“Well, off the top of my head. I’d say it’s real, and my god is it powerful. But it’s also terribly costly.”

It’s been a while since I sat across from her, and today we’re in a new space. New area rug. Vibrant colors. Plants in full growth, their flowers sharp as paper cut-outs. “Are those real?” I ask. She laughs: “I know, they look like cartoons, don’t they?”

The night before, the electric in our home kept flickering. One room smelled faintly of smoke.

“Costly?” I ask, pushing her to continue.

“I see high rewards. I see your heightened arousal state.” Her smirk is so slight I almost miss it. “Your pupils dilate whenever you talk about it. It’s intimacy, controlled. You’re trying to read tea leaves, but you’re missing the trees.”

My brows knot at that. I’m not trying to read anything, I argue silently.

I love talking to her, though. I feel her protection. I want Reiki on my chest, Tarot spread in front of me, the reassurance of being spiritually aligned with… whatever.

But the real reset? It’s in my body, when it’s moving. Movement is my [gag reflex] medicine. I spent $125 on her for another Tower card (always the Tower, goddamnit) and $110 to box under glowing lights. So, what’s better?

When I leave the studio (my clothes plastered like I’ve just stepped out of a pool, cheeks pink, eyes bright), I feel the sense of belonging and performance of an athlete who will never stop. My competitive streak admittedly enhances the glow.

Yet in all my attempts to be better, the tea leaves my therapist referenced sometimes take over. Pulling me back into interpretation instead of letting my body speak for itself. It’s a whole language I can’t stop reading. I try to write about it, but it ends up sounding like this.

Later, I learn the flickering power was a lightning strike on a transponder across the street.

I fall asleep feeling safe and heavy in my mattress after a tough workout. I think about the tea leaves and decide I’ll savor them. But I’ll also keep looking up, steady on the trees.

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