Test: Which Trace of a Past Life Do You Carry?

The File Is Open

During the renovation of an old merchant house in southern Germany, workers discover a massive wooden door hidden behind a bricked-up partition. The oak boards have darkened, the iron fittings are covered in rust, and the stone threshold is worn down by the wheels of the carts that once passed through the courtyard. In a niche beside the door the builders find a chest holding a leather travelling bag, an old map and a letter addressed to a young man.

The door itself holds an even more curious trace. On its inner side someone has carved two dates, more than forty years apart. Beside the first are the words: “I could have gone.” Beside the second has been added: “Now I understand why I stayed.”

Why would a person keep, for a whole lifetime, the luggage for a journey they never set out on? What happened during those forty years, and why did they finally feel the need to return to the very same door?

I confess that a find like this would instantly awaken my curiosity. Especially the travelling bag. If it was packed and ready for a journey five centuries ago, it is worth finding out what held its owner back for so long. I suspect that even the most patient coachman would have asked for an explanation.

Your symbolic karmic file is connected with the choices we put off because we are afraid of disappointing the people we love. Perhaps you are someone who takes on responsibility, looks after those close to you and always finds sensible arguments against risky decisions. This has probably helped you build quite a few good things. But if a particular dream keeps returning to your thoughts, despite the years that have gone by, it is worth understanding what is really holding you back.

Perhaps you long for a life in another country, a new profession, a venture of your own or a relationship for which you would have to change your familiar daily routine. You have already weighed up the difficulties and could no doubt deliver a rather convincing lecture on why the moment is wrong. All that remains is to clarify what you want.

The story behind the old door will take us back to the fifteenth century, when an offer of a journey changes the life of a young merchant and of several generations after him.

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Regression Journey — The Six Thresholds

Before you read the story, I invite you on a short imaginary journey inspired by symbolic regression practices. It can help you look at your own desires and hesitations through images. The experience does not establish actual memories of a past life. If any scene feels unpleasant, you can change it, watch it from a distance or stop the exercise.

Make yourself comfortable and picture an old street paved with stone slabs. Conversations drift out of the open workshops, there is a smell of bread and wood smoke, and somewhere nearby the wheels of a cart roll over the uneven road. At the end of the street rises a stone archway. Beyond it there is a courtyard and a large wooden door.

The first threshold — the person with the dream. Beside the door waits a person from another era. Look at their clothes, their face and the object they are carrying. It might be a travelling bag, a letter or a map. What does this person desire? Where do they want to go, and how long have they dreamt of it?

The second threshold — the people they love. Imagine seeing them at home, surrounded by those close to them. One worries about the future, another fears separation, a third has expectations of their own. What would the person like to say to them? Which of their fears are well founded, and which come from fear of the unknown?

The third threshold — the moment of choice. Return to the door. From outside come the voices of travellers getting ready to leave. The person has picked up their luggage. What do they feel as they touch the handle? What would change if they could speak openly about their wishes?

The fourth threshold — the two possible lives. Picture two scenes. In one, the person has left and is getting to know a new world. In the other, they have stayed and built a life among their loved ones. Both hold joys, losses and unforeseen events. Which scene draws you, and why? Try to look at it without deciding in advance which choice is the right one.

The fifth threshold — the meeting after many years. Now the person is old and standing before the door once again. Ask them what is the most precious thing life has given them, and what they regret. Perhaps they will answer you with words, a feeling or an image.

The sixth threshold — your door. The wooden door gradually changes. A sign appears on it, connected with your present life — a city, a profession, a person or a desire. What do you need in order to explore this possibility? You can open the door, leave it ajar or stay on the threshold until you have gathered more information. The choice is yours.

Before you finish, take with you in your mind one object from the journey — a key, a map or something else that caught your attention. Then turn your gaze to the objects around you and write down which moment moved you most deeply.

The question that remains: “Which of my desires am I putting off for fear of disappointing someone, and what can I do to find out whether I still want to make it real?”

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The Story from a Past Life — The Journey That Never Began

Southern Germany, the second half of the fifteenth century. Behind the fortress walls of a wealthy merchant town, life began long before sunrise. Carts loaded with cloth, spices and furs arrived through the gates, craftsmen opened their workshops, and merchants traded news about prices, roads and the dangers that awaited travellers. In a town like this a person could learn a great deal about the world without ever leaving their birthplace. The trouble was that the more they learnt, the more strongly they wanted to see it all with their own eyes.

Twenty-four-year-old Matthias Falk knew that feeling well. His father, Konrad, was a respected merchant in cloth and spices who owned warehouses and worked with partners in several towns. His mother, Agnes, ran the household, and his younger brother, Johann, was gradually learning the family trade.

Matthias was able, inquisitive and had an astonishing memory for foreign words, names and routes. Even as a boy he listened to the tales of travelling merchants with such attention that his father often sent him off to check the warehouses before the guests could be subjected to yet another hour of questions. What drew him most of all were the Italian ports, where, so the stories went, ships, goods and people met from lands he knew only from maps.

Konrad was proud of his son and had long since decided that he would be the one to inherit the family business. For the father this was the natural continuation of decades of work. He had lived through dangerous journeys, failed deals and years of uncertainty to give his family a respected home and a good life. He wanted his sons to have what he himself had achieved with such difficulty.

No one, however, had asked Matthias whether he pictured the future in the same way.

Johann had wishes of his own as well. Although he did well in the trade, he was far more drawn to carpentry. He loved watching the craftsmen turn rough planks into beautiful furniture. Konrad regarded his interest as a pleasant pastime for his free hours, but expected the two brothers to work together. In his eyes the future was already secured and well planned.

One spring Albrecht arrived in the town, an experienced merchant with whom Matthias had become friends during his earlier visits. The man had connections with the southern ports and was preparing for another long journey. When he learnt how well Matthias knew the account books and foreign languages, he offered to take him along as an assistant and future partner.

The offer was a serious one. Albrecht explained the terms, the costs and the opportunities for work, and Matthias carefully reckoned up his own savings. He knew the road would be hard, but for the first time his dream had a definite date and a person who truly believed in his abilities.

The caravan was to set off in three days.

That very evening Matthias packed his leather bag. He put in a few clothes, money, his favourite book and the map on which he had so often traced the road to the southern towns. As he gathered his belongings, he felt an excitement he could not hide. But when he heard his father's footsteps in the corridor, his joy slowly gave way to unease.

The next morning Konrad learnt of the offer.

— And why must you leave everything you already have? — he asked. — In a few years you will be running the business. You have a home, work and a future. What more are you looking for?

Matthias explained that he wanted to gain experience in foreign towns and one day build up a business of his own. He assured his father that he had no intention of abandoning the family and that what he learnt could be useful for their work too.

Konrad, however, heard something else in his words. After so many years of toil, his son wanted to leave everything he had built.

— Do you think I never had other wishes? — the father asked. — Many times I chose my duties over what I wanted. Thanks to that, we all live well today.

— I know how much you have done for us — Matthias replied. — But it was your stories that made me want to get to know the world.

Konrad took the answer as a reproach. The conversation grew heavy, and Agnes tried to make peace between the two. She did not want to stand in her son's way, but she was afraid of illness, robbers and months without news.

— Wait one more year — she begged him. — Perhaps it will be easier then.

Matthias knew his mother spoke out of love, but he had heard a suggestion like this before. Every year a new reason appeared to put off his dream.

Later Johann sought him out in private.

— If you go, all the work will fall to me — he said. — And I don't even know whether I want to spend my whole life in trade.

For the first time Matthias realised that his brother also felt hemmed in by the family's expectations. But instead of looking for a solution together, the two of them began to worry about how everyone would cope if one of them chose a different path.

In the evening Konrad came into his son's room again. This time he spoke more quietly.

— I will not stop you by force. But if you go, you will have to bear the consequences yourself. Do not expect everything to be waiting for you unchanged when you decide to come back.

After his father had left, Matthias stood at the window for a long time. On the table lay the map and the packed bag. He knew he had enough means to begin the journey and a person he could rely on. But more and more he feared that leaving would change his relationships with his loved ones for ever.

At daybreak he stepped into the corridor with the bag in his hand. From the courtyard came voices, the clatter of hooves and the creak of wheels. The caravan was getting ready to depart. Matthias walked up to the old wooden door and laid his hand on the heavy handle.

He stood like that for a long time, as if waiting for someone else to make the decision for him.

Then he slowly went back to his room and set the bag down on the table.

When Albrecht came looking for him, Matthias explained that he was staying for the sake of his family.

— Is this really what you want? — his friend asked.

— It is probably the most sensible thing — Matthias replied.

Albrecht looked at him closely. He did not insist, because he knew that a decision like this cannot be made on another person's behalf.

— The world is large — he said in farewell. — I hope you will find your own way of getting to know it.

Then he went out through the old door, and Matthias stayed in the courtyard, watching the caravan gradually move away.

In the years that followed, life went on. Matthias worked hard, took on more and more duties and gradually became a capable merchant. Konrad was pleased with his son, Agnes was glad the family was together, and Johann went on helping in the warehouses.

In time Matthias married Elisabeth, a clever and observant woman with a wonderful sense of humour. The two of them made a family, had children and lived through many happy years. Matthias loved his wife and found satisfaction in his work. His life was rich in relationships and achievements that he truly valued.

His curiosity about faraway lands, however, did not disappear. Whenever guests from other towns came to the house, he invited them to supper, questioned them about the markets and the ports, and afterwards carefully marked the new information on his maps.

— If you carry on like this, you will soon write a book about the whole of Europe without ever leaving home — Elisabeth teased.

Matthias laughed, but his wife noticed how his eyes came especially alive whenever the conversation turned to travel.

Over the years something began to happen in the family that at first Matthias himself did not notice. When his son showed an interest in music, he immediately explained how much more secure a future trade could offer. When his daughter wanted to study a foreign language and visit relatives in another town, Matthias began listing all the dangers and inconveniences.

One evening Elisabeth asked him:

— Do you want our children to live well, or do you want them to live exactly as you have decided?

The question stung him. He replied that he wanted to protect them from mistakes, but her words stayed in his thoughts. For the first time he recognised Konrad's voice in his own advice.

The real test came when Johann announced that he wanted to open a carpentry workshop with the money he had saved. Matthias reacted almost exactly as their father had once met Albrecht's offer. He began listing the costs, the dangers and the advantages of the secure family business.

Johann heard him out, and then said:

— All my life I have helped with our work. I know what I owe the family. But I would like to find out, too, whether I can make something of my own.

Matthias fell silent. For a moment he saw again the old door, the packed bag and his father's face. Johann's words were almost the same as the ones he himself had once tried to say.

A few days later the two of them talked again. This time they looked at the costs and the possibilities without rejecting the idea in advance. They found a way for Johann to start a small workshop while keeping some of his ties with the family business.

The workshop gradually grew. Johann's furniture began to attract customers, and Matthias felt sincere pride in his brother. Along with it came a peculiar regret: if the two of them had talked like this years ago, perhaps they would have found a solution for his journey too.

After Konrad's death Matthias took over the family business for good. One day, while clearing out old papers, he came across the leather bag and the map from his youth. Elisabeth found him by the window, lost in thought.

— Are you still thinking about that journey? — she asked.

Matthias nodded and at last told her in detail about the morning when the caravan had set off without him.

Elisabeth listened, then asked a question to which he had never found an answer:

— And why didn't you go later? The world can hardly have closed every port just because you stayed at home.

Matthias began listing the duties that had held him back over the years. But as he spoke, he realised that some of them had changed long ago. He had grown used to seeing the journey as a missed opportunity and had not even noticed the new ones.

A few months later he and Elisabeth set off for a southern merchant town. The journey was exhausting, the roads looked nothing like the elegant lines on the map, and the beds in the inns proved a serious trial for their backs. Elisabeth remarked that a love of adventure evidently also requires a certain tolerance of uncomfortable pillows.

Matthias laughed, but when he finally saw the unfamiliar town, the harbour and the bustling markets, he felt a joy he had not known for a long time. He understood that he still loved travelling. At the same time he realised how much he valued his home, his wife, his children and everything he had built. His dream now had a different meaning.

Years later he received a letter from Albrecht. His old friend wrote about faraway lands, successful deals, lost goods, dangerous roads and the months spent far from his family. At the end he mentioned that he still remembered the offer he had once made to Matthias.

The merchant read the letter several times. For the first time he understood so clearly that the other life he had imagined over the years would also have brought hardships and losses. There was no way of knowing which path would have brought him more happiness. But he now knew what had hurt him most in his youth: the feeling that he had no right to decide for himself.

One evening he took a small knife and went to the old wooden door. On its inner side he carved the date on which he had stayed behind with the bag in his hand, and wrote: “I could have gone.”

Then he added the present date and one more sentence: “Now I understand why I stayed.”

He looked at the two dates and for the first time felt that he could accept his life without punishing the young man who had once been afraid of disappointing his family. Most important of all, he could now help his own children and grandchildren make their choices more freely.

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The Karmic Vow — If I Choose Myself, I Will Lose Love

The deepest symbolic trace in this story is a promise born of the fear that a personal choice could lead to the loss of love and belonging:

“If I follow my own path, I will disappoint the people I love and lose my place among them.”

A belief like this can surface in your present life when, from an early age, a person has grown used to being the responsible one, the sensible one, the one who always takes everyone else into account. Caring for loved ones gradually turns into a rule according to which your own desires must be set aside for a more suitable time.

Perhaps you feel guilty when you want something different from what your family approves of. You find it hard to turn down requests because you are afraid of seeming selfish. Or you are considering an important change, but before you have even discussed it with your loved ones, you are already convinced they will be against it.

The symbolic vow can be replaced with a new personal promise:

“I can love those close to me, respect their needs and at the same time make responsible decisions about my own life.”

Love and responsibility deserve attention. The same is true of your own desires.

