As we arrived 10 days ago in Sagittarius, sign of the archer, I wrote about the presence of speed, strength, and strike in the 8, 9, and 10 of Wands. We now encounter the second of these in the form of a muscular, wary figure who is clearly no stranger to battle. Welcome to the 9 of Wands! - literally known as the "Lord of Strength".  Artemis of the silver bow is on the hunt in a winter sky.  The power of the wands suit reaches its peak; the atmosphere ripples and flexes with arcane lunar fire.

With the 8 of Wands we arrive at the first decan of Sagittarius, the sign of the Archer and the great centaur-teacher of heroes, Chiron. In tarot, the minor cards of Sagittarius are the 8, 9, and 10 of Wands.  I have always found these particularly apt at a metaphorical level.  The 8 of Wands is the speed of the arrow.  The 9 of Wands is the strength of the archer - the greater the strength, the farther the flight.  And the 10 of Wands is the striking of the target - the decisive THUNK when the arrow sinks into the bulls-eye.  Together, the speed, strength and strike depicted in these cards form a picture of determination and deadly accuracy at a distance.  

The mysterious 7 of Cups! Sometimes dreamy, sometimes squalid, always enigmatic. What happens when you introduce the Empress (Venus) to Death (Scorpio)? What transpires in the encounter between Eros and Thanatos, dove and serpent - what Freud called the 'sex-drive' and the 'death-drive'?  

 The ending hinted at in the 6 of Cups is now here.  That which we consider beautiful is beautiful not despite its mortality but because of it.  The perfection of a rose (or a ripe avocado for that matter) evaporates in a moment.  How does one pursue beauty in its dying hour? Do you seek to transform it into something new? Do you try to preserve it as it was? How you react in the face of that terrible, mortal beauty is the subject of this card.

The 6 of Cups brings together the "Lord of the Fire of the World" and the "Lord of the Gates of Death" - the Sun and Death. Here is the starkest of contrasts: the life-giving, life-sustaining center of existence on the one side, the archetypal force of ending on the other. In the contest of these two riders, we shall see that neither ever has the last word.  Each yields to the other perpetually. How does this eternal opposition inform what seems at first glance to be a perfectly agreeable scene of childhood innocence? We'll get to that. But first, more cosmic psychodrama!

Alas! Something terrible has happened!  The 5 of Cups, loved by few, shows a mournful figure crying over what is decidedly not spilled milk.  It is one of the grimmest minors in the deck - which starts to make sense when you look at its two corresponding major arcana: The Tower [Mars] and Death [Scorpio]. The 5 of Cups is no party, but at least it's predictable. 

Ah, the recumbent knight.  Often my clients shudder a little when they first set eyes on him. Is he sleeping? or is he dead?  Neither, I suppose: after a moment's reflection, many of us come to realize he is a tomb effigy, likely carved from stone. Perhaps he is gilded with late afternoon light. Welcome to the last decan of Libra! where beneath the manic, whirligig dance of falling leaves, the earth's northern hemisphere is going dormant. 

A whiles back when I was talking decanic minors with Austin Coppock, I remarked that the 3 of Swords was one of my favorite cards. "You and almost nobody else!" interjected Austin - not inaccurately. 

It's true, I really do like the 3 of Swords, otherwise known as the "Lord of Sorrow".  But this was not always the case. In 1996, when I was first messing around with the cards, I kept notes in this super-tacky spiral notebook covered in purple velveteen. I connected the 3 of Swords with a painful encounter, in which I'd witnessed my ex taking up with someone new.  (Cue Dumbledore in the Half-Blood Prince: "Oh, to be young, and feel love's keen sting.")