Today, she is to visit the Empress, feeling that she should be taking something to her, some offering for this verdant mother, this goddess of nature, this woman of substance and form. Walking slowly up the stairs, preparing herself, breathing slowly, her world falls away like a tattered cloak, lightening the burden, leaving a trail of tired thoughts and unruly chatter behind her. Pausing quietly before the heavy wooden door, she listens, but for what she doesn’t quite know, and then, emerging from the silence, she hears it, the suggestion of birdsong, there has to be something there.
Parting the silken fabric, glimmering in jewelled shades of green and blue, she steps into the world of The Empress, out onto a high cliff top. There is short firm grass beneath her feet, spread with a riot of tiny flowers, giving the effect of a handmade counterpane embroidered with a thousand colours. The breeze blows her hair playfully around her face, and she looks to the sun, finding that it is a little after midday; he has moved from his point of supremacy and has begun his slow afternoon journey into the western seas.
Turning away from the glory of the sun’s descent, she finds herself looking at the figure of a woman that she had not noticed before, and the strings of her memories are tugged. She peers into a light-filled room, cluttered with the past and the present, and possibly the future; it is her mother’s study, and she looks up to the shelf above the glowing computer, and the various objects that parade upon the shelves. The past floods back to her at the sight of these things, made by her, and her siblings. Standing on the shelf of memories, she can see her, a carefully glazed pottery figure, with a rather improbable waist and hands that were fashioned by her kindly Art teacher. She gazes down with her gentle eyes, her head slightly to one side as if posing a calm question, and the words “what next” lying forever on her cherry-red porcelain lips.
Leaving her mother’s house, she returns to the windy cliff top to look at the figure before her that now seems to perfectly embody the image that she was trying to portray all those decades ago. Garbed in a long flowing dress of lilac and blue with a green and yellow headdress to cover her auburn hair, the woman begins to speak about creativity. She tells of how the connection is only maintained by allowing room for stillness and gestation to occur, the quiet spaces required to hear the heartbeat of life. The voice will often be quiet, she says, and it will be easy to forget that it is there, but it is important to keep listening, to keep making room for stillness, for creativity, for love, for something new to grow.
When the speech is finished, her Empress beckons to her, taking her by the hand like a mother would a child, and begins to run with her, careering down the green grassy slopes until they tumble breathless and tangled in a heap, laughing, at the bottom of the hill, in sight of Malachi’s hut. Filled with the exuberance of running down the hill, she leaves her newfound friend and scampers excitedly up to the door like a puppy, knocking, and then bursting in, laughing, as if she was off to a party. Malachi sits within, at a table before the window, carving something.
The table is covered with things that he has made, many decorated with unusual faces, of animals and gods that he has carved or whittled, whilst others are more engineered pieces which he has made with the help of saws and chisels. Drawing closer, she stands beside him and watches him as he works; she marvels at his skill as he deftly uses the sharp tools on the piece of wood in his hands, allowing the form to emerge slowly from the heart of the tree as he coaxes new life from it again.
Malachi pauses, setting the piece down on the table, taking her much smaller hands, turning them over in his own and studying them, telling her that she had able hands, good for creativity and that she must express this mother of making that lies within her, bring her into her heart and honour her. She looks around at Malachi’s simple place and the lovely things that he has created, seeing how the energy fills him to overflowing and touches everything around him, and that he is surrounded by the children of his creativity.
Walking slowly out of the hut, feeling calm and peaceful, she finds that the sun has dipped further in its trajectory, and that soon it will meet the ocean; it is time to return, and she starts to walk towards the shimmering image of The Empress that has appeared just beyond the trees. It feels difficult leaving this place of beauty and calm, this womb of gestation, this creative oasis, and she tries to hold the feeling in her heart, as she steps back through the veil into The Hallway of Beginnings.
It is time to reconnect with all the beautiful things in the world that
make your own heart sing. Whatever this means for you, try to bring
it into your life. Whether it is through making good food, creating a
piece of art, walking in nature, growing plants, caring for animals or
spending time with children, take the time to do something that you
love and which feeds your source. Fill yourself with the love of the
divine mother.
III The Empress
Planetary Trump of Venus
The Daughter of the Mighty Ones
Art Credits: The Empress from The Mythic Tarot-Tricia Newell,
The Empress from The Oracle of Change- Aia Leu,
The Empress from the Crowley/Harris Thoth Tarot, reproduced with permission from US Games.
My name is Joanna Grant, I am an Astrologer, Tarot Reader and Writer, who lives on the beautiful Beara Peninsula in the South West of Ireland. I can often be found at home, deep in arcane research, or practicing some new form of divination, often whilst burning the dinner! My children probably wish that I was “normal” but may well remember my eccentricities fondly when they come to face the challenges of their own paths. My long knowledge of Astrology leads and informs my practice, in offering guidance, empowerment and healing, helping others to lead a more authentic and magical life. You can read more about me here.
Joanna-Kate Grant 