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How the Old Door May Show Up in Your Life Today

Love — When the Future Depends on More Than One Person

Imagine a woman who falls in love with a man from another country. The two of them talk about a shared future, but every more concrete step gives rise to worries. She has a job, a family and a familiar life, and leaving would mean changing a great deal. Instead of discussing where they might live, how they will work and how they will stay connected with their loved ones, the woman starts putting off the conversations, because she is convinced in advance that her family will not approve of such a choice.

For someone else, the old door may be a reminder of a love that ended under the pressure of other people's opinions. Years later he still wonders what would have happened if he had stood up for the relationship. But the memory of a story never lived easily turns into a beautiful fantasy from which all the everyday difficulties of a real relationship are missing.

If you recognise a situation like this, ask yourself whether you know what the people around you actually think, or whether you are afraid of a reaction you have already imagined. And when a decision affects two people, it is important that both say what they want and what they can offer.

Family — When Gratitude Turns into Obligation

Perhaps your parents went to enormous lengths so that you could have an education, a profession or a secure life. You love them and you are grateful, but over the years you discover that your own interests are different. For example, you studied a subject at their insistence, you have a good job, yet you dream of another profession. The very thought of changing it fills you with guilt, as if you would be belittling everything they have done for you.

Another person may keep putting off moving away or living independently because their family relies on them. Some of the obligations may be entirely real and call for concrete solutions. But when no one talks openly about the options, it is easy for the feeling to arise that every change is forbidden.

Johann's story shows how much can change after one honest conversation. Sometimes a family needs a new way of sharing responsibilities so that each person gets the chance to develop their abilities.

Work and Money — When Security Starts to Hold You Back

Perhaps you work for a large company, earn a regular salary and have a good reputation, but you dream of your own studio or small business. You have the necessary skills, you have even received your first offers from clients, and yet you keep putting it off because you are afraid to leave a secure job.

The old door is not urging you towards a hasty decision. You could research the market, work out the funds you will need, start with a few commissions and only then judge how to carry on. In this way you will find out whether the dream can become a real possibility.

For someone else, the main obstacle may be fear of other people's judgement. Their prestigious profession stopped bringing them satisfaction long ago, but they worry that family and friends will see the change as a failure.

If a situation like this is familiar to you, look at the financial risks and other people's expectations separately. The first call for calculations, the second for an open conversation and a personal decision.

Friendships — When Someone Else's Choice Awakens an Old Dream of Yours

Imagine that a friend from your youth has gone to live abroad, started a business of their own or chosen a profession that once attracted you too. You are happy for them, but their stories stir up sadness. Little by little you begin to compare your life with theirs and to see mainly the opportunities you have missed.

Someone else's life, however, also has difficulties that rarely fit into the beautiful photos and stories of success. Instead of comparing yourself, try to understand what exactly draws you — the freedom, the travel, the profession or the courage to start over. It is possible that some part of the old dream is still achievable.

The Most Important Trace — The Choice That Still Belongs to You

One of the most interesting questions in Matthias's story is whether a person can be happy with the life they have built and at the same time regret an opportunity they missed. The answer need not be clear-cut.

You may love your family, value your work and your friends, and still carry a desire you have never fulfilled. That does not diminish what you have achieved. Perhaps the dream has already taken on a new form that is worth exploring.

The old door invites you to tell real obligations apart from the fears you have inherited or created over the years. If today you are once again given the chance to make an important choice, you have the right to discuss it, think it over and seek your own decision.

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Practice for Working Through It — Seven Days Towards Your Own Door

I offer you a seven-day practice, “The Door I Will Open”. You will need a sheet of paper or a notebook in which to write down your observations.

Day one — name your door. Write down one desire you have been putting off for a long time. Phrase it concretely: “I want to explore the possibility of working in another country”, “I want to start a business of my own” or “I want to have a conversation I have been putting off for months”. Think about how long you have carried this dream and why it still draws you.

Day two — the people on the other side. Write down which people would be affected by your decision and what real obligations you have towards them. Then note what you are merely assuming about their reactions. You may discover that some of your worries come from conversations you have never actually had.

Day three — the old promise. Consider whether you grew up with the rule that you must always be the sensible one, the responsible one or the person who puts others first. How has this belief helped you, and when did it start to limit you? Write down how you would like to change it today.

Day four — the map of possibilities. Find three ways to explore your desire. You might look into working conditions, the costs of moving, a training opportunity or a way to start a small project. The aim is to gather real information.

Day five — the price of the choice. Work out what money, time and effort will be needed. Which risks can you limit, and which obligations do you need to organise? When we replace assumptions with concrete facts, we often begin to see more than one possibility.

Day six — the first step. Take one small action: send an enquiry, sign up for a course, draw up a budget or talk to someone with experience. Then note what you have learnt.

Day seven — the decision on the threshold. Read through your notes and judge what you really want to do. You might set a next step or a deadline for preparation, or decide that the dream no longer holds the same meaning. What matters most is that the choice reflects your present desires and possibilities.

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The Symbol You Take with You — The Key and the Map

For this variant I offer you two symbols — an old key and a small map. The key will remind you that the decision about your own life belongs to you as well, and the map will be a sign that you can consider more than one path.

On a sheet of paper, draw the place where you are now and mark one possibility you would like to explore. Between them, write down three concrete actions through which you can move closer to your decision.

When you look at the map, ask yourself one question: “Am I waiting for the right opportunity, or am I still waiting for someone to give me permission to want a different life?”

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Continue Your Karmic Investigation on FatedWays

If the old door has stirred up questions about your own decisions, you can continue on FatedWays — the Game of the Soul.

In the room The Crossroads you can ask: “Which of the possibilities before me best matches my wishes and circumstances today?” If you feel guilty when you think about change, the rooms Karma and The Lineage can help you explore old beliefs and family expectations. In Letting Go you can turn your attention to the fear of disapproval.

If your choice is connected with a particular person, visit Love or Compatibility. For professional opportunities and talents you can continue in Money, Gifts and The Crossroads, and in the room Friend you can explore your relationship with someone whose life reminds you of an old dream of yours.

You can continue your symbolic exploration with the large Tarot spread “The Karmic File — Declassified”, and now with “The Door to a Forgotten Life” as well.

Enter the Game of the Soul

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The Last Page of Your File — The Door That Opened This Time

Many years after that spring morning, the elderly Matthias was sitting in his study when his seventeen-year-old grandson came to see him. The boy was carrying a letter from a relative in another town, who was offering him the chance to continue his education and gain experience in a merchant's counting house.

The young man was excited, but he was afraid his parents would take his leaving as a rejection of the family business.

Matthias looked over the letter and asked:

— And what do you want?

The grandson hesitated. He had expected advice about the dangers of the road or an explanation of why the family business offered a more secure future. Instead his grandfather listened to him as the boy talked about foreign languages, unfamiliar towns and his wish to learn more about trade.

— And would you go, if you were young again? — the grandson asked at last.

Matthias looked at the old map on the desk.

— I don't know. But I would like to have the courage to talk openly about my decision. And not to be so afraid of losing people's love if I chose a different path.

Over the following days the two of them looked into the terms of study, the funds required and the opportunities for work. Then they talked with the family. The boy's parents had their concerns, but this time no one treated those worries as a final prohibition. Little by little they found a way for the young man to go for a set period and then judge how he wanted to continue.

On the day of departure Matthias went out into the courtyard before sunrise. The cart was waiting by the old wooden door, and his grandson was saying goodbye to his family.

The old merchant handed him the map he had kept for more than forty years.

— Take it. There are roads on it that I never managed to travel. I am sure you will also find some that have not yet been marked.

The boy embraced him, tucked the map away and climbed into the cart. A moment later the wheels rattled over the stone threshold and the travellers disappeared round the bend.

Matthias stayed by the door. On one side of it the words “I could have gone” could still be seen, and below them, “Now I understand why I stayed.”

He touched the inscriptions, looked towards the road and smiled. Many years before, he had left his leather bag on the table because he was afraid of disappointing his loved ones. Today he felt sadness at the parting, but he knew he had helped a young man choose with his own heart and mind.

And the old map was already travelling towards an unfamiliar town.

If you have chosen the old door, I wish you to discover which dreams still deserve a place in your life and which you can leave in the past with gratitude. May you meet people who respect your decisions, and may you show the same understanding towards their wishes. And the next time you stand before a door that has long been calling to you, check first whether it is already unlocked. It may turn out that you have spent years looking for permission, when all along it would have been enough simply to press the handle.

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The File Is Open

During the restoration of an old Florentine palazzo, the restorers discover an unusual mark on one of the steps of the wide stone staircase. Between two deep scratches a circle has been carved, open at the top. At first the craftsmen take it for a trace left by a stonemason's work, but among the building's old documents they come across a curious story.

More than four hundred years ago a poor boy was chased off that very staircase because he had dared to climb into a place reserved for the masters and their guests. Years later the boy became an influential merchant whose name appeared in the most important trading records of Florence. Now he could pass through the main entrance, and the servants opened the doors for him with respect.

Among his preserved papers, however, an unsent letter was found containing a few sentences: “I have reached the step I walked towards all my life. Today everyone congratulated me. Tonight there is no one I can tell how happy I ought to have been.”

Shortly before his death the same man made a donation for the education of poor children from craftsmen's families. On the last document he left the words: “Everything begins on the first step.”

Why would a person who had achieved so much feel that the most precious thing had been left somewhere along the way? And what did he discover at the end of his life that made him want to open that same staircase to those who had once been chased away from it?

I confess that staircases have always seemed to me a wonderful symbol of human ambition. You climb in the belief that a marvellous view awaits you on the next landing, you reach it and discover more steps. If a person is particularly stubborn, they can spend their whole life climbing while everyone else has already arranged a lovely dinner on the terrace.

Your symbolic karmic file is connected with ambition, success and the desire to prove your own worth. Perhaps you work more than is really necessary, find it hard to accept praise and, even after a significant achievement, almost immediately start thinking about the next goal. You may have grown so used to coping well that the people around you now take your efforts for granted. And when someone asks whether you are satisfied with what you have achieved, you are already listing what still needs to be done.

The ancient stone staircase will take us to sixteenth-century Florence, where a humiliation marks the beginning of an extraordinary climb. We will meet a man who manages to obtain everything he has striven for, but only after a heavy loss does he understand how high a price he has paid for recognition.

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Regression Journey — The Six Steps of Recognition

Before you open the historical file, I invite you on an imaginary journey inspired by symbolic regression practices. We will use the old staircase so that you can look at your relationship with success, with comparing yourself to others and with your own achievements. The images that appear are personal associations of the imagination and do not in themselves prove memories of a past life. If any scene feels unpleasant, you can change it, watch it from a distance or stop the exercise.

Make yourself comfortable and imagine that you are walking down a street in an old Italian town. The stone buildings are bathed in afternoon sunlight, the sound of tools striking comes from the workshops, and the air smells of wax, wood and freshly baked bread. A large gateway appears before you. You step through it and find yourself in an inner courtyard with columns and a wide stone staircase.

The first step — the child's promise. At the foot of the stairs you see a child in worn clothes, gazing up at the staircase with curiosity. When the child tries to climb, someone orders them to stay below. How do they react? Do they feel shame, anger or a wish to prove something? Move closer to them in your mind and try to understand what promise they make to themselves at this moment.

The second step — the person who succeeds. Time moves forward, and the child is now a grown person whom everyone greets. They have reached a goal they worked towards for a long time. Look at their face. Are they happy? Who do they want to share the achievement with? How long do they allow themselves to feel satisfaction before thinking about the next goal?

The third step — the people left along the way. From a wide landing the person looks back and sees several familiar faces. It might be a friend, a partner, a child or a parent. Who would they wish to meet again? Are there words they have long put off saying?

The fourth step — the mirror. A large mirror appears on the landing. In it the person sees, one after another, the child who feared humiliation, the young person who worked tirelessly, and themselves today. Ask them: “When did you begin to believe that you had to achieve something great in order to deserve respect?”

The fifth step — the place for joy. Further up, a terrace with a beautiful view opens out. There is a bench and a garden where people are talking. Imagine that you can spend some time there without hurrying towards the next goal. Recall three achievements you truly value and one person with whom you would like to share them.

The sixth step — the new promise. Return in your mind to the child from the beginning. Now the child sees the grown person they have become. What would the grown person like to tell the child about the years they have lived? Which successes bring them joy, and what would they do differently? Imagine them offering the child a new promise, one with room for achievement, love, friendship and personal fulfilment.

Gradually bring your attention back to the present and write down which images moved you. Then ask yourself: “If I received today the recognition I have been seeking for so long, what would really change in the way I treat myself?”

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The Story from a Past Life — The Poor Boy's Promise

Florence, 1568. Carts loaded with cloth and leather passed along the narrow streets, the blows of hammers rang out from the workshops, and behind the handsome façades of the wealthy palazzi people talked of trade, money and public influence. The city offered a good many opportunities to talented and persistent people, but birth still determined which doors opened before them and through which entrances they had to pass.

Eleven-year-old Lorenzo Benedetti lived with his family in a modest house near one of the city gates. His father, Giovanni, was a shoemaker, his mother, Caterina, sewed clothes for well-to-do families, and the boy helped in the workshop when he was not busy with his lessons.

Lorenzo was inquisitive, quick-witted and had an astonishing memory. He loved listening to the merchants' conversations, learning the names of the influential families and gazing at the beautiful houses he walked past. He was impressed by the way people stepped aside for the rich gentlemen, the way servants hurried to carry out their wishes and the way their opinions were received with respect.

His father saw things differently.

— What matters is doing your work well — Giovanni would explain. — If people can rely on you, you will have their respect.

The boy listened, but more and more he longed to become, one day, a man before whom no one could close a door.

One spring morning Giovanni sent him to deliver a pair of mended shoes to the house of a rich merchant. Lorenzo carefully wrapped the shoes in cloth and set off towards an imposing stone building near the main square.

