You nourish it with the sacrifice of a woodsman’s labors. Showers of sparks explode; a beast beginning, straining to free itself, to gorge on fare more sumptuous and juicier than dead wood.

When the blaze is roaring, when you have it controlled and contained within that iron prison, you stand and turn your back to it. Keeping it under your control, trusting it not to consume you?

Settling down into your soft couch you pull your Siberian fox fur around your legs and raise a glass of red wine to your lips.

The fire glints golden, fragmenting in the prism of the crystal glass as your eyes catch the light through the rim of the vessel, savoring the warm blackberry fruits and rich spices of the wine. Sighing with the silence. The crackle and hiss of ancient gasses released from between the wood’s grain.

Breathing deep and slow. You count down from ten. Drawing in a breath then exhaling at half the speed. An old Shaman trick to open the channels of the mind and synchronize it. Decompressing and calibrating.

Opening a cognitive connection to the hardware of your lymphatic system. A network of deep tissue and the essential organs that help rid your body of toxins, waste and other unwanted materials.

You listen to your heartbeat, sensing the blood streaming inside you. Knowing the primary function of your lymphatic system is to transport lymph, a fluid containing infection-fighting white blood cells, throughout the body. Healing you from the inside out.

A journey inside gently opens. Counting delicately down. 8.., 7.., Picturing a white down feather falling. A cotton snowflake, 6.., 5.., You let go.

Climbing, travelling up through your toes, the classical carved arch of your soles, the regal tenderness of your ankles, slender calves, the cup and cap of your knees.

4.., 3.., relaxing the muscles in your thighs, hips, pelvis. Relaxing your jaw as you let go through your pelvic floor, your core.

2.., 1.., with your eyes closed you listen to the fire, sensing the signature of its heat, the golden light flickering on your skin, your cheekbone and the back of your hand.

With a deep sigh, you see me as your body remembers me. I’m sitting up on my bed. Slowly shuffling a deck of cards. A soft scented candle stands before a small gilt-gold framed mirror. My face bathed in an intimate light, my features flickering with delicate light and dark shadows.

Absently my hands slowly shuffle the cards, my eyes closed. I’m breathing in within three beats of your heart and breathing out to six beats. I’m searching inside for the feel of you. Feeling the cards in my fingers, listening to them, letting their motion speak to me.

The 78-cards of my Tarot deck, seemingly possessed of a simple allegorical or exoteric meaning, a rich romantic mysticism originating from an elite ideology born in the Italian courts of the 15th century.

My hands stop shuffling and turn the top card, my eyes slowly opening to confirm what I’ve heard.