I was an absolute wreck. Forget all those calm, quiet photos you see of tarot readers on their silk scarves. My actual reality last week was me, sweating in the kitchen, frantically trying to figure out if I was about to drop three thousand dollars on a guy who was probably going to take the cash and disappear into the next state. I had this immediate, massive decision hanging over me: hire ‘Honest’ Harry, the cheapest kitchen contractor who looked like he slept in his truck, or wait another two weeks for the reputable firm that was probably going to charge twice as much. The deadline for Harry’s ‘special deal’ deposit was Friday, noon. The pressure was a killer.
I didn’t need some airy, multi-card spread telling me about my potential for ‘future creative endeavors.’ I needed a simple, brutal, Yes or No. Do I sign the paper and risk it all for the cheaper price, or do I eat the delay and the extra cost? My brain was fried. I’d been up for two nights running spreadsheets, checking references that were probably his cousins, and driving myself right up the wall.
That’s when I finally just walked into the office, grabbed my Sota de Bastos deck—the one with the slightly sticky edges from coffee a year ago—and forced the issue. I wasn’t meditating. I wasn’t clearing my mind. I was demanding an answer from the universe, right now, like a desperate person yelling at a traffic light.
Grabbing the Sota de Bastos
The first thing I did was ditch the book. Every single book I own talks about the Page of Wands—the Sota de Bastos—as a messenger, a spark of energy, enthusiasm, or maybe just a young, slightly unreliable person showing up. None of that helps when you’re facing a potential financial disaster. I had to set my own rules, right then and there, without all the textbook fuss. It had to be quick and dirty. I needed a mechanism to just move my gut feeling out of my head and onto the table.
So, I established my own lightning-fast interpretation guide. I told myself, out loud, that the whole purpose of this exercise was clarity, not spirituality. If the card was going to work as a traffic cop for my anxiety, these were the non-negotiable rules for this situation:
- Upright Sota de Bastos: Immediate action, bold move, the spark is real, move forward, enthusiasm is justified. This means YES. Sign the contract.
- Reversed Sota de Bastos: Blocked energy, delay, bad news messenger, a rush job that turns sour, immaturity, or a false start. This means NO. Hold the money.
- If it flies out of the deck: Total chaos. Stop everything and go to bed.
I shuffled the cards about five times, barely pushing the deck together. I was probably pushing too fast, which is exactly the energy the Page of Wands is supposed to represent anyway, right? Impulsive, fast, maybe a little reckless. I didn’t care. I felt the paper of the cards getting warmer in my hands. I cut the deck into three piles, put them back together—standard stuff—and then I reached in and pulled one card. No fan, no fanning out, just a straight-up grab from the middle of the pile, flipped it over, and slapped it on the counter next to a stale piece of toast.
What I Drew and the Reality Check
The adrenaline hit me hard. It was the Sota de Bastos. It was exactly the card I was hoping to pull because it’s so much about that initial leap of faith, that start of something new. But here’s the kicker, the card was Reversed. It was sitting there, upside down, leaning against the salt shaker.
Now, I could have argued with myself for hours, thinking about what ‘reversed enthusiasm’ means, or if I should put it back and pull again. But I had set the rule: Reversed means NO. Blocked energy. False start. A messenger delivering bad news. This wasn’t a deep dive into my subconscious. This was a frantic tool for immediate clarity under pressure, and I had my answer.
I stared at the upside-down Page. “Honest” Harry was a reversed messenger. The spark was a fizzle. The enthusiasm was premature. I immediately felt the tension drop, even though I knew I was now stuck waiting two more weeks and spending a fortune on the reputable contractor. I picked up the phone, sent Harry a short text saying I had to delay the project, and then I went and took a shower, the first one that week that wasn’t full of anxiety.
And here is why this practice worked for me, and why I’m sharing this rough story. Not two days later, on a Wednesday morning, my phone starts blowing up with texts from my neighbor, another stressed-out local. She sends a link to the community Facebook group. Turns out, “Honest” Harry had taken deposits from five people, never showed up on Monday, and his work vehicle was found abandoned in a supermarket parking lot seventy miles away. Every single detail in the community thread matched what I was feeling—a fast, enthusiastic start that turned into a messy, unreliable reversal.
I swear, the upside-down Sota de Bastos didn’t predict the future; it just acted as a final, blunt amplifier for the anxiety that was already screaming inside me. It gave me the simple mechanical push I needed to avoid catastrophe. The card was just the light switch, and the gut feeling was the electricity. It worked, and it saved my bank account and my sanity. Don’t overthink this stuff with fancy rituals. When you need clarity, grab your deck, set the simple rules, and let the card be the traffic light. Sometimes, all you need is a quick, tough NO to avoid a complete mess.