When he passed through the gateway, he stopped, astounded. The inner courtyard was surrounded by tall columns, and at one end rose a beautiful stone staircase with ornaments on the walls. Gentlemen in expensive clothes were coming down it, talking about deals and public affairs.

Lorenzo went closer to look at the stone figures and set his foot on the first step.

— Where do you think you're going? — shouted a servant.

The boy turned round, startled.

— I'm bringing shoes for the master. My father mended them.

— Then wait down here. This staircase is for the masters and their guests.

Several people turned towards him. A young man on the upper landing smirked at the sight of his worn shoes and rough clothes. Lorenzo felt his face burn. He tried to say something, but his words came out in a muddle.

He went back into the courtyard and clutched the parcel so tightly that the cloth crumpled.

As he waited, laughter and conversation drifted down from above. The boy was convinced that everyone was laughing at him, though he could not make out what they were saying. Little by little his shame turned into anger. He looked up at the steps and made himself a promise that would shape a great part of his life:

“One day I will climb so high that no one will ever be able to look down on me again.”

When he got home, he handed the money to his father and said nothing about what had happened. Giovanni noticed his unusual silence, but the boy assured him that everything was fine. He did not want anyone to learn how he had felt, because even the memory of the incident stirred up fresh shame.

From that day on, Lorenzo began to study with particular diligence. An elderly priest in the neighbourhood noticed his abilities and offered to teach him reading, writing and arithmetic. The boy did excellently, but he took every mistake so painfully, as if a single wrongly solved problem could send him back for ever to the rich merchant's courtyard.

— Lorenzo, mistakes are part of learning — his teacher would say.

— I know, Father. But I want to be so good that no one has any reason to laugh at me.

The priest watched him thoughtfully. He saw a talented child who longed for knowledge but could hardly bear the thought that he might not be the best.

At seventeen Lorenzo started work in a small trading office. He quickly mastered book-keeping, showed a flair for contracts, and before long his employer was entrusting him with ever more complex tasks. The young man was the first to arrive and the last to leave. Praise pleased him, but only briefly. Almost at once he would start thinking about how to earn the next mark of recognition.

During those years his closest friend was Marco, a carpenter's son with whom he had grown up on the same street. As children the two of them had shared their bread and dreamt about the future. Marco loved wood, tools and the beautiful furniture the craftsmen made for wealthy homes. Lorenzo dreamt of a trading office of his own and great public influence.

When they met after work, Marco talked about the new pieces he wanted to make, and Lorenzo about his next deals and his chances of rising in the world.

— When I'm rich enough, I'll have time for everything — Lorenzo assured his friend. — For travelling, dinners and long conversations.

— Then you'll have to live at least two hundred years — Marco would laugh. — Because you always find some new job that has to be done before dinner.

Lorenzo laughed along with him. He believed Marco was exaggerating and that soon he would be able to afford more free time.

The years went by. At twenty-eight Lorenzo was already handling important deals, and at thirty-five he owned his own office and enjoyed a respected position. He provided his parents with a fine home, helped his father cut back on his work and was proud that his mother no longer had to sew late into the night.

But as soon as he reached one goal, another appeared before him. After his own office came bigger deals, then invitations from influential families, and after them the desire to take part in the city's important public decisions.

During this period he met Elena, an educated young woman from a merchant family who loved music and books. She liked his intelligence, his energy and his perseverance. Lorenzo was charmed by her sense of humour and her gift for asking questions to which he rarely found quick answers.

When he proposed to her, he promised a beautiful home, travel and a happy life. Elena accepted. Their first years were filled with joy, and when the children were born, Lorenzo felt immense pride at being able to give them everything he himself had never had.

Gradually, however, he began coming home later and later. The office was growing, new clients were appearing, and he was constantly looking for opportunities to expand.

— You promised we would be together this Sunday — Elena reminded him once.

— I know. But I have to close an important deal. After that I'll have more time.

— Lorenzo, I've been hearing that promise for years.

He embraced her, assured her that he was working for their future, and the next morning he went out again before sunrise.

Elena loved her husband and was proud of his achievements. But in time she began to feel lonely. The children were growing, learning new things, asking questions, and their father was often present in their lives through gifts and promises of days they would spend together in the future.

Meanwhile Marco had set up his own carpentry workshop. He had married, had two children and gradually earned a good name among his customers. He worked hard, but he did not want to expand his business beyond what he could manage.

— You could take on more people and accept commissions from richer clients — Lorenzo urged him.

— I could — Marco replied. — But I like my work the way it is. In the evenings I want to see my children while they're still awake.

Lorenzo did not understand why anyone would voluntarily give up the chance to earn more. In his eyes such a decision meant that Marco was not using all his abilities.

One autumn several customers were late paying Marco's workshop, a large commission was cancelled, and the materials he had bought had already used up a considerable part of his funds. For the first time he found himself in serious financial difficulty.

After trying to negotiate extensions with his suppliers and find new commissions, he decided to go to Lorenzo. He did not want a gift. He prepared his accounts and asked for a loan, which he intended to repay as soon as his business recovered.

Lorenzo welcomed him warmly, but just then he was preparing the biggest deal of his career. Its success would give him access to influential social circles, and the negotiations demanded considerable funds and attention.

— I understand, Marco — he said, after glancing quickly through the documents. — Leave them with me. We'll talk in a few days.

Marco agreed. But the next meeting was postponed, then a new obligation came up, and after it yet another. Time passed, the workshop's difficulties kept growing, and Marco went to his friend again.

This time Lorenzo was on edge. He knew he could provide part of the money needed, but he was afraid of jeopardising the deal he had been working towards for so long.

— I can't take that risk now — he said.

Marco assured him that he understood the difficulty, but asked that they at least look at the options together.

Lorenzo, however, began to speak more and more sharply.

— Every merchant has to take responsibility for his decisions. If you had run your workshop more carefully, you probably wouldn't have ended up in a position like this.

Marco fell silent.

He had known Lorenzo since the days when the two of them shared a single loaf and helped each other through every difficulty. Now there sat before him a respected merchant who judged his life solely by his accounts and the mistakes that could be found in them.

— I remember the time when we had almost nothing — Marco said quietly. — Back then we always found a way to help each other. Today I understand that a man can own far more and still find it harder to give anything.

He gathered up his papers and left.

Lorenzo stayed behind his desk, stung by his words. For a moment he wanted to go after him, but he looked at the documents for the big deal and decided they would talk once his work was finished.

A few months later he learnt that Marco had closed his workshop and left Florence with his family. He tried to send him a letter, but received no reply. Then new tasks absorbed his attention once more.

The big deal was concluded successfully. Lorenzo won public recognition, his wealth grew and his influence widened. At forty-five he was elected to a prestigious office connected with the city's commercial affairs.

The ceremony was held in a beautiful Florentine palazzo.

When Lorenzo reached the wide stone staircase, he suddenly recognised the place. It was the very building to which, as an eleven-year-old boy, he had brought the shoes his father had mended.

Back then they had stopped him on the very first step.

Now the servants made way for him, the gentlemen greeted him and the doors opened before him. For a moment he felt tremendous emotion. He remembered the poor workshop, the humiliation and the promise that had guided him through all those years.

At last he had reached the place he had dreamt of.

The ceremony went off brilliantly. Lorenzo received congratulations and talked with the most influential people in Florence. But when he came home that evening, the children had already gone out, Elena was tired, and new documents were waiting for him on his desk.

— Were you happy today? — his wife asked him.

— Of course! It's an enormous honour. Only now I'll have even more responsibilities. I have to prepare...

— Lorenzo — Elena interrupted him — I would like us, at least tonight, to enjoy what you have achieved without talking about the next task.

He tried to smile, but his thoughts were already on the meetings ahead.

Later, alone with a glass of wine, he realised how briefly his joy had lasted. All his life he had believed that a high position would bring him confidence and fulfilment. And now that he finally had it, he was already worrying about how to keep it.

The following years brought new achievements, but relationships within the family gradually changed. Elena expected shared dinners less and less often, his daughter shared her interest in music mostly with her mother, and his son started working in trade but found his father's constant demands hard to bear.

Once the boy admitted to Elena:

— I wish Father would, just once, be happy about what I've done without immediately explaining to me what else I need to achieve.

Elena did not know what to answer. She knew that feeling all too well.

One day, as he was preparing for an important meeting, Lorenzo received a letter from another town. It told him that Marco had died.

He read the news several times, put his documents aside and, for the first time in many years, cancelled all his meetings for the afternoon.

He remembered the friend he had grown up with, his jokes, the small carpentry workshop and their last conversation. He realised that over the years he could have sought him out, found out how he had managed and at least asked his forgiveness. But he had kept putting it off, because he was afraid of the meeting.

After some time he managed to find Marco's son, who was carrying on the carpenter's craft in another town. The young man told him that after the hard years the family had gradually recovered. His father had started making furniture again, earned the respect of his customers and passed his skills on to his children.

— Did he ever talk about our friendship? — Lorenzo asked.

— Often — the son replied. — He used to tell how you grew up together and what a clever boy you were. He hoped that one day you would meet again.

Lorenzo felt a weight in his chest. Marco had kept their good memories, despite everything that had happened. And he himself had allowed pride and the fear of an awkward conversation to take away the last chance to mend their friendship.

That evening he told Elena everything.

— I spent so many years trying to prove that I deserved respect — he admitted. — And when Marco came to me, I treated him the way I was once treated.

Elena heard him out.

— I have always believed in your abilities, Lorenzo. I never wanted you to stop growing. But I wished you would understand that you matter to us even when you are not winning a new deal.

The conversation made him reflect on how much of his loved ones' lives he had missed. Gradually he began to set aside more time for Elena and the children. He went to a musical evening with his daughter, listened to his son's ideas about trade without immediately correcting them, and for the first time in years spent a whole day with his family without glancing at his business papers.

The change took effort. Habits built up over decades did not vanish in a single evening. But Lorenzo began to find joy in conversations and experiences he had long postponed to some undetermined future.

When he was already an old man, he visited the palazzo with the stone staircase once more. He climbed a few steps, leaning on his walking stick, and stopped on the landing overlooking the courtyard.

He remembered the eleven-year-old boy who had once been chased off the first step. He had wanted so badly to protect himself from other people's contempt that he had made success the sole measure of his own worth.

As he looked around the courtyard, he noticed a child in worn clothes carrying a basket of documents. The boy went up to the staircase with curiosity, but a servant ordered him to stay below.

Lorenzo recognised the scene at once.

He came slowly down and went up to the child.

— What is your name?

— Paolo, sir.

The boy helped his father, who was a craftsman, but he dreamt of learning to read, write and do sums so that one day he could work in a trading office. His family, however, had no money for schooling.

Lorenzo talked with him for a long time. He told him that he himself had once been a poor boy who brought mended shoes to this courtyard, and that an elderly priest had helped him gain knowledge.

— If your parents agree, I will find you a good teacher — he offered.

Paolo looked at him mistrustfully. Only after several questions did he understand that the old gentleman was serious.

Then Lorenzo held out his hand to him.

— Come, I want to show you something.

The boy looked at the staircase and hesitated.

— But sir, they told me I'm not allowed to go up.

— Today you are my guest.

The two of them began to climb. Paolo gazed wide-eyed at the stone ornaments, the tall windows and the beautiful paintings. They stopped on one of the landings, and Lorenzo looked down at the first step, from which he had once been chased away.

For the first time he understood how differently he could use the position he had striven for all his life.

Soon afterwards he began setting aside funds for the education of Paolo and other children from poor craftsmen's families. He wanted them to have the chance to develop their abilities without the humiliation of their origins deciding their future.

When he signed the documents for the donation, he wrote on the last page:

“Everything begins on the first step.”

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The Karmic Vow — I Must Succeed in Order to Deserve Respect

Lorenzo's symbolic vow is born at the moment when a poor boy takes humiliation as proof that he must change his own worth. He promises himself to become so rich and influential that no one will ever be able to look down on him again.

Over the years this promise gives him discipline, perseverance and the strength to overcome difficulties. But gradually it begins to demand more and more of him. Every achievement becomes a brief stop on the way to the next, and every mistake looks like a threat to the respect he has sought for so long.

In your present life a pattern like this can show up as the belief that you must constantly prove your abilities. Perhaps you feel uncomfortable when you receive praise, because you immediately remember what you have not yet managed to do. Or you find it hard to turn down extra responsibilities because you worry that someone will decide you are no longer capable enough.

The most interesting question is what you really want to gain through your next achievement. More freedom, financial security, enjoyment of your work? Or confirmation that you deserve respect?

The new promise you can take from this story is:

“I will develop my abilities and pursue my goals, remembering that my own worth does not depend solely on what I achieve.”

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How the Stone Staircase May Show Up in Your Life Today

Love — When You Try to Earn Closeness

Imagine a man who works overtime because he wants to give his family a fine home, travel and financial security. When his partner tells him she misses their conversations and the time with him, he feels misunderstood. He is convinced that his efforts are proof of love, while she needs more shared moments.

In someone else, the drive for recognition may take the form of always wanting to be flawless in front of their partner. They try to look good, to be interesting, successful and smiling, even when they are going through a difficult period. They are afraid that if they show weakness, the other person will lose interest.

The old trace invites you to ask yourself whether you feel loved even when you fail to live up to every expectation. Can you say that you are tired, that you need support or that right now you do not know how to cope? Love deserves room for conversations like these as well.

Family — Whose Recognition Are You Still Seeking?

Perhaps you grew up in a family where high achievement mattered a great deal. Your parents were proud of top marks, prizes and successes, while mistakes often caused disappointment. Over time you began to believe that you had to be the best in order to justify their trust.

Imagine a woman who is the first in her family to graduate from university. Her parents went to great lengths for her education, and she sincerely wants to make them happy. She takes a prestigious job, but years later discovers that she would like to do something else. Yet she keeps putting off the change, because she is afraid her family will see the decision as a failure.

In someone else, this trace may show up in their expectations of their own children. The wish for them to have a better life gradually turns into constant pressure for excellent results. The child receives praise, but immediately afterwards hears what still needs improving.

