The storm clouds have gathered I can hear the rumblings of distant thunder and discontent. My heartbeat amplified. The heart is pierced, a thin, slow bloodletting. But it doesn’t slide down a wall of clouds to fall heavy with a thud in mud puddles–it is held aloft, secured, by a tight protective circle. Friends pulling close in a time of crisis, a time of tear-streaked uncertainty. Three is also the number of fruition–what is borne of swords? Of the quality of air? Insight. Acceptance of heartbreak and pain as necessary. Wisdom through suffering.
Three of Swords is also chilly. No sun, no fire, no earth. Water and air only. Emotion-heavied thoughts. Sorrow. Grief. Life’s painful circumstances. Grief breaking the silence around conflict. The end of denial and stalemate. Finding strength through the storm. Water rivulets moistening all the creases, all the dried out gaps. A plumpening. Waterlogged heart seeking fresh air.
Swords pointing down, earthward. Thoughts like lightning trying to find their grounding home. Cleansing. Heart and mind as one–acting from a centered place. Three wounds, three phases, maiden/mother/crone–the cycles. A pulpy heart whose wounds have sealed. Like a tree that cuts off nourishment to its punctured parts–seals it off, walls it off. These thoughts are lodged deep and the heart has learned to grow around them. Rainy days are cozy days, inside, fireplace, talking with friends. This is about going inside. Gathering the allies. Circling the wagons. The cleansing of fresh tears, of letting it all bleed out, letting it all wash away. And finding yourself still standing when the sun makes its way around the corner.