Tarot of Dragons Weekend Draw 3.1.2023


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Safe in the mouth of her cave, a dragon, sans souci, takes in the ocean below. In nook, cranny, and the embrace of velvet paw and spiky tail, a modest plenitude of cups surrounds her. Contentment rolls off her cool blue scales like fog off the briny surf. A full belly, a secure place for one’s treasures, and a weyr with a view. They may seem mere creature comforts to some, but what more does any dragon need?

For the moment, you inhabit the best of all possible worlds. Creature comforts are more than comfortable. Wishes come true and life’s small pleasures abound. You have health and, if not great wealth, more than enough for your needs. Enjoying a wash of confidence and self-esteem, you feel fulfilled and appreciated. You’re perhaps even tempted to bask in the warmth of self-indulgence. That’s ok. Just remember: like sorrows, blessings, too, are transitory. Take a good look round. Treasure this time, acknowledging with thanks all that has come your way. And when the tide turns—as it surely will—know that, even if you can’t see it, you have such a lot to be grateful for.

Be satisfied, not greedy. The fruits of success are so much sweeter when shared.

[text from Tarot of Dragons companion book, Wisdom from the Dragon Realms]

Tarot of Dragons. Shawn MacKenzie/Firat Solhan. Llewellyn Worldwide

Starting the New Year


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Tarot of Dragons New Year’s draw.


How fitting.


Beneath the torrid skies of late summer, a dragon’s egg opens, presenting its hidden treasure—a single wand—to the world. It is Hatching Day, a time of beginnings and untapped potential, when every newborn deserves a boon. In the shadow of three volcanoes, wild pyramids of wisdom and spiritual power, the cosmic Fire Dragon unfurls his wings and blesses the hatchling with an incandescent puff of dragonbreath. The gift of fire.

There is a spark of energy. Creativity crackles. The thrill of a new enterprise is in the air. Ambition is no longer a dirty word but an inventive force. Projects long forgotten take on new life. Dormant passions awaken. All things seem possible.

[text from Tarot of Dragons companion book, Wisdom from the Dragon Realms]

Last-minute Gifts for Dragon Lovers


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Are you stumped on what to get the Dragon lovers on your holiday list?

Might I suggest:




Dragons for Beginners cover

A Different Sort of Haunting


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We think of Halloween as ghouls and goblins, vampires and zombies, and frights that keep us up all night. I like to think there are different sorts of hauntings and, in that vein, I want to share a short story by Virginia Woolf.


by Virginia Woolf

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure—a ghostly couple.

“Here we left it,” she said. And he added, “Oh, but here too!” “It’s upstairs,” she murmured. “And in the garden,” he whispered. “Quietly,” they said, “or we shall wake them.”

But it wasn’t that you woke us. Oh, no. “They’re looking for it; they’re drawing the curtain,” one might say, and so read on a page or two. “Now they’ve found it,” one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. “What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?” My hands were empty. “Perhaps it’s upstairs then?” The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

But they found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling—what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet, from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat softly. “The treasure buried; the room…” the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?

A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam if sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky, sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat gladly. “The Treasure’s yours.”

The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.

“Here we slept,” she says. And he adds, “Kisses without number.” “Waking in the morning—” “Silver between the trees—” “Upstairs—” “The garden—” When summer came—” “In winter snowtime—” The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

Nearer they come; cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken; we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. “Look,” he breathes. “Sound sleep. Love upon their lips.”

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

“Safe, safe, safe,” the heart of the house beats proudly. “Long years—” he sighs. “Again you found me.” “Here,” she murmurs, “sleeping in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure—” Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. “Safe! Safe! Safe!” the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry. “Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.”

From Monday or Tuesday: Eight Stories by Virginia Woolf, Dover Thrift Editions

To Every Season There Are Dragons.


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Halloween has its ghouls, ghosts, and bats;

Thanksgiving its turkeys and pilgrims;

Yuletide its trimmed trees and prancing reindeer.

Passing fancies, one and all.

Yet Dragons flourish throughout the year,

At every holiday and season.

Dragons speak to the soul.

Dragons rule forever.

Happy Birthday to the Brood


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Nine years ago today, Lorca grace this house with 4 beautiful kittens: Scout, Snowman, Tinker, and RIver. Sadly, River crossed over this year, but his mom and siblings remember and know he is here in spirit to celebrate with us.

L-R: Tinker, Scout, Snowman.
Baby River.