I lay like a five pointed star on the black hardwood floor, trying to think myself out of feeling or into crying. I was dying for catharsis and considering how much I wanted to die. It is terrifying to be an intelligent person and feel as if your mind has been robbed from you. I reached out to a friend who works in trauma relief. She spoke to me as an intellectual while explaining succinctly the process taking place in my brain. She listened attentively and directed with coherence and compassion. She insisted I put down my thoughts entirely so I could focus on the movements of my body. She told me to go for a walk and buy a cold seltzer to stimulate my physical senses. Slowly but surely, the blurry landing pad in front of my feet resolved itself.

Swords signify our capacity for perception and understanding. When our blades are dull, tied up in ropes of upset and worry, we cannot cut through the brush. We trip over rocks and roots because we cannot see the path before us. Pain is the arch-enemy of our intellect. Heartbreak, personal and universal, is not something we can heal on a solely cognitive level. The Three of Swords reminds us to care for our anguish by letting go of any attempt to fix it and grasping onto every attempt to love ourselves. It assures us that through the process of simple care, our capacity for clarity will be released from its bondage.

This week, we turn to methods that don’t require thought. We massage our feet so they are not weary when we walk into difficult debates. We nourish our bodies with yams decorated in rosemary, so we may remember the sweetness brought by the changing seasons. We dress our wounds by coloring pages, opening channels for our minds to work their magic. We breathe hope into our lungs and breathe out space for progress. We keep it simple and trust that “this too shall pass.”