The Once and Future Wife
The Empress is the ultimate working mom in Tarot. She represents fertility, hearth and home, ruling strength, diplomacy and forgiveness. She leads with love and old fashioned common sense.
About four years ago I met my hypnotherapist for the first time. This woman is amazing - she has helped me overcome stress, embrace forgiveness of myself and others, lose weight, and more. When she first walked in the door of the wellness center where I met her, I had the impression of a smart and savvy business women - she looked like she could lead a sales meeting at a top advertising agency. I somehow imagined she would walk in looking like a gypsy, so I wondered how this sophisticated woman ever became a hypnotherapist.
We got to talking, and she mentioned she also does past life regression. Intrigued, I immediately made an appointment with her. I've been fascinated with the idea that I might have been here before, or somewhere before, and it is difficult for me to imagine going to heaven when I die, rather than on to some other plane of existence. I mean, what would I do in heaven? Play a harp and sing blissfully all day? I'd be bored out of my skull. No disrespect intended, of course.
So I made the appointment and she briefed me on what to expect. She said that for first timers it was a good idea to bring a very simple question to the appointment. She suggested I simply go through the next few days and notice something about me that seems different from other people - something simple that is not a big deal, but that strikes me as unusual.
Two weeks later I was sitting in her office. There was soft music playing, a light smell of lavender and eucalyptus essential oils, and some lovely bamboo and other greenery. She had a clipboard and asked me some basic get-to-know-you questions, reminded me what to expect from the experience, and then asked me for my question.
This was easy for me - I had often wondered why cut gemstones always looked vulgar to me. Diamonds, emeralds, what have you - they all seemed like cheap glass. I preferred stone or wood jewelry, or pearls. The less it looked like glass, the better. I always wondered why all the women around me loved sparkly gems, whereas I saw them with distaste.
She lowered the lights, and guided me through a simple breathing exercise, using Tinksa bells. (I am sure I have spelled that wrong!) I felt myself relax completely in the chair, and just let her voice guide me.
Ancient Singapore, before it was known as Singapore, the rainy season.
I was standing in a large room, and before me on the floor was a very large gift-wrapped box. I pulled open the bow and lifted the lid. Inside was some beautiful silk material in deep reds and golds. I pulled it out and put it on. It draped me from neck to toe, with long sleeves. There were stiff, curved things on the shoulders, reminding me of upside down epaulets. There were matching slippers and red and gold beads for my hair. I turned and shuffled lightly to a long mirror. My hair was pitch black, my features Asian, and I heard a voice ask me what I remembered about jewels. I turned to answer the voice, and found myself sitting at the edge of a large fountain in a beautiful rain forest-type garden. There was some sort of awning high overhead that kept the rain from me. There was a statue in the center of the fountain of someone holding a large carp, and water was running from the carp's wide mouth into the fountain. On my right were sliding doors that were wide open at the moment, revealing an indoor sitting room. On my left, beyond the fountain, was the edge of the rain forest, with large fronds and wide, deep green leaves, all dripping in the soft patter of light rain.
I took a deep breath. The air was so fresh and clean. I was warm in my silk robes, but made cool by the fresh air which seemed slightly tinged with salt, as if the sea were not far away. Standing before me was my husband. He was clearly a nobleman, with bald head, earrings, crimson silk robes, and Asian features. I studied him as if I had never seen him before, yet I knew he was my husband and I deeply respected him. We had been married since I was fourteen, and although he was several years older than I, he had become a welcome and familiar presence in my life. I could not imagine a life without him. Yet, his eyes were troubled. He knew I was unhappy. I looked down at his hands, which he held out to me. His cupped hands held a pool of light. The sun that filtered from behind the clouds seemed trapped in his hands, reflected in the beautiful crystalline jewelry he was gifting me.
I turned my head so he could not see my disappointment. I had this sudden urge to dash them from his hands onto the ground, to storm angrily at him. But my training held fast, and I allowed him to drop the pretty things into my hands. I held the cold stones, willing myself to smile, and I looked up at him and thanked him. Try as I would, I could not hold his gaze, and lowered my head quickly. I felt his hand caress my hair in an almost helpless gesture before he turned to go indoors.
