chaos I’ve stirred up inside myself. They’re props for introspection, little mirrors I can shuffle, a structured excuse to sit quietly and ask, “Okay, but what am I doing with my life?” And if that looks “demonic” to someone across a bookstore aisle, that’s fine. I’ve been judged by worse than a teenager wielding a discount Bible like a holy coupon. 

I suppose my path to inner peace is paved with watercolour cats, gothic ravens, and Ursula the Sea Witch reminding me to hydrate, set boundaries, and power forward towards my goals. If that’s the road to hell, at least it’s beautifully illustrated and comes with excellent commentary.