Ask yourself whether you are able to rejoice in the successes of those close to you without immediately setting the next goal. And whether you allow yourself the same.

Work and Money — The Success That Is Never Quite Enough

In professional life the stone staircase can show up especially clearly. Perhaps for years you have been working towards a promotion, attending training courses and taking on extra tasks. When you finally get the position you wanted, the joy lasts a few days, and then you start worrying about whether you will manage to keep it.

Another person may link recognition with money. At first they dream of having enough to live well. When they get it, they begin comparing themselves with people who earn more. Little by little the beautiful home, the comfortable car and the good income begin to seem insufficient.

Ambition can be a wonderful engine of growth. But it is worth knowing why you are chasing the next goal and what price you are prepared to pay for it. Perhaps you want more interesting work, greater financial independence or the chance to develop a talent of yours. Then it is worth making a plan. If, however, your only reason is the fear that without a new success you will lose other people's respect, it is probably time to rethink the rules of your own race.

Friendships — The People Who Knew You Before Success

Have you ever met an old friend and found that you now talk almost like strangers? Once you shared your dreams, your worries and your small joys, and now your meetings are constantly postponed because of work and new obligations.

Perhaps you have begun to spend time mainly with people from your professional circle, because your conversations are useful for your development. And the friends of your youth have gradually been left on the sidelines, even though they were the very ones by your side when you did not yet have the successes you are proud of today.

The opposite situation is also possible — someone close to you achieves considerable success, and you begin to compare yourself with them and feel uncomfortable. Instead of sharing experiences, you gradually turn your conversations into an invisible competition.

Think of one person who has known you for a long time and with whom you would like to talk again without hurrying. Perhaps that will be one of the most valuable decisions you make in the coming days.

The Most Important Trace — Who Will Be Beside You on the Last Step?

This story raises a question that is easily lost among everyday tasks: how will you know that you have achieved enough to allow yourself to be glad?

If every goal leads only to the next, success can gradually turn into endless proving. But when you know what you truly value, you can set your goals so that there is room for work, for relationships and for your own interests.

Think about what your success looks like beyond professional titles, income and other people's judgements. Which people do you want to be part of it? What do you love doing when no one expects yet another achievement from you? And when did you last take the time to be glad about something you have already managed to do?

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Practice for Working Through It — The Seven Steps of Recognition

I offer you a seven-day practice that will help you look at your relationship with success, recognition and your personal goals.

The first step — the child's promise. Write down a belief that often influences your decisions. For example, “I must always be the best”, “I have no right to make mistakes” or “People will respect me when I achieve more”. Think about when you started believing this and whether it still helps you.

The second step — other people's gaze. Whose recognition matters most to you? It might be a parent, a partner, a manager or someone you compare yourself with. Write down what you would like to hear from them, and recall an achievement you value even though no one else noticed it.

The third step — the price of the climb. Choose a goal you are working towards right now. What will it bring you, and what money, effort and time does it require? Which relationships and pursuits do you want to keep while you work towards it?

The fourth step — the friend along the way. Recall a person who supported you through a difficult period. When did you last have a real conversation? If you wish, send them a message or arrange to meet. If the relationship has ended, write down what valuable things you received from it.

The fifth step — enough. Write down ten things you have already achieved. Include the small victories you usually take for granted. Choose one of them and remember how much it meant to you when you achieved it.

The sixth step — the new promise. Read the belief from the first day and think about what you would like to replace it with. It might be: “I have the right to grow, to make mistakes, to learn and to rejoice in what I have achieved.” Write it on a separate sheet of paper and keep it.

The seventh step — your summit. Imagine the life you would like to have a few years from now. How do you work, who do you spend your time with and what brings you joy? Write down your own definition of success and choose one change you can make in the coming month to bring yourself closer to it.

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The Symbol You Take with You — The Seventh Step

For this variant I suggest that you keep the image of a wide stone landing from which a beautiful view opens out. It will remind you that you can appreciate the road you have travelled before choosing your next direction.

Take seven small pebbles and place them in your favourite spot, or draw a staircase with seven steps. On the last one, write the word “Enough”.

When you look at the symbol, recall one of your achievements and one person with whom you would like to share it.

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Continue Your Karmic Investigation on FatedWays

If the stone staircase has made you reflect on your own goals and your desire for recognition, you can continue on FatedWays — the Game of the Soul.

In the room Karma you can ask: “Which old belief makes me constantly prove my own worth?” In The Lineage you can explore your family's ideas about success, and in Letting Go, the fear of making mistakes or of disapproval.

If the theme is connected with your professional development, visit Gifts, Money or The Crossroads. For your relationship with a partner you can continue in Love and Compatibility, and if the story has reminded you of someone you have drifted apart from over the years, in the room Friend.

And when you wish to explore the theme through the symbols of the Tarot, you can continue with the large spread “The Karmic File — Declassified”.

Enter the Game of the Soul

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The Last Page of Your File — The Man Who Opened the Way

Several years after Lorenzo's first meeting with Paolo, the young man came to his house again. He could now read, write and do sums, he worked in a trading office and he had been offered a more responsible position.

Lorenzo welcomed him gladly, but noticed that Paolo looked uneasy.

— What is troubling you? — he asked.

— I'm afraid of disappointing you. You have done so much for me. If I can't manage the new job, everyone will decide I didn't deserve this opportunity.

Lorenzo put the letter down on the table. In the boy's words he recognised his own thoughts from his youth.

— Do you know why I once helped you climb that staircase? — he asked.

Paolo shook his head.

— Because as a child I was chased away from that same place. I spent a great part of my life trying to prove that I deserved to climb higher than everyone else. I wanted to be respected, but the more I achieved, the more afraid I was of losing that recognition.

— And do you regret having worked so hard?

— I am proud of many of the things I have achieved. But I wish I had set aside more time for the people I love. And that I had understood sooner that one mistake does not wipe out all the good a person has done.

Then the two of them went out to the old stone staircase. Lorenzo now moved slowly and leant on his walking stick, and Paolo walked beside him and helped him climb.

They stopped on the wide landing. From there a beautiful view opened out over the courtyard, the roofs of the neighbouring buildings and the bustling Florentine streets.

— Shall we go further up? — Paolo asked.

Lorenzo smiled.

— Today I'd rather we stayed here a little while. I like the view.

The two of them sat down on the stone bench. Paolo began to talk about his work, the people he had met and his plans. Lorenzo listened with interest, asked questions and enjoyed the conversation.

After a while the young man laughed:

— Have you always been this patient?

— Ask my wife. But it would be best to do it when I'm far enough away not to hear the answer.

They both burst out laughing.

When the afternoon sun began to sink, Paolo stood up and offered him his hand. Lorenzo looked at the steps that had once determined so many of his decisions.

Decades earlier a poor boy had been chased away from this place. Today beside him stood a young man who had been given the chance to develop his abilities, and the old merchant felt a joy for which he no longer needed anyone else's congratulations.

— I wish you to reach all your goals, Paolo — said Lorenzo. — But when you come to a fine landing, take the time to look around. And if there is someone beside you with whom you want to share the view, don't make them wait until the next step.

Paolo nodded, and the two of them slowly began to make their way down.

If you have chosen the stone staircase, I wish you successes that truly make you happy, goals that are meaningful to you and people with whom you can share your victories. May you develop your abilities, win recognition and create the life you are striving for, but may you not forget to notice the good things along the way. And when you reach yet another step, allow yourself to look around. The view may be so lovely that you decide to stay for a while. It is hardly likely that anyone will take away your title of “the most ambitious person on the staircase” if you allow yourself five minutes' rest.

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The File Is Open

In an old railway archive, among yellowed timetables and tickets from the early twentieth century, an envelope was found bearing the name of a young woman who left her home town in the spring of 1912. Inside were a ticket to Vienna, a photograph and a page torn from a diary. On the back of the photograph, in a graceful feminine hand, someone had written: “I left before I could say goodbye. I thought that one day I would find the right words.”

The photograph shows an old street with wet cobblestones. Beneath tall stone arcades a horse-drawn carriage is waiting, and beside one of the columns a young woman grips the handle of a large brown suitcase. Her hair is pinned up beneath an elegant hat, her coat is buttoned to the throat, and her gaze is fixed on the street she has come along. It is as though she is waiting for someone to catch up with her, even though she fears that, if they do, she might lose her resolve.

Later, a small book of poems bound in dark blue cloth was added to the envelope. On its first page someone had written: “The world is bigger than our fear.”

Who gave her the book? Whom was the woman with the suitcase waiting for? And why was the ticket kept for decades after the journey?

I confess that when people go away, they usually prepare the essentials with great care. They check the tickets, the documents, the luggage, the money and the timetables, and if they are especially far-sighted, they pack something to eat as well. The feelings of their loved ones, however, rarely fit in a suitcase. Guilt in particular — it usually manages to find the most comfortable seat without ever having bought a ticket.

Your symbolic karmic file is connected with parting, freedom, belonging to a family and the words that remain unspoken. Perhaps you left a relationship, a job, a town or a country because you wanted a different life. The decision may have brought you joy, growth and new opportunities, and yet you may still wonder whom you hurt along the way.

The story will take us to Central Europe in 1912. We will meet a young woman who dreams of studying and working in Vienna, a father convinced he knows which future is best for his daughter, and a music teacher ready to support her wishes in spite of his own feelings. One departure will separate them, but the truth about their relationships will surface much later, hidden in a letter that never reached the person it was meant for.

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Regression Journey — the last morning before the departure

Before you read the story, I invite you on a symbolic journey of the imagination, inspired by regression practices. It can help you explore the feelings connected with a parting or an important decision. The images that arise are personal associations and do not, in themselves, establish actual memories of a past life. If a scene feels unpleasant, you can change it, watch it from a distance or stop the exercise.

Make yourself comfortable and imagine an old European town in the early morning. The cobblestones gleam after the night’s rain, mist drifts between the tall arcades, and the street lamps are still lit. Somewhere nearby a clock strikes the hour. Beneath one of the arcades a carriage is waiting, and beside it stands a large leather suitcase.

The first scene — the evening before the departure. Picture a room in which someone is packing. On the desk lie a ticket, a letter and a few personal belongings. Which objects does this person take along, and which memory would they like to keep? Whom is it hardest for them to leave behind, and what words do they keep putting off saying?

The second scene — the last conversation. The person has a chance to talk with someone close whose opinion matters to them. It may be a parent, a partner or a friend. What does one of them want, and what is the other afraid of? Imagine that both of them can express their feelings openly, even when they disagree.

The third scene — the suitcase beneath the arcades. Return to the misty morning. The carriage is waiting, and the person looks back at the street they have come along. If they could send just one sentence to someone who stayed at home, what would they write?

The fourth scene — the platform. Picture the tall station clock, the steam from the locomotive and the passengers with their suitcases. Someone may arrive to say goodbye, or perhaps the person will board alone. What do they feel as the train pulls away? Which feelings arise alongside the excitement of a new beginning?

The fifth scene — life after the choice. Time moves forward. The person now lives somewhere else and has lived through years full of new relationships and challenges. Look around their home. Which things have they kept from their former life? What have they gained, and what do they still grieve for?

The sixth scene — the unsent letter. An envelope in a familiar hand comes into their possession. Inside there may be a confession, an explanation or words the other person never managed to say. Imagine what it says, remembering that this is a creative image and not real information about anyone’s feelings. How does the story change if you allow that it may have more than one point of view?

The seventh scene — the return to the station. You are on the platform again, but the person is older now. In their hands is an object kept from the departure. Ask them what the path they chose has brought them, what they regret, and what they would like to say to the young person with the suitcase.

Gradually bring your attention back to the present. Write down which scene stirred the strongest feeling and which words have stayed in your thoughts.

The question that remains: “Which of my decisions still makes me feel guilty, and what do I actually know about the feelings of the people it affected?”

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The Story from a Past Life — the woman who left before sunrise

Central Europe, spring 1912. In a small town beside a broad river, life followed an established order. Horse-drawn carts rolled along the cobbled streets, the shops opened early, and on Sundays the respectable families gathered after church to discuss the latest events. Engagements, marriages and the neighbours’ decisions aroused particular interest. With enough diligence, some people managed to learn of other people’s plans even before those who were meant to carry them out.

In a spacious two-storey house near the main square lived twenty-three-year-old Klara Weiss. Her father, Josef, owned a fabric shop that he had inherited and expanded, and her mother, Marta, looked after the household and the family’s relations with the town’s respectable families.

Klara had chestnut hair, pale eyes and a habit of touching the small silver pendant at her throat whenever she was worried. She spoke French, played the piano and loved books. What drew her most were the stories of the great European cities, the theatres, concert halls and universities, where women were gradually gaining new opportunities for education and work.

Josef sincerely loved his daughter and wanted to secure a good future for her. He had seen how hard life was for women without means of their own or the support of a family, and he believed that a respectable marriage was the surest road to a happy life.

For several years her parents had been discussing the possibility of Klara marrying Friedrich, a young merchant from a wealthy family. He was well mannered and attentive, and he treated her with respect. He brought her flowers, accompanied her to family gatherings and talked with her father about their future home.

Klara liked him and valued his good nature. But when she tried to imagine their marriage, she saw a life in which her main occupation would be looking after the house and taking part in family gatherings. That was exactly what Friedrich wanted, and he had no reason to think their wishes differed so greatly.

One evening Klara told her mother that she wanted to study in Vienna.

— You’ll be able to travel after the wedding too — Marta replied. — Friedrich is a good man. He’ll take care of you.

— But I want to study and work on my own, Mama. I want to find out what I’m capable of.

Marta looked at her sadly. She took the words for a youthful infatuation that would gradually pass once her daughter had a family of her own.

Klara realised that everyone around her had already arranged her future with the best of intentions. Only nobody had asked whether she herself wanted it.