"Why don't you like the jewelry?" The voice was far away, undemanding, just simply there, like a patient guide.
My children. I was holding cold stones in my hand when all I wanted was to hold my warm and laughing children. I felt a new surge of anger, mingled with an almost hate toward my husband. He could not understand my need for my children. Quick flashes of my life - like darting fish - gave me glimpses of the twins. A boy and a girl. I could see them perfectly, knew their names, remembered their dark heads bent over their books and their shy smiles when brought before me and their father each evening. I had not touched them since birth.
The wife of a nobleman does not raise the children. The children are given a wet nurse and eventually tutors. They are trained as befits their station, with occasional opportunities to play with other children, but never given time with their parents beyond the evening presentation ritual. Someone else brushed their hair. Someone else nursed their hurts. Someone else hugged them every day. I burned with the desire to raise them myself, with jealousy of all the other adults in their lives. Yet I did nothing. I bowed and smiled to them in greeting when they were brought before me. I discussed their studies with them, admonished them to listen to their tutors, and told them they would be great leaders some day. They smiled, thanked me, bowed and left. Every night, the same thing.
My husband did not understand this strange desire of a noblewoman to rear her own children. The idea was completely foreign to him. Yet he did not like to see me unhappy, so he was frequently giving me rare gems, things that would have made any other wife grateful and happy.
The voice asked me to visit the day of my death, reminding me that I was safe from any harm and pain, that I would just be a visitor, viewing the scene. And I found myself viewing my death from the angle of a ceiling corner in a room with dimmed lights. I was on a comfortable bed, with rich blankets, and I was very old. My face was wrinkled, my white hair quite thinned, my eyes still sparkling with intelligence, and my adult children and grandchildren were with me. A noblewoman to the end, I spoke not a word, shared no regrets, and drew my last breath with the same grace and honor as I had lived my life.
I was then sitting in a white wicker chair on a screened porch, dressed in a white linen pants suit, calmly sipping tea as I admired the greenery around the comfortable porch. That voice asked me if there was anyone I wanted to ask forgiveness from in that life. I said yes, my children, and before I could finish saying the words, they were both in front of me, in their ten-year-old state. I cried and hugged them and told them I was so sorry to have been such a bad mother. They were completely surprised, hugging me back, and asking me whatever did I mean? They thought I was the perfect mother. They said all their school friends were jealous because they had such a beautiful, gracious woman for their mother. They always saw me as a wise soul, someone they deeply admired and aspired to become one day.
Surprised in turn, I asked them if it hurt their feelings that I never hugged them or played with them. They laughed! A mother is not for hugging and playing, they said. A mother is for inspiration, and I did it perfectly. Their little faces peeped up at me with their great big eyes, smiling with pride and happiness. The relief spilled out of me in tears as I realized that I had not harmed my children with neglect and cold after all. I kissed them each and bid them to mind their studies, and they bowed, smiled, and left. I returned to the white porch feeling that everything was as it should be.
Do you have anyone you need to forgive? This time the voice was a little insistent, reminding me that I had unfinished work to be done. I said no, but knew I lied as I said it. My husband's face appeared in my tea, and I looked away. Can't you forgive your husband? No. How dare he keep me from my children. How dare he give me jewels as if they could compensate for the loss of my children. Can you talk to him? Tell him how you feel? No, I insisted.
And then we were back at the fountain. He sat down next to me, held my hand, and looked me straight in the eye, hurt and worried and helpless. As I looked at him I realized that he truly was trying to do his best for me. He was not in the wrong to embrace our culture, and in spite of that he was trying to see my point of view, although he could not understand it.
I was born a pioneer, ready to change the status quo, yet choosing to ignore my calling. If I had used my position as a noblewoman to begin change in the culture, I could have set a precedent for women to come, although change would have come too slow to impact me and my children. I made myself unhappy by ignoring my calling - it was not my husband's fault at all.
I smiled warmly at him, gently squeezing his hand as I leaned in to tell him that I forgive him, that there is nothing to forgive, and that I am so grateful for all his many kindnesses over the years as he strove to understand his once and future wife. As I kissed him, I heard a voice - my own this time - saying I forgive myself.
