Sic Transit Gloria Mundi
Thus Passes the Worldly Glory...
“Mourir c'est quitter la lumiere pour entrer dans l'ombre...”
“To die is to leave the light and enter the shadow...”
Under a sky heavy with dark, livid clouds, I found myself slowly walking the narrow cobblestone path meandering between buildings that seemed to compete in magnificence and monumentality, each trying to dwarf the other. Gothic arches and spikes, Ionic colonnades and facades inspired by Greek temples stood alongside more modern Art Nouveau elegant structures, their domes adorned with multicoloured mosaic details. A sense of decay and solemnity permeated the ancient silent stones, cracked and shifted by the roots of imposing trees that had overgrown in the centuries. Leaning obelisks, broken statues of weeping angels and figures frozen in heroic poses watched pensively with their empty eyes the few who dared to walk the streets of the City of the Dead at such a late hour.
Père Lachaise, the magnificent monumental cemetery of Paris, stands as a city within the city, rich its art, history and mysteries. Here, among others, found their eternal rest Colette, Frédéric Chopin, Édith Piaf, Marcel Proust, Georges Méliès, Marcel Marceau, Sarah Bernhardt, Oscar Wilde, and Jim Morrison. Each tombstone was an expression of the personality and life of its silent inhabitant. As I walked, I distractedly read names on the headstones, clever mottos and sentences full of sorrow. Black-and-white consumed photographs of people never smiling and sculptures immortalizing their lost beauty and grandeur stared back with their moving purposelessly vanity. A touching testament to the enduring struggle of the living to keep their dead alive, at least in memory. A stubbornly defiant refusal of humankind to succumb to its mortality and let the departed fade into eternal oblivion. Where they happy? Did they love? Did they find their way? What did they dream, what did they fear?
A headstone captured my attention. It was almost completely covered with fresh flowers, little sculptures, assorted objects, and cards—many, many cards. Someone appeared new, while another had faded, eroded by rain and sun. The clutter of objects obscured the name of the owner, forcing me to move around for a clearer view. Then, finally, I was able to discern it. Deeply chiseled into the gray stone was just a name: Mademoiselle Lenormand. I was taken aback in surprise. Could it truly be her... the Sybil of Paris? I looked it closer. The cards lying there on the bare, cold stone were all Lenormand decks. I had stumbled upon the grave of Marie Anne Lenormand...
A woman dressed in black approached. She slowly leaned in and carefully placed a new deck of tarot on the stone slab. I observed her with a mix of curiosity and confusion as she offered me a timid smile.
“Legend has it that if you leave your deck of Lenormand tarot on Madam's grave for a full night, she will infuse it with her power. She always looks upon those who believe in her ways with benevolence.”
I expressed my gratitude, and as she turned to leave, she added: “I will be back tomorrow to retrieve my deck...”
The last light of the sun was fading behind the funerary monuments, casting long, dense shadows. The cemetery was suddenly immersed in an eerie silence. I don't know what happened, but in that moment, I felt moved. I felt the urge to touch her tomb... I knelt and stretched out my hand.
The grey stone was cold and rough, unpleasant to touch. As I ran my fingers over its surface, I felt the little cracks created by time, the imperfections of the material, and then something... else. I closed my eyes, silencing my thoughts, and a powerful flow of images, emotions, and broken sentences flooded my mind. I remained motionless as the boundaries between my senses seemed to vanish. I heard images, I smelled colours, felt sounds, and tasted emotions... She... she was trying to communicate with me!Amidst the tumult of sensations, I perceived a sense of frustration and anger. “What was lost needs to be found.”... “What is broken needs to be whole again...".
I understood her deep sorrow. When she passed away, her nephew burned all her magical paraphernalia -her writings, her studies, everything was destroyed. Only a few copies of her most precious possession, her deck, survived, but now, it is a pale shadow of what it was; many cards were lost to the passage of time.
I then understood her intentions; I realized why she reached out from beyond the grave. She wanted me to create a new deck: a new instrument whose magic would allow people to glimpse the infinite possibilities lying beyond the horizon of our everyday lives. It would serve as a tool for healing, fostering empathy, and guiding us toward fulfilling our destinies. Her instructions echoed in my mind, each word a spark igniting a kaleidoscope of visions...
I decided to meticulously record and document on these digital pages the process of creating the deck that the Sybil, whose prophecies once shook mighty empires, commanded me to undertake.
May her magic guide my hand like a light in the darkness...
have a splendiferously tenebrous day
Andrea Aste
💐
This is very touching. What an intense and important moment. 💀