The previous autumn a young music teacher named Adrian had arrived in the town. He had lived in Vienna and Prague, played the piano beautifully and had a lively sense of humour. The two of them met at a musical evening and soon discovered that they could talk for hours about books, concerts and travel.

Adrian told her about the Viennese coffee houses, the theatre performances and the musicians he had met. Klara listened with enormous interest, and he gladly discussed her plans without treating them as frivolous.

In time Adrian began to feel something for her that went beyond friendship. He liked her curiosity and the way she came alive when she talked about music. Klara was also deeply attached to him, but she saw their relationship above all as a friendship. He was the person with whom she could talk openly without having to justify her wishes.

One afternoon, as they were walking by the river, Adrian asked her whether she truly wanted to marry Friedrich.

Klara was silent for a long time.

— He’s a good man. But when I think about our marriage, I feel as though my life has already been written. And I still haven’t worked out what I want to do with it.

Adrian told her about his own departure when he was young. His first years away from home had been hard, but they had given him the chance to study music and find his place.

— Do you regret leaving? — Klara asked.

— What I regret most is the time I spent being afraid to do it.

A few weeks later a letter arrived from Klara’s cousin Elisabeth, who lived in Vienna. She invited Klara to stay with her while she attended courses in languages and music and looked for suitable work.

Klara read the letter so many times that she was soon able to repeat almost every sentence. She began studying the timetables, working out the costs and thinking about how she might support herself. For the first time her wish seemed achievable.

When she told Josef, the conversation quickly turned into an argument.

— A young unmarried woman alone in Vienna? — her father exclaimed. — Have you thought about what people will say? Friedrich is offering you a secure future.

— Papa, I want to study. I can stay with Elisabeth and look for work.

— I’ve worked my whole life so that you’d never have to worry about such things.

— I know. I’m grateful to you. But I want to decide for myself how to live.

Josef grew angry. In her words he heard a rejection of everything he had done for her.

— As long as you live under my roof, I will not allow such a journey.

Marta tried to reconcile them, but she too was worried about public opinion and the forthcoming engagement. She suggested that Klara wait until the wedding and then travel with her husband.

Over the following weeks the family went on discussing the wedding plans as though the conversation about Vienna had never taken place. Friedrich was pleased with how things were developing, while Klara understood more and more clearly that if she did not make a decision soon, her life would set off in a direction she had not chosen.

After one more painful conversation with her father, she wrote to Elisabeth, began gathering her savings and bought a train ticket to Vienna.

On the evening before her departure she took out the large brown suitcase and packed her clothes, her books and the essentials. Then she sat down at her desk to write a letter to her parents.

The first attempt was long and full of explanations. Klara read it through and tore up the pages. The second letter seemed to her far too cold. At the third attempt she began to cry.

In the end she wrote a short note saying that she was leaving for Vienna, would stay with her cousin and would write as soon as she arrived. She left it on the table and spent the night almost without sleep.

Before sunrise she slipped out through the side door. The streets were wet from the night’s rain, the lamps lit the cobblestones, and the town was still asleep. Several times Klara turned round, because she thought someone was calling her.

Beneath the old arcades the carriage she had arranged was waiting for her.

The coachman shifted impatiently beside the horse, and Klara stood for a moment beside her suitcase. She imagined how she might go back, unpack and carry on with the life her family had prepared for her. Everyone would be pleased. Probably she too would learn to live that way.

Then she looked at the ticket.

— To the station, please — she said to the coachman.

The man lifted the suitcase, Klara climbed into the carriage, and the wheels set off over the wet cobblestones.

There were already passengers at the station. Porters were carrying luggage, steam was rising from the locomotive, and the great clock showed that little time remained before departure. Klara found her carriage and set her suitcase down on the platform. Several times she glanced towards the entrance, although she was not expecting anyone.

Then she saw Adrian.

The young teacher hurried towards her. In his hand he carried a small book bound in dark blue cloth.

— For the journey — he said, handing it to her. — So you won’t be bored if the train is late. With the railways, one should never underestimate that possibility.

Klara laughed through her tears. She opened the first page and read what was written there in his hand:

“The world is bigger than our fear.”

— How did you know when I was leaving? — she asked.

— Elisabeth wrote to me. I decided someone ought to come and see you off.

Klara looked at him gratefully. She wanted to tell him how much their conversations had meant to her and how greatly he had helped her believe in her own abilities. But the words caught in her throat.

Adrian understood. He had known for a long time that he loved her, but he did not want his feelings to become one more reason for her to hesitate. He wished her well with her studies, with going to concerts and meeting interesting people. Then he asked her to write to him about the first musical performance she saw in Vienna.

Klara promised.

When the guards called the passengers, she boarded the carriage and stood by the window. Adrian remained on the platform. The train pulled away, she raised her hand in farewell, and his figure gradually vanished into the steam and the mist.

In Vienna Elisabeth met her. The first days were full of impressions — wide boulevards, bustling coffee houses, bookshops, theatres and concert halls. Klara was enchanted, but she soon discovered that living on her own demanded far more effort than she had imagined.

Her money was limited, work was hard to find, and the courses required perseverance. She was turned down several times and began to wonder whether she had overestimated her abilities. Elisabeth helped her draw up a budget and encouraged her to keep going.

After a few months Klara found work as an assistant at a music publisher. Her knowledge of French proved useful, and her duties allowed her to deal with people whose interests she shared. The work was tiring, but little by little she began to build the life she had dreamt of.

She went to concerts, improved her languages and made new friends. In the evenings, however, when she was alone, she often thought about her parents.

Marta wrote to her fairly regularly. She told her about the shop, about family events and about people they knew. Josef stayed silent.

Klara sent him several letters with photographs and accounts of her work and her courses, but she received no reply. Gradually she came to believe that her father would never forgive her and that her secret departure had destroyed his love for her.

— Do you actually know what he feels? — Elisabeth asked her once.

— If he wanted to hear from me, he would write.

— Perhaps. But you know your father. When he doesn’t know what to say, he usually chooses silence.

Klara thought about it, but the sadness remained. She went on writing from time to time, secretly hoping that one of her letters would receive an answer.

After about a year Adrian told her that he had accepted a post in Prague. The two of them exchanged a few letters about music, concerts and their new occupations. Later the correspondence grew less frequent. Klara learnt that Adrian had married and had two children. She was glad for him and kept the book of poems among her most treasured possessions.

Meanwhile her life in Vienna was going well. She had been given more responsibility at the publisher’s, she had friends, and gradually she began to feel at home in the big city.

A few years after her departure a letter came from Marta. Josef was seriously ill.

Klara immediately began preparing for the journey to her home town. At the publisher’s, however, there was an important commission, and her means were limited. She tried to arrange leave and to gather the money she needed, assuring her mother that she would come at the first opportunity.

Before she was able to leave, she received a telegram.

Her father had died.

Klara stood for a long time with the sheet of paper in her hands. Over the years she had imagined how one day she would return, they would talk, and Josef would understand why she had had to leave. Now that conversation would never take place.

She arrived for the funeral and once again crossed the threshold of the house she had once left in secret. The familiar furniture, the wooden floors and the scent of Marta’s flowers awakened so many memories that for a moment it seemed to her that her father’s voice would sound from the study.

Over the following days she and her mother began going through his papers. In one of the drawers Klara found some carefully preserved letters.

She recognised her own handwriting at once.

They were all the letters she had sent from Vienna. Arranged by date, together with the photographs of concerts, streets and meetings with friends.

— He read them — Marta said when she saw her surprise. — He often sat in the study in the evenings and reread your letters. He showed the photographs to close friends. He was proud of you.

— Then why did he never answer me?

— He tried. But he always said he didn’t know how to begin.

A little later Klara found a sealed envelope bearing her name. The letter had been written a few months after her departure, but it had never been sent.

In it Josef admitted how angry and powerless he had felt when he discovered that his only daughter had left without saying goodbye. For a long time he had believed he knew which future was best for her, and he had found it hard to accept that Klara wanted a different life. He had feared society’s disapproval and the dangers of the big city, but gradually he had come to worry above all about whether she was happy.

He described how he reread her letters and how glad the news of her work and studies made him. Each time he picked up his pen, but he put off replying, because he could not find words that would express both his hurt and his love at once.

At the end he had written:

“I was afraid to let you go, because I thought I would lose you. Now I understand that with my silence I am the one widening the distance between us. I am proud of you, daughter, even though I have not found the courage to tell you so.”

Klara read the last lines several times. For so many years she had taken her father’s silence as proof that he had stopped loving her. Now she discovered that he had followed her life with interest and had been proud of her achievements.

The pain of the loss remained. To it was added regret for the conversations the two of them had never managed to have.

That evening Klara sat alone in her old room. From the window she could see the street along which she had once set off for the station. She remembered the wet cobblestones, the fear of losing her parents’ love, and the unspoken words she would now never be able to say to them.

Then she made herself a promise:

“Never again will I cause such pain to a person who loves me.”

She believed that if she were careful enough with everyone, she would be able to prevent such partings and regrets.

Over the following years, however, this promise gradually began to shape her everyday life. She found it hard to refuse requests, changed her plans whenever someone needed her, and felt guilty even when she had good reason to choose her own wishes.

In time she met a man who worked in publishing and shared her interest in books and music. The two of them grew close, started a family and had a daughter. Her husband respected her work and her independence, and their home gradually filled with music, books and lively conversation.

Despite her happiness, Klara went on worrying whenever someone close to her felt sad or disappointed. If her mother said she missed her, she would immediately start changing her plans. If work required her to be away, she felt guilty about leaving the child with relatives, even though everyone was happy with the arrangement.

One evening her husband asked her why she found it so hard to say no, even when she was unable to do what was asked.

Klara told him about Josef, about his unsent letter and about the promise she had made herself after his death.

— I understand why you want to protect the people close to you — he said. — But when someone is sad, it doesn’t always mean that you have done something wrong.

His words stayed in her thoughts.

The years went by, and their daughter grew up. The girl loved science, read a great deal and dreamt of studying in another city. Klara delighted in her curiosity, but when the departure began to look genuinely possible, she felt a familiar anxiety.

She pictured the empty room, the evenings without their conversations and the dangers a young girl might meet far from home. She began asking more and more questions about the university, the lodgings, the costs and the people her daughter would be living with.

One evening the girl asked her:

— Mama, are you disappointed that I want to go away?

Klara fell silent.

Suddenly she remembered Josef’s face when she told him she wanted to study in Vienna. Back then she had felt as though her father’s love depended on her decision to stay. And now her own daughter was beginning to fear the same thing.

Klara put her arms round her.

— I’ll miss you terribly — she admitted. — I’ll worry about whether you’ve arrived, whether you’ve eaten and whether you’ve left your coat on some train. But I’m very proud of you. And I want you to have the chance to study what you love.

The girl smiled and hugged her even more tightly.

That same evening Klara opened the old cupboard and took out the book of poems Adrian had given her. She turned to the first page and read the words that had once helped her board the train:

“The world is bigger than our fear.”

She looked towards her daughter’s room and understood what she wanted to give her on the day of her departure.

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The Karmic Vow — never again will I abandon anyone

Klara’s symbolic vow is born of the painful conviction that her own decision caused an irreparable loss. After her father’s death she comes to believe that if she had stayed, or had done more, their relationship would have ended differently.

Gradually the promise takes on a broader meaning:

“If I choose my own happiness, I will cause pain to the people I love.”

A pattern like this can appear after a break-up, a move away, a divorce or a decision that disappointed the people close to you. You may have been convinced that the change was necessary, and yet years later you may still feel guilty when you remember someone else’s tears, anger or silence.

Perhaps you have learnt to be available to everyone, you find it hard to set boundaries, and you often worry about how the other person will feel if you say no. Little by little you begin to perceive every disappointment others feel as your personal failing.

But relationships between people are more complex. We can care for those close to us, talk openly and take responsibility for our own actions. We cannot determine in advance all of other people’s reactions, nor can we remove the sadness that accompanies certain changes in life.

The new promise you can take from this story is:

“I can love the people who matter to me and make responsible decisions about my own life, respecting their feelings as well as my own needs.”

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How the woman at the station may show up in your life today

Love — when the parting goes on after the relationship has ended

Imagine a woman who ended a relationship with a man she loved because the two of them had different ideas about their shared future. In time she built a new life, but she still feels guilty when she hears that her former partner is still on his own.

She starts replying to his messages, agrees to meet and tries hard not to hurt him, even though she no longer has any wish to rekindle the relationship. Gradually the uncertainty makes things difficult for both of them. She is afraid to draw a clear boundary, and he may take the closeness as hope of a new beginning.

Another person experiences a parting in the opposite way. They cut off all contact because they fear a painful conversation, yet years later they are still wondering what their partner really felt and whether something was left unresolved.

With stories like these, it helps to ask yourself what is holding you back — love for that particular person, regret for your own actions, or the desire to be reassured that the other person is no longer suffering.

Adrian’s story adds a particularly beautiful perspective. He loved Klara, but he understood how important the departure was for her. He saw her off with a book and words that gave her courage, and afterwards he went on with his own life, started a family and kept a fond memory of their friendship. The parting was sad, but it did not take away the value of what they had shared.

Family — when the grown-up child still wants permission

Perhaps your parents made enormous efforts to secure a good future for you. You love them, you are grateful, and you try to keep your relationship close. But when your own wishes differ from their expectations, you begin to feel guilty.

Imagine a man who receives a job offer in another country. He has long wanted an opportunity like this, but his parents worry that they will be left alone. He suggests arranging regular visits and keeping in constant touch, yet he still keeps putting it off, because he fears the move will be seen as ingratitude.

For someone else, the issue may be the choice of a partner, a profession or a way of life that their family finds hard to accept. Sometimes behind their disapproval lie genuine concerns that deserve attention. At other times their worry has to do with the need to accept that they can no longer determine every decision of their grown-up child.

The old story also offers the parent’s point of view. When Klara’s daughter decides to leave, the mother feels the same sadness that Josef once knew. The difference shows itself in the conversation: Klara manages to admit her own fears without making her daughter their hostage.