It was six months before I saw the hypnotherapist again. And I was wearing quartz and lapis lazuli.
About four years ago I met my hypnotherapist for the first time. This woman is amazing - she has helped me overcome stress, embrace forgiveness of myself and others, lose weight, and more. When she first walked in the door of the wellness center where I met her, I had the impression of a smart and savvy business women - she looked like she could lead a sales meeting at a top advertising agency. I somehow imagined she would walk in looking like a gypsy, so I wondered how this sophisticated woman ever became a hypnotherapist.
We got to talking, and she mentioned she also does past life regression. Intrigued, I immediately made an appointment with her. I've been fascinated with the idea that I might have been here before, or somewhere before, and it is difficult for me to imagine going to heaven when I die, rather than on to some other plane of existence. I mean, what would I do in heaven? Play a harp and sing blissfully all day? I'd be bored out of my skull. No disrespect intended, of course.
So I made the appointment and she briefed me on what to expect. She said that for first timers it was a good idea to bring a very simple question to the appointment. She suggested I simply go through the next few days and notice something about me that seems different from other people - something simple that is not a big deal, but that strikes me as unusual.
Two weeks later I was sitting in her office. There was soft music playing, a light smell of lavender and eucalyptus essential oils, and some lovely bamboo and other greenery. She had a clipboard and asked me some basic get-to-know-you questions, reminded me what to expect from the experience, and then asked me for my question.
This was easy for me - I had often wondered why cut gemstones always looked vulgar to me. Diamonds, emeralds, what have you - they all seemed like cheap glass. I preferred stone or wood jewelry, or pearls. The less it looked like glass, the better. I always wondered why all the women around me loved sparkly gems, whereas I saw them with distaste.
She lowered the lights, and guided me through a simple breathing exercise, using Tinksa bells. (I am sure I have spelled that wrong!) I felt myself relax completely in the chair, and just let her voice guide me.
Ancient Singapore, before it was known as Singapore, the rainy season.
I was standing in a large room, and before me on the floor was a very large gift-wrapped box. I pulled open the bow and lifted the lid. Inside was some beautiful silk material in deep reds and golds. I pulled it out and put it on. It draped me from neck to toe, with long sleeves. There were stiff, curved things on the shoulders, reminding me of upside down epaulets. There were matching slippers and red and gold beads for my hair. I turned and shuffled lightly to a long mirror. My hair was pitch black, my features Asian, and I heard a voice ask me what I remembered about jewels. I turned to answer the voice, and found myself sitting at the edge of a large fountain in a beautiful rain forest-type garden. There was some sort of awning high overhead that kept the rain from me. There was a statue in the center of the fountain of someone holding a large carp, and water was running from the carp's wide mouth into the fountain. On my right were sliding doors that were wide open at the moment, revealing an indoor sitting room. On my left, beyond the fountain, was the edge of the rain forest, with large fronds and wide, deep green leaves, all dripping in the soft patter of light rain.
I took a deep breath. The air was so fresh and clean. I was warm in my silk robes, but made cool by the fresh air which seemed slightly tinged with salt, as if the sea were not far away. Standing before me was my husband. He was clearly a nobleman, with bald head, earrings, crimson silk robes, and Asian features. I studied him as if I had never seen him before, yet I knew he was my husband and I deeply respected him. We had been married since I was fourteen, and although he was several years older than I, he had become a welcome and familiar presence in my life. I could not imagine a life without him. Yet, his eyes were troubled. He knew I was unhappy. I looked down at his hands, which he held out to me. His cupped hands held a pool of light. The sun that filtered from behind the clouds seemed trapped in his hands, reflected in the beautiful crystalline jewelry he was gifting me.
I turned my head so he could not see my disappointment. I had this sudden urge to dash them from his hands onto the ground, to storm angrily at him. But my training held fast, and I allowed him to drop the pretty things into my hands. I held the cold stones, willing myself to smile, and I looked up at him and thanked him. Try as I would, I could not hold his gaze, and lowered my head quickly. I felt his hand caress my hair in an almost helpless gesture before he turned to go indoors.
"Why don't you like the jewelry?" The voice was far away, undemanding, just simply there, like a patient guide.
