I sit with my legs crossed, tapping my foot to the sound of my own racing heartbeat. Biting my lip, my eyes are focused, and my mind is lost in the thoughts of what would happen next. In five minutes, I’ll know my whole future. I have a general idea of the questions I want to ask, but I’m still unsure if I want to hear their answers. She calls me into her room and the process begins.
This summer, I visited a fortune teller. I’d always heard stories from my friends who found a person with psychic abilities, who told them everything they wanted to know about their future life. Originally, I was very skeptical about the procedure, but Russian superstition got the best of me.
The fortune teller was middle- aged, slightly serious with a hint of hospitality. She greeted me, sat me down, and made me a cup of coffee. I stared at her blankly unaware that drinking the bitter, unsweetened liquid was part of the procedure. I later found out that the method was called tasseography, a divination of fortune telling method that interprets patterns in tea leaves, coffee grounds or wine sediments. After I had finished my coffee, she swiftly flipped over the cup onto a dish and let the remaining liquid pour out. Then, ever so tenderly, she picked up the cup and began talking with the speed of a salesman about what she saw in my future. She then paused for a brief second and kindly reminded me that if I wanted to remember any of the information, I should probably write it down. Following her advice, I did and then continued listening to her with a dropped jaw.
After the coffee session, she gave me the opportunity to ask three questions that she would answer using the cartomacy method, or in other words, with the help of oracle cards. If the question wasn’t formed correctly or wasn’t clearly thought out, the cards would lead to a dead end.
Not really preparing the questions beforehand, I asked her to give me a minute to think. After all, it was a very rare opportunity since I probably wouldn’t be visiting the fortune teller again, anytime soon. After asking my questions and hearing everything that there was to my existence–shock overcame my body. It was almost as if I had already lived through my entire life, as if I just skimmed through the book that would be my life story. I felt a sudden desire to cry, due to the overwhelming realization of how surreal what I just experienced was.
An important question to ask myself would be, “Anastasiya, but how can you believe what you were told?” And to be very honest, there really isn’t an answer. I’ll just have to live life normally, taking risks and making mistakes and trying new things. If I live my life according to what some woman in Russia said to me, there’s no fun or excitement. Taking everything I heard and making it a ‘set in stone’ destiny wouldn’t lead to anything good. So I will continue living and writing “the story of my life” myself, without any outside help from a crystal ball, a cup of coffee, or cards.
story by anastasiya petrosyan, graphic by lydia kasem