Work and money — when a new beginning also brings doubts

Perhaps you left a secure job, settled in another city or started your own business. At first you were full of hope, but after the first difficulties you began to wonder whether you had made a mistake.

Imagine a woman who leaves a stable job to open her own small business. The first months are hard, the income is irregular, and there turn out to be more obligations than she expected. When her family voices concern, she begins to see every difficulty as proof that she has let down the people who believed in her.

For someone else, the choice may be a move abroad. He has found a good job, but he misses his friends, his familiar places and being close to his family. On difficult evenings he imagines how easy his life would be if he had never left.

Klara’s story is a reminder that a new beginning rarely removes every difficulty. She went through rejections, money worries and loneliness before she found her place in Vienna. When you assess your own decision, it helps to look at the real outcomes, the possibilities for change and the circumstances you were in when you made your choice.

Friendships — the people who remain important after a parting

A move away or a major change in life often changes friendships too. Perhaps you had someone close with whom you talked almost every day, and after you left you gradually began writing to each other less and less often. Life went on, new relationships and obligations appeared, but the memory of the friendship kept its meaning.

At other times relationships change because one person has made a choice the other finds hard to accept. Resentment may arise, a feeling of being abandoned, or the conviction that the former closeness no longer matters.

If this theme is familiar to you, think of someone you have not talked to for a long time. What would you like to tell them today? Perhaps one short message will be enough to restore the connection. Or perhaps you will simply want to keep the fond memory and your gratitude for the time you shared.

The Most Important Trace — what do you know and what are you only assuming?

For years Klara believed that her father had stopped loving her. His silence was real, as was his anger after her departure. But she did not know that he was keeping her letters and was proud of her.

This is one of the most important themes of your karmic file: how much of your guilt comes from known facts, and how much from assumptions about other people’s feelings?

Perhaps you believe that someone from your past never forgave you. Or you are convinced that the people close to you regard a particular decision of yours as an unforgivable mistake. You may have grounds for these thoughts, but there may also be things you have never had the chance to learn.

If a conversation is possible and appropriate, you can seek clarity. If the relationship has ended or the person is no longer alive, you can look at your own actions and the circumstances without turning assumptions into final truths.

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Practice for Working Through It — seven stops on the way to freedom from guilt

I offer you a seven-day practice to help you look at an important decision from the past and the feelings it still stirs.

First stop — the departure. Write down a decision with which you changed your life or parted from a person, a place, a job or a familiar way of living. What circumstances led you to it? What did you want, and what did you know at the time? Try to look at the choice through the eyes of the person you were at that moment.

Second stop — the people who stayed behind. Think about which people were affected by your decision. What feelings do you have towards them today? Write down which of your actions you regret and which of other people’s reactions you keep imagining.

Third stop — the unspoken. Write a letter to someone with whom you have unresolved feelings. Tell them what you wanted to explain, what you are grateful for and what you would like them to know. The letter can stay just for you. If you are considering actual contact, judge whether it is appropriate.

Fourth stop — facts and assumptions. Divide a sheet of paper into two columns. In one, write down what you know for certain, and in the other, what you assume about the thoughts and feelings of the others. For example, you may know that someone stopped writing to you, but not know all the reasons for their silence.

Fifth stop — my responsibility. Think about what depended on you and what was beyond your power. For which of your actions can you take responsibility? Can anything be put right or explained today? Separate your own decisions from what others chose to do.

Sixth stop — the new promise. Write down a rule you may have created for yourself after the parting. For example, “Never again will I disappoint anyone.” Then replace it with a promise that allows you both to be considerate towards the people close to you and to respect your own needs.

Seventh stop — the new ticket. Cut out a small piece of paper in the shape of a ticket and write on it one change you want to make now. Add a first concrete step and a date by which you will take it. It might be a conversation, a decision, a meeting or an action you have been putting off for a long time.

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The Symbol You Take with You — the ticket and the unsent letter

For this variant I suggest two objects: the letter from the third stop and the ticket from the seventh.

Put them in separate envelopes. On one write “The past I accept”, and on the other, “The future I choose”.

The letter will be a symbol of the unspoken feelings you can express, at least to yourself. The ticket will remind you that the present goes on offering possibilities, regardless of the decisions you have already made.

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Continue Your Karmic Investigation on FatedWays

If the woman at the station has reminded you of a parting, an important decision or a conversation that never took place, you can continue on FatedWays — the Game of the Soul.

In the room Letting Go you can ask: “Which feeling from the past is still holding me back, and how can I understand it better?” In The Lineage you can explore your family’s beliefs about duty, belonging and independence, and in Karma, the recurring symbolic patterns connected with guilt and parting.

If your story is connected with a particular person, continue in Love or Compatibility. For a choice between different paths in life you can visit The Crossroads, and for a career change, Gifts and Money. In the room Friend you can explore your relationship with someone from whom you have gradually drifted apart.

You can continue with the large Tarot spread “The Karmic File — Declassified”, and now with the symbolic journey “The Door to a Forgotten Life” as well.

Enter the Game of the Soul

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The Last Page of Your File — the book that set off again

Many years after Klara’s first departure, the Vienna station was once again full of travellers. Beneath the high roof of iron and glass came the sound of voices, footsteps and announcements of arriving trains. Klara was waiting on the platform with her daughter, who would soon be leaving to study in another city.

The girl was excited. For the first time she would be living far from her parents, and she had been preparing for the departure for a long time.

Klara had already checked that the ticket was safely put away, that her daughter had taken the money she needed and that she knew the addresses of people she could turn to if necessary.

— Mama, if you check my luggage one more time, I’ll decide you’re planning to go instead of me — the girl laughed.

— I wouldn’t say no to a journey — Klara replied. — But I doubt your university needs a student with quite so much experience in asking questions.

The two of them laughed.

Then Klara opened her handbag and took out a small book of poems bound in dark blue cloth.

— I want you to take this.

Her daughter instantly recognised the book from the family library.

— But you’ve kept it for so many years!

— That’s exactly why I want you to take it. It was given to me by someone who came to see me off when I first left home. I was your age then, and terribly worried about what lay ahead of me.

Klara opened the first page and showed her the inscription:

“The world is bigger than our fear.”

The girl read the words, then looked at her mother.

— And do you regret that you went away?

Klara thought about it.

— There are many things I wish I had found better words for. But the leaving itself gave me the life I love. If I had stayed, I would never have met your father, and I wouldn’t have you.

Her daughter smiled, but after a moment she asked:

— And will you miss me?

— Terribly. I’ll probably walk into your room and wonder why nobody has left books on every chair. But I’m so glad you have the chance to study what you love.

Klara hugged her.

— Go, study, meet people, make plans and change them when you find a better way. And whenever you want to come back, you will always have a home with us.

Shortly afterwards the train arrived. The daughter tucked the book into her bag, boarded the carriage and stood by the window. The two of them waved to each other, and the train slowly pulled away.

Klara stayed on the platform and watched the carriages recede into the distance.

She remembered the misty morning in 1912, the wet cobblestones, the large brown suitcase and Adrian, who had come to see her off. Back then she had left with the fear that she might lose the love of the people she was leaving behind.

Today she was seeing off her own daughter. She was sad, because she would miss her, but she rejoiced in the opportunities that awaited her. For the first time she was able to live through a parting without turning sadness into blame.

As she walked towards the exit, Klara imagined the girl opening the book during the journey and reading the old inscription. She smiled at the thought that Adrian’s gift had set off on its travels once again.

If you chose the woman at the station, I wish you the courage to make the important decisions in your life, the wisdom to talk openly with the people you love, and more understanding for what you could not have known in the past. May you keep the good memories without turning regret into a lifelong obligation. And when you find yourself at a station again with a suitcase in your hand, check the timetable, put your ticket somewhere safe and take a good book with you. You never know what new world you might discover between two stations, especially if the train decides to have an opinion of its own about its time of arrival.

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The File Is Open

In the library of an old French house, among notarial deeds, family registers and yellowed letters from the eighteenth century, a small wooden box was found. Its lid is decorated with fine carving, and inside, several dozen envelopes are tied with a faded blue ribbon. Most of them bear the marks of repeated reading, but one has kept its red wax seal intact.

The letter is addressed to a young woman who lived in France in 1768. Beneath her name the author added, in a handsome, slightly slanting hand: “Please read this before you make a decision.”

It arrived a few weeks before her engagement. The woman kept it throughout her marriage, carried it with her personal belongings to her new home and had it with her for almost three decades. She opened it only at the age of fifty-two, after her husband’s death.

What could make a person who has been waiting for a letter with enormous impatience so afraid of what it says? Why would someone rather make a decision about their whole life than break one wax seal?

I confess that the human imagination is astonishingly hard-working. A single sealed envelope is enough for it to create a love story, a betrayal, a secret meeting, an unexpected inheritance and at least one relative with dubious intentions. And if anyone mentions a wealthy widow, we already have material for an entire novel. Only the author of the letter can tell us whether we have guessed the plot.

Your symbolic karmic file is connected with trust, unspoken feelings and the fear of answers that could change your life. Perhaps you have long been waiting for an explanation from a particular person, but when you get the chance to talk openly, you start putting it off. Or you analyse messages, glances and gestures so carefully that, little by little, your own assumptions begin to seem more convincing than the actual facts.

The story will take us to eighteenth-century France, when letters travelled for days and weeks, and a single delayed reply could change the fate of two people. We will meet a woman who is afraid both of the possibility of being abandoned and of the need to choose her future herself.

And when at last we break the red seal, we will discover that the truth was very different from the story she had been telling herself.

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Regression Journey — the six moments of a letter

Before you read the historical file, I invite you on an imaginary journey inspired by symbolic regression practices. It can help you look at your relationship with uncertainty, trust and difficult conversations. The images are personal associations of the imagination and do not, in themselves, prove memories of a past life. If a scene feels unpleasant, you can change it, watch it from a distance or end the exercise.

Imagine a spacious room in an old European house. Afternoon light streams through the tall windows, the heavy curtains sway gently, and on a wooden desk lie books, an inkwell, a quill and several envelopes. Beside a small carved box lies a letter opener.

The first moment — the arrival. A servant or a postal clerk comes in and hands a letter to a person from another era. Look at this person’s face, clothes and reaction as they recognise the handwriting. Whom are they expecting news from? What answer are they hoping to receive, and why does it matter so much?

The second moment — the unbroken seal. The person is left alone. They place the letter on the desk and pick up the knife, but hesitate. What are they more afraid of — a refusal, a betrayal or the need to make a decision once they have read it? Imagine what their day would look like if they opened the letter, and how they would carry on if they put it back in the box.

The third moment — the years of silence. Time moves forward. The person is older, surrounded by family belongings and pictures, and the same envelope still lies in the box. What kind of life have they built? Which moments have brought them happiness? What do they feel when they touch the letter again?

The fourth moment — the other point of view. Imagine that the person who wrote the letter sits down at the desk. What intentions might they have had? What did they want to explain? Allow yourself to consider more than one possibility, remembering that the scene is a product of the imagination, and that other people’s real thoughts are established through communication and reliable information.

The fifth moment — the blank sheet. A new sheet of paper appears in front of you. In your mind, write what you have long wanted to say to someone. It may be a question, a confession, thanks or an explanation. For now it does not matter whether you will ever send what you have written. What matters is understanding what you really want to express.

The sixth moment — the letter to you. Now an envelope with your name on it lies on the desk. You do not know what it says. What do you expect to read, and which possibility worries you most? Think about what information you need in your present life and how you could obtain it in an appropriate way.

Finally, in your mind, put the blank sheet into an unsealed envelope. Bring your attention to the objects around you and write down which scene had the strongest effect on you.

The question that remains: “Which truth do I keep putting off because I am afraid that once I learn it, I will have to change something in my life?”

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The Story from a Past Life — the letter that arrived in time

France, 1768. In a handsome provincial town not far from Paris, the lives of the wealthy families passed amid social calls, musical evenings and conversations about books, politics and forthcoming marriages. Carriages rolled along the cobbled streets, and behind the tall windows of the spacious houses there was careful discussion of who had met whom, how long they had talked and what intentions might lie behind such attention.

Twenty-six-year-old Sophie de Laroche lived in a house with a beautiful garden and a large library. Her father, Henri, was a respected notary with good connections among the influential families, and her mother, Madeleine, ran the household and hoped to find a suitable husband for her daughter soon.

Sophie was educated and curious, and she loved literature. She played the harpsichord, painted and spent long afternoons among her father’s books. She was especially drawn to letters, because she believed that people often find the courage to express on paper feelings they would find hard to say aloud.

At a literary evening she met Julien Moreau — a young secretary in the household of an influential family, well educated and with a lively sense of humour. The two of them began talking about a recently published book, but soon moved on to music, travel and the peculiarities of human character.

When the evening came to an end, Julien offered to send her the titles of a few books he thought she would like.

A few days later his first letter arrived.

Sophie replied that very evening. Soon the two of them began a regular correspondence full of impressions of books, ideas and small incidents from everyday life. Gradually the letters grew more and more personal, and their meetings at social gatherings took on a special significance.

Love grew between them.

Julien was attentive and sincere, and Sophie delighted in being able to talk with someone who understood her interests and took her opinions seriously. Both of them knew, however, that their relationship would hardly win the approval of the de Laroche family.

Julien had ability and education, but his income as a secretary was modest. Henri was already considering the possibility of a marriage between his daughter and a wealthy young man from a respected family.

— Love is a fine feeling — her father would say — but family life also requires security. I don’t want you to spend your years worrying about money.

Sophie tried to explain to him how much she valued Julien, but Henri would not change his mind.

When the young secretary was offered a post in Paris, he decided to accept it. He hoped that in the capital he would be able to build a more secure position and gradually provide a future for the two of them.

On the evening before his departure they met in the garden.

— I love you, Sophie — said Julien. — I want us to be together, but I must be able to offer you a home and a life you won’t regret.