My children. I was holding cold stones in my hand when all I wanted was to hold my warm and laughing children. I felt a new surge of anger, mingled with an almost hate toward my husband. He could not understand my need for my children. Quick flashes of my life - like darting fish - gave me glimpses of the twins. A boy and a girl. I could see them perfectly, knew their names, remembered their dark heads bent over their books and their shy smiles when brought before me and their father each evening. I had not touched them since birth.
The wife of a nobleman does not raise the children. The children are given a wet nurse and eventually tutors. They are trained as befits their station, with occasional opportunities to play with other children, but never given time with their parents beyond the evening presentation ritual. Someone else brushed their hair. Someone else nursed their hurts. Someone else hugged them every day. I burned with the desire to raise them myself, with jealousy of all the other adults in their lives. Yet I did nothing. I bowed and smiled to them in greeting when they were brought before me. I discussed their studies with them, admonished them to listen to their tutors, and told them they would be great leaders some day. They smiled, thanked me, bowed and left. Every night, the same thing.
My husband did not understand this strange desire of a noblewoman to rear her own children. The idea was completely foreign to him. Yet he did not like to see me unhappy, so he was frequently giving me rare gems, things that would have made any other wife grateful and happy.
The voice asked me to visit the day of my death, reminding me that I was safe from any harm and pain, that I would just be a visitor, viewing the scene. And I found myself viewing my death from the angle of a ceiling corner in a room with dimmed lights. I was on a comfortable bed, with rich blankets, and I was very old. My face was wrinkled, my white hair quite thinned, my eyes still sparkling with intelligence, and my adult children and grandchildren were with me. A noblewoman to the end, I spoke not a word, shared no regrets, and drew my last breath with the same grace and honor as I had lived my life.
I was then sitting in a white wicker chair on a screened porch, dressed in a white linen pants suit, calmly sipping tea as I admired the greenery around the comfortable porch. That voice asked me if there was anyone I wanted to ask forgiveness from in that life. I said yes, my children, and before I could finish saying the words, they were both in front of me, in their ten-year-old state. I cried and hugged them and told them I was so sorry to have been such a bad mother. They were completely surprised, hugging me back, and asking me whatever did I mean? They thought I was the perfect mother. They said all their school friends were jealous because they had such a beautiful, gracious woman for their mother. They always saw me as a wise soul, someone they deeply admired and aspired to become one day.
Surprised in turn, I asked them if it hurt their feelings that I never hugged them or played with them. They laughed! A mother is not for hugging and playing, they said. A mother is for inspiration, and I did it perfectly. Their little faces peeped up at me with their great big eyes, smiling with pride and happiness. The relief spilled out of me in tears as I realized that I had not harmed my children with neglect and cold after all. I kissed them each and bid them to mind their studies, and they bowed, smiled, and left. I returned to the white porch feeling that everything was as it should be.
Do you have anyone you need to forgive? This time the voice was a little insistent, reminding me that I had unfinished work to be done. I said no, but knew I lied as I said it. My husband's face appeared in my tea, and I looked away. Can't you forgive your husband? No. How dare he keep me from my children. How dare he give me jewels as if they could compensate for the loss of my children. Can you talk to him? Tell him how you feel? No, I insisted.
And then we were back at the fountain. He sat down next to me, held my hand, and looked me straight in the eye, hurt and worried and helpless. As I looked at him I realized that he truly was trying to do his best for me. He was not in the wrong to embrace our culture, and in spite of that he was trying to see my point of view, although he could not understand it.
I was born a pioneer, ready to change the status quo, yet choosing to ignore my calling. If I had used my position as a noblewoman to begin change in the culture, I could have set a precedent for women to come, although change would have come too slow to impact me and my children. I made myself unhappy by ignoring my calling - it was not my husband's fault at all.
I smiled warmly at him, gently squeezing his hand as I leaned in to tell him that I forgive him, that there is nothing to forgive, and that I am so grateful for all his many kindnesses over the years as he strove to understand his once and future wife. As I kissed him, I heard a voice - my own this time - saying I forgive myself.
It was six months before I saw the hypnotherapist again. And I was wearing quartz and lapis lazuli.