I pulled a card this morning.
King of Air. A naked man. A spear that has pierced an egg. Cracks spreading outward from the point of impact.
I sat with it for a long time.
Not because I didn’t understand it. But because I did.
There is a poem I keep returning to this week. I won’t quote it here but the essence of it is this:
I see how you give, give, give until you forget what it feels like to receive.
I read it and my eyes filled.
Not because it was sad. But because something in me recognized it before my mind caught up.
And I genuinely believed I was equally good at receiving.
This morning, the King of Air disagreed.
He is not a gentle card. He cuts. He clarifies. He holds up the thing you have been looking through without knowing it was there.
Worthiness, I am starting to understand, is not something you earn or arrive at. It is a filter. Invisible, habitual, installed so early you have forgotten it isn’t yours.
It does not announce itself. It just quietly edits everything that tries to come in.
A compliment lands and something immediately deflects it. Someone offers help and something inside calculates whether you deserve it. Rest arrives and something whispers; not yet, not enough, not quite.
The filter is fast. Faster than thought.
And here is what King of Air is asking me today:
What if worthiness has nothing to do with what you have done?
Not your output. Not your presence. Not how well you held the room or how much you gave.
What if it is simply — a permission. Quiet. Unconditional. Already yours.
The egg in the card was always going to crack.
Not because something broke it from the outside. But because something inside had grown too large to stay contained.
That is what happens when you start to see the filter.
You don’t remove it. You just stop mistaking it for the truth.
And slowly, carefully, you learn to let things in.
With hands wide open.
Originalpainting “Sliding doors” from the Bedroomstories series