— I don’t expect us to live like the richest families in Paris — she replied.

— I know. But your father expects more. Give me time to find work that will let us make a start on our own.

The two of them agreed to write to each other and to discuss their future once Julien knew what opportunities he had.

During the first months the letters arrived regularly. He told her about the streets of Paris, the bookshops and his new duties, and she wrote to him about the musical evenings and the books she was reading. Sophie opened every envelope impatiently, read the pages several times over and put them away in a small wooden box with a blue ribbon.

Soon they began to discuss more concrete plans as well. Julien mentioned the possibility of a better position and his hope that one day they would have a home of their own.

In his last letter he wrote that he was facing an important decision that might change his future. He promised to tell her everything in detail once matters became clear, and he asked Sophie to trust him.

After that the letters stopped.

At first she assumed that his work had become more demanding. But when several weeks had passed, she began to worry. She sent two letters asking whether he was well and whether everything was all right. No reply came.

Meanwhile Henri was pressing more and more insistently for a marriage with another suitor. Sophie tried to play for time, but she herself no longer had any news of Julien and was beginning to doubt whether they could have a future together at all.

One afternoon, at a social gathering, an acquaintance mentioned that Julien often visited the house of a wealthy widow in Paris. The woman had influential relatives, knew important people and had considerable means at her disposal.

— They say she helps him a great deal — the acquaintance added in a peculiar tone.

Over the following days the rumour acquired new details. Someone claimed that Julien and the widow appeared together at gatherings. Someone else hinted that she might secure him a prestigious post. A third person was almost certain that there was an intimacy between them that went far beyond a professional relationship.

No one had any reliable information, but gradually it began to seem to Sophie that everyone knew something that she alone was unwilling to accept.

She imagined Julien visiting the rich woman’s beautiful house, the two of them talking, and him gradually realising that he could gain much more through a connection with her.

Madeleine noticed her daughter’s anxiety.

— Are you still waiting for that young secretary?

Sophie admitted that she had had no news for weeks.

— My dear, sometimes silence speaks for itself — her mother replied. — You have the chance of a good marriage. Don’t let your life depend on a man who can’t find the time to write to you.

Her words hurt Sophie, because she was already afraid that she had been naive and that her parents had been right.

One morning the maid came into the room with an envelope from Paris.

Sophie recognised Julien’s handwriting even before she read her own name. The letter was thicker than usual, sealed with red wax, and beneath the address was written:

“Please read this before you make a decision.”

Her first feeling was relief. Julien was alive, he remembered her, and at last he had written. But as soon as she read the warning, the anxiety returned.

Why was he asking her so insistently? Was he going to confess that he loved another woman? Or was he going to ask her to come to him, despite her parents’ disapproval?

Sophie sat down by the window, laid the letter on the desk and picked up the small letter opener. She touched the red wax seal, but her hand hesitated.

As long as she did not read the letter, she could keep alive the hope that Julien still loved her. And if it turned out that he really did love her, she would be forced to decide whether she was ready to stand up to her family.

She put the knife aside.

— I’ll read it tomorrow — she whispered.

The next day the fear was even stronger. She put the envelope away in the drawer, promising herself to open it when she felt better prepared.

Several days passed. Then a week.

Henri kept pressing for a final answer about the proposed marriage. The wealthy suitor was a well-mannered, serious young man named Étienne, whom Sophie knew from social gatherings. He treated her considerately and wished to start a family with her.

On the evening before the engagement was to be announced, Sophie took out the letter again. She slid the knife under the edge of the wax seal and almost broke it.

At that moment Madeleine called her to discuss the preparations.

Sophie put down the envelope, went to her mother and came back much later. She was tired from the conversations and from her own hesitation. She decided she had no strength to read something that might change everything right before the engagement.

She put the letter away in the wooden box.

The next morning she accepted Étienne’s proposal.

The wedding took place a few months later. Sophie moved into her husband’s house and gradually began to build a new life.

Étienne turned out to be a kind and attentive man. He took an interest in the books she read and encouraged her to play and to paint, and over the years trust and affection grew between them. They had two children, their home filled with music, family gatherings and conversation, and Sophie took genuine joy in the life they had created.

But the small wooden box remained among her personal belongings.

From time to time she would take out Julien’s old letters and remember her youth. The last envelope, however, stayed sealed.

Over the years her fear changed. She no longer worried only that the letter might contain a painful refusal. She began to fear that inside there was a declaration of love and a proposal of a shared future. If that were so, she would learn that she had made one of the most important decisions of her life without even reading the information that had been right in front of her.

Once her daughter came home upset after a quarrel with a friend. She had heard an unpleasant rumour and had decided never to speak to her again.

— And do you know whether it’s true? — Sophie asked.

— Everyone is talking about it.

— But have you talked to your friend?

The girl shook her head.

— Then ask her first — Sophie advised her. — Perhaps the story is different.

As she spoke the words, she suddenly remembered the sealed letter. She was encouraging her daughter to do what she herself had never found the courage to do.

When Sophie turned fifty-two, Étienne fell seriously ill. During those last months she spent a great deal of time at his side and gradually came to realise how deep a closeness they had built over the years.

One afternoon the two of them were talking about their youth.

— Did you know that before the wedding I was afraid you would never be able to love me? — Étienne admitted.

Sophie looked at him in surprise.

— Why did you never tell me?

— Perhaps I was afraid to hear the answer.

The two of them smiled sadly. After so many years they were still discovering unspoken feelings they had once been too young or too frightened to talk about.

A few months later Étienne died.

The loss was heavy. Sophie felt grateful for their life together, but she missed their daily conversations, his presence and the small habits that over the years had become part of their home.

One afternoon, as she was going through the family papers, she came across the wooden box again. She opened it and looked through Julien’s letters, carefully tied with the blue ribbon.

Among them lay the last envelope.

Sophie picked it up. The red seal was intact, and the handwriting was so familiar that the letter might have arrived yesterday.

She had already lived through love, motherhood, joys and losses. Now her fear of a few pages of paper seemed smaller to her than the years she had spent trying to guess what they said.

She picked up the knife and broke the seal.

Julien began the letter by explaining the difficulties he had gone through in Paris. His employer had lost some of his influence, and the young secretary had been left without a secure position. He had tried to find new work, but for months he had been unable to obtain a suitable offer.

The wealthy widow about whom Sophie had heard so many rumours turned out to be a relative of one of his patrons. He had visited her house because she was introducing him to people who could help him find work.

Sophie read these lines twice.

Then she went on.

Julien had at last been offered a post in a merchant’s counting house in a port town. The income would be modest, and the first years uncertain. But he believed that with hard work and perseverance he could build a future.

He wrote that he still loved her and wanted the two of them to make a home together. He could not promise her wealth or the comforts she was used to, but he was ready to share with her everything he had.

At the end he had written:

“I love you and I want us to be together, but I cannot promise you wealth and security. I can offer you honesty, work and a life that the two of us will build. If you are ready for us to take this path together, write to me. If you prefer the future your family has prepared for you, I will accept your decision. I ask only that you answer me before I leave, because I need to know whether I shall be going alone.”

Sophie let the letter rest in her lap.

All these years she had believed that Julien had abandoned her for another woman. And all the while he had offered her a life together and had been waiting for her answer.

The letter had arrived in time. It was she who had chosen not to read it.

Her first thought was of the young woman who had once sat by the same window with the knife in her hand. What would have happened if she had broken the seal back then? Perhaps she would have gone away with Julien. Perhaps she would have taken fright at an uncertain future and chosen Étienne all the same.

There was no way of knowing.

But she knew that at least she would then have been able to make her decision with an understanding of the possibilities that truly existed.

Then she thought of her husband, her children and all the years filled with love and family joys. What she had read did not take away the value of the life she had built. It only revealed that the story of her youth had been different from the one she had believed in for so long.

A few days later Sophie sat down at her desk and began a letter to Julien.

She told him that only now had she read his last words. She admitted the fear that had kept her from opening the envelope and thanked him for the love they had once shared. She wrote that she had made a family, raised two children and lived through many good years, but that she had often remembered their conversations.

She was sorry that she had not answered him at the time.

She did not know whether he was alive, whether his address was still the same, or whether he would even want to hear from her. Nevertheless she folded the pages, put them in an envelope and sent them.

For the first time in many years she was ready to express her feelings without knowing in advance how they would be received.

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The Karmic Vow — if I never learn the truth, I will not have to live through the loss

Sophie’s symbolic trace is connected with the belief that not knowing can protect her from a painful answer. She is afraid the letter will confirm her worst assumptions, but also that it will force her to choose between love and her family’s expectations.

The vow that gradually begins to govern her decisions can be expressed like this:

“If I never learn the truth, I will not have to live through the loss.”

In your present life a pattern like this may appear when you avoid a conversation, a question or a check because you are worried about what you will find out. You may be afraid to ask your partner where your relationship is heading, to ask someone close to you for an explanation, or to discuss a problem that has been troubling you for a long time.

As long as the answer is missing, the imagination offers more and more possibilities. One seems promising, another painful, and a third gradually begins to seem certain to you, even though you do not have enough information.

There are cases in which it is sensible to wait, to gather facts or to judge whether a conversation is appropriate. But when the postponement goes on for months or years, uncertainty can begin to govern your life.

The new promise you can take from the story is:

“I can ask my important questions, seek clarity and make decisions according to the information I have, even when the answers are difficult.”

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How the sealed letters may show up in your life today

Love — when silence writes the story for you

Imagine a woman in a relationship with a man from another country. The two of them often talk, share personal stories and gradually build closeness. He shows interest, writes her tender messages and talks about the possibility of meeting. But when she suggests a specific date, his replies become vague.

The woman is afraid to press him. She starts examining his messages, comparing how he behaves on different days and looking for hidden signs of his feelings. But she never finds out whether he really wants to meet and to have a future together.

For someone else, the situation may involve a relationship that is gradually changing. Their partner has become more distant, the conversations are shorter, the meetings less frequent. Instead of discussing what is happening, one of them begins to worry that honesty will lead to a break-up.

Conversations like these can be difficult and may not bring the answer you expect. But when two people want different things, clarity gives them the chance to decide how to go on.

Julien’s story also deserves attention. He put off telling her about his financial problems because he hoped to find a solution first. In doing so he left Sophie without news and allowed the rumours to fill his silence. Open communication requires the participation of both people.

Trust — when a rumour looks like proof

Perhaps you heard from an acquaintance that your partner had been seen with a particular person. Or you noticed a change in their behaviour and immediately began looking for the cause in your relationship.

Imagine a woman who sees that the man she is with often talks to a female colleague. After an earlier disappointment in love, she begins to worry that the story might repeat itself. Every message, every late arrival, every conversation gradually starts to look to her like confirmation of her suspicions.

There may be a real problem that deserves to be discussed. It is also possible that the relationship is entirely professional. When the facts are missing, neither the most frightening nor the most pleasant scenario can be accepted as the truth.

You can ask yourself: “What do I know first-hand? What have other people told me? What am I assuming, and what information would help me understand the situation better?”

The human imagination can write wonderful novels, but if we appoint it as an investigator without any evidence, the results can be rather unpredictable.

Family — the words we have learnt to keep quiet

Perhaps you grew up in a home where difficult subjects were rarely talked about. The adults discussed their worries behind closed doors, and when the children asked what was going on, they got a brief “Everything’s fine.”

Gradually a person can get used to reading other people’s moods from glances and silences. As an adult they begin to feel anxious when a partner or someone close seems upset, because they immediately assume that they themselves have done something wrong.

In other families, expressing disagreement was met with criticism or hurt feelings. A person may then learn to keep their wishes to themselves so as not to provoke conflict.

Imagine a young woman who wants to change her profession but is afraid to tell her parents of her decision. They have invested a great deal in her education, and she expects them to be disappointed. Instead of talking to them, she goes on working in a place she does not like, and gradually she begins to feel resentment both towards her profession and towards her family.

The symbol of the sealed letter invites you to consider which conversations you are putting off because of other people’s expectations, and how you can express your own decision with respect for the people it will affect.

Work and money — when you would rather not know

This symbol can also appear in your working life. Perhaps you have long felt that you deserve better pay, but you are afraid to ask for a conversation about your salary. You keep working overtime, hoping that the management will notice your efforts on its own.

Imagine an employee who receives good appraisals but keeps putting off asking about the possibility of promotion. He is afraid of a refusal, or of giving the impression that he is too pushy. Over time his dissatisfaction grows, and he still has no clear information about what opportunities exist.

For someone else, the issue may concern financial obligations. They receive a letter from the bank but leave it unopened because they are afraid of how large the debt is. Over the following days their anxiety grows, while the deadlines may well keep running.

Situations like these call for concrete information and, where necessary, professional advice. Putting things off rarely makes the conditions more favourable.

Friendships — when someone else’s account comes between you

You may have drifted apart from a friend after a rumour, a misunderstanding or a conversation that never took place. Someone passed on unpleasant words to you, you felt betrayed and decided to end the relationship.

But do you know exactly what was said, and in what circumstances?

Imagine two close friends who gradually stop speaking to each other after a mutual acquaintance tells one of them that the other has been criticising her. Neither of them seeks an explanation. Over time the hurt turns into a conviction that the friendship was never sincere, even though the actual conversation may have meant something quite different.

If a story like this still troubles you, consider whether a conversation is still possible and whether you truly want to restore the closeness. Even when a relationship has already ended, separating the facts from the assumptions can help you understand it better.

The Most Important Trace — the question that changes the choice

Sophie built a good life with Étienne, raised two children and knew real love and closeness. Not a single page of Julien’s letter can erase those years.

But she spent almost three decades with a question whose answer lay in her own library.

This is the most important theme of the file: when you avoid finding something out, you may begin to make decisions based on your own fears. And when you finally gain clarity, your life may already have taken a different direction.

Not every conversation will lead to reconciliation. Not every truth will be pleasant. And not every person is ready to give an answer you can rely on. But you have the chance to ask questions, to check the information and to decide what it is sensible to do with what you learn.

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Practice for Working Through It — the seven seals of truth

I offer you a seven-day practice that will help you look at a question you have long been avoiding and find a clearer way of approaching it.

First seal — the question. Write down one important question that you keep putting off asking. Phrase it clearly, without assuming in advance what the other person’s motives are. Instead of “Why doesn’t he love me any more?” you might write “What has changed in our relationship, and how do the two of us see its future?”

Second seal — the fear. Think about which answer worries you most. A refusal, criticism, a break-up or the need to change your plans? How would you take care of yourself if you received an unpleasant answer, and whom could you turn to for support?

Third seal — the guesses. Divide a sheet of paper into two columns. In one, write the facts you know for certain, and in the other, your own assumptions. Think about what information could confirm or disprove them.

Fourth seal — the unspoken. Write a letter in which you express your feelings honestly. What has hurt you, what are you grateful for and what do you want to understand? The letter can stay just for you. If you decide to use it as the basis for a conversation, judge whether contact is appropriate.

Fifth seal — the opening. Imagine that you receive the answer you fear most. What decisions could you make afterwards? What possibilities would you have? Try to consider a more favourable answer as well, without taking either scenario as certain.

Sixth seal — the new promise. Write down the belief that not knowing protects you from pain. Then replace it with a promise that allows you to seek clarity when it is appropriate: “I can ask my important questions and make decisions according to the information I have.”

Seventh seal — the blank sheet. Write a short letter to yourself about the way you want to communicate from now on. Choose one concrete action for the coming days — a conversation, a question, checking some information or a decision you have long been putting off.

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The Symbol You Take with You — the opened envelope

Keep a small empty envelope and put your new personal promise inside it. Leave it unsealed.

If you wish, add a sheet with the question you most often avoid asking. After a while, read it again and see whether you now have more clarity.

The unsealed envelope will remind you that questions can be spoken aloud, and that your own decisions deserve to be based on information you actually have.

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Continue Your Karmic Investigation on FatedWays

If the sealed letters have reminded you of a conversation you keep putting off, or of a story that was left without a clear answer, you can continue on FatedWays — the Game of the Soul.

In the room Love you can ask: “Which conversation am I avoiding with this person, and what is important for us to clear up between us?” In Compatibility you can explore the differences in how you communicate and what you expect, and in Letting Go, the feelings that still bind you to an unresolved story.

In The Lineage you can explore your family’s patterns of silence, in Karma, the recurring fears of the truth, and in The Crossroads, the possibilities open to you when you need to make an important decision. The rooms Money and Friend can help you explore, respectively, a financial question or your relationship with someone from whom you have drifted apart.

You can continue with the large Tarot spread “The Karmic File — Declassified”.

Enter the Game of the Soul

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The Last Page of Your File — the letter that was finally sent

A few weeks after Sophie had sent her letter to Julien, the maid came into the library with a small envelope from Paris.

Sophie looked at it in surprise.

She recognised the handwriting at once, though the letters were now more uneven than she remembered them from her youth.

For a moment her mind went back to that morning in 1768 when she had received the last envelope with the red wax seal. Back then she had been afraid to open it, because she did not know what she would read.

Now she laid the new letter on the desk, picked up the knife and carefully slit the envelope.

Julien wrote that he had been surprised and moved by her letter. After so many years he had not expected to hear from the woman he had once loved and with whom he had dreamt of a shared future.

He told her that after moving to the port town he had at first lived through hard years. But gradually he had found good work, started a family and raised children who now had homes of their own.

He had been happy in his marriage and kept a fond memory of Sophie.

He admitted that after his last letter he had waited a long time for an answer. When none came, he had decided that his proposal had been too difficult for her and that her silence meant no.

Then he wrote something Sophie had never suspected.

During those months in Paris he, too, had been afraid to tell her the truth. He had lost his secure position and did not want to worry her before he had found a solution. He had hoped first to restore his circumstances and then to explain everything to her. Only now did he understand how painful his long silence had been.

At the end he had added:

“I do not know what our life would have been like if you had opened the letter back then and answered me. But today I am grateful that at last we can say to each other what remained between us. Perhaps that is the finest thing we can give to the memory of our youth.”

Sophie looked at the letter in her hands for a long time.

At last she knew what had become of Julien. He had not abandoned his life while waiting for an answer; he had moved on, started a family and lived through joys and losses of his own. Both of them had built good lives, even though their paths had parted in a way neither of them had fully understood.

After a while Sophie opened the wooden box.

She arranged all the letters by year and put them away in the family archive. She placed the last sealed envelope beside Julien’s new reply. Then she closed the box.

This time it stayed empty.

Sophie took a clean sheet of paper and a new quill. She had long wanted to write down her memories — of her childhood, the books, her first love, her marriage to Étienne, her children and the people who had been part of her life. She had kept putting it off because she did not know where to begin.

Now she looked at the blank page, smiled and wrote the first sentence.

Outside, the birds could be heard in the garden, the afternoon sun lit up the desk, and in front of her lay a whole pile of clean pages.

If you chose the sealed letters, I wish you to meet people with whom you can talk openly, and to find the courage to ask the questions that matter to you. May the truth help you make decisions with greater clarity, and may your good memories keep their value even when you discover that some events were different from what you had assumed. And if one day you find yourself facing a sealed envelope again, check what it says inside first. You may spare yourself an entire novel of guesswork, and if it turns out to be a dinner invitation, at least you will know in time whether you need to dress formally.

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The File Is Open

During the restoration of an old Venetian house whose windows look out onto a narrow canal, the craftsmen come across an unusual find. Behind a huge oval mirror in a gilded frame, a canvas is hidden, carefully wrapped in linen cloth. The painting shows an elderly woman with white hair loose about her shoulders and a brush in her hand. Her face bears the marks of the years, but her gaze is alive, and her faint smile gives the impression that at any moment she will tell you something funny. A name is written in the lower corner.

In the great drawing room of the same house hangs another portrait. From it looks out a beautiful young woman in a sumptuous gown, with exquisite jewels and impeccably dressed hair. Her expression is serious, her pose dignified, and every detail underlines the family’s standing in society. According to the old documents, the two paintings depict one and the same woman.

Among her personal belongings, a small wooden chest has also survived, holding brushes, dried-up paints and drawings, most of them unsigned.

Why was one portrait displayed before the guests while the other stayed hidden behind the mirror? What did the brush in the elderly woman’s hand mean, and why was it only on this painting that she wrote her own name?

I confess that mirrors are curious witnesses to human life. Imagine how many carefully chosen hairstyles, ornaments and polite smiles they have seen over the centuries. They must also have watched quite a few people getting ready for a magnificent reception while already dreaming, in their thoughts, of going home, taking off their uncomfortable shoes and being left alone with their favourite book. Even the most expensive Venetian mirror could hardly have shown what the person standing in front of it truly wanted.

Your symbolic karmic file is connected with the roles we play and with that part of our personality we rarely show to others. Perhaps everyone knows you as a strong, cheerful, responsible person who is always ready to help. Yet you, too, have wishes, worries, preferences and abilities that do not fit into other people’s picture of you.

You may have long dreamed of painting, writing, singing, dancing, studying or starting something of your own, yet be afraid of what others will say. Or you may be so used to accommodating the people close to you that you can barely remember the last time you chose something simply because you liked it.

The story will take us to seventeenth-century Venice, where a woman lives amid wealth, beautiful things and social respect, but hides her greatest talent in an old wooden chest. We will meet a husband who loves her without fully knowing her dreams, a maid with a sharp tongue and a good heart, and a painter who recognises her gift from the very first drawing.

And in the end we will understand why two such different faces can belong to one and the same woman.

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Regression Journey — The Six Reflections of the Soul

Before you read the story, I invite you on a short imaginary journey inspired by symbolic regression practices. Through the image of the antique mirror you can look at your own interests, roles and wishes. The pictures that appear are personal associations of the imagination and do not in themselves prove memories of a past life. If any scene feels unpleasant, you can change it, watch it from a distance or end the exercise.

Imagine that you are walking along a corridor in an old Venetian house. The floor is dark wood, portraits hang on the walls, and from behind one of the tall doors come music and lively conversation. You open another door and find yourself in a spacious room with heavy red curtains. Above a wooden chest of drawers rises an oval mirror in a beautiful gilded frame.

The first reflection — the face shown to the world. A person appears in the mirror, getting ready for an important occasion. Look at their clothes, their hair and their expression. What do they want to show the guests? How does their behaviour change when they hear footsteps outside the door? Imagine following them out among the people. Can they express their opinion freely, or do they constantly adjust to what others expect?

The second reflection — the person without an audience. The evening ends, the guests leave and the person is left alone. They take off their ornaments and swap their formal clothes for comfortable ones. What do they do first? Do they pick up a book, a musical instrument, brushes or some other beloved object? How does their expression change when they are free to choose?

The third reflection — the forgotten wish. The mirror shows a possible life in which the person devoted more time to their own interests. You may see a studio, a stage, a garden, a library or an unfamiliar city. Which pursuit brings them joy? What from this picture could they bring into their present life?

The fourth reflection — the gaze of others. Beside the mirror appears someone whose opinion matters a great deal. How do they react when they learn of the hidden wish? Imagine several possible answers, including one that surprises you pleasantly. What worries you more — the actual consequences, or the picture you have already formed of someone else’s disapproval?

The fifth reflection — your face today. Little by little the mirror begins to show you yourself. Think about which qualities you express freely and which you prefer to keep to yourself. Is there a wish you have not spoken about for a long time? Who could you share it with, and what small step would you like to take?

The sixth reflection — your own signature. A blank canvas appears before you. In your mind, paint your symbolic portrait with the objects, colours and qualities you want to be present in your life. When you have finished, take the brush and write your name in the lower corner.

Bring your attention back to the present and write down which image moved you most strongly.

The question that remains: “Which part of myself do I keep hiding for fear that it will not be accepted, and how can I give it more room in my life?”

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The Story from a Past Life — The Woman with Two Portraits

Venice, 1664. Gondolas and cargo boats laden with goods from distant lands glided along the canals, and in the narrow streets merchants, craftsmen and travellers passed one another. In the wealthy houses receptions were held, paintings and beautiful objects were commissioned, and the respect a family enjoyed was often measured by the splendour of its possessions and the influence of its guests.

In a spacious house beside one of the canals lived twenty-eight-year-old Beatrice Contarini. She had dark hair, grey-green eyes and graceful hands that drew attention with their careful movements. Her husband, Andrea, was a prosperous cloth merchant, a hard-working and responsible man who set great store by the family’s position in society. The two of them had a small daughter named Elena.

Beatrice was known for her lovely manners and refined taste. She knew how to receive guests, how to hold an interesting conversation and how to create the impression that every detail of the house had been thought through to perfection. Even when someone told the same adventure for the third time, she managed to smile with such courtesy that it seemed she had just heard the most interesting story in Venice.

But behind the beautiful gowns, the jewels and the flawlessly organised receptions, Beatrice kept a love that her new acquaintances knew almost nothing about.

She adored painting.

Her father had been a painter who made portraits and decorative panels for wealthy families. As a child Beatrice spent hours in his studio, watching how he mixed his paints and how the light changed people’s expressions. She remembered the smell of linseed oil, the wooden frames and the quiet scrape of the brush on the canvas.

When she turned ten, her father gave her her first set of brushes. The girl loved painting so much that she often arrived at the workshop before he did.

— If you carry on like this, I’ll soon have to give you your own key — he joked. — At least then I’ll be able to sleep until sunrise.

Beatrice had a particular gift for noticing human faces. She caught the sadness behind a polite smile, the curiosity of a child pretending to be obedient, and the weariness in her mother’s eyes. Her father noticed that her portraits had a naturalness that is hard to achieve even with a great deal of practice.

The girl dreamed of a studio of her own, where she would receive people, paint and talk with other artists. Her father encouraged her, although he knew how difficult it was for a woman to build an independent career in art.

After his death, life gradually changed. Her mother put away some of the tools and began preparing her daughter for a suitable marriage. Painting remained a pleasant pastime, but her future was now bound up with the home, the family and social duties.

When she met Andrea, Beatrice liked his serious nature, his sense of responsibility and the enthusiasm with which he talked about trade. He, for his part, was drawn to her education, her beauty and her sense of humour. The two married and she moved into his spacious house beside the canal.

Among her personal belongings was a large wooden chest with brushes, paints, drawings and several unfinished canvases. Beatrice believed she would soon find time to carry on painting.

But Andrea’s house welcomed trading partners and guests almost every week. She had to prepare the receptions, look after family relationships and keep an eye on all the details on which a good impression depended. After Elena was born, her duties multiplied and painting gradually slipped into the background.

In her private room Beatrice had a huge oval mirror in a gilded frame. Every morning her maid helped her choose her gown, her hairstyle and the right ornaments. Over time she came to know perfectly the face that others expected to see — a beautiful, attentive hostess who always knew what to say.

One autumn evening, after a particularly long reception, the guests finally left. Beatrice went back to her room, took off her heavy earrings and sat down in front of the mirror.

She looked at her reflection and suddenly burst out laughing.

Over the past few hours she had talked about music, trade, travels and other people’s family stories. No one had asked her what she really loved. And she herself had not spoken about painting for so long that she would probably have astonished the guests had she suddenly started discussing the quality of paints instead of the new fabrics that had arrived from abroad.

Her gaze fell on the old chest.

Beatrice opened it and carefully took out the brushes her father had given her. She looked through the yellowed drawings, touched the wooden handles and felt a strong desire to work again.

She laid a sheet of paper on the table and began to draw her hand. The first lines were unsteady, but little by little she remembered what her father had taught her. Then she looked at the mirror and made a sketch of her own face.

She drew until late into the night. Her hair was loose, the expensive gown had been exchanged for a simple dress, and traces of paint had appeared on her fingers.

In the morning the young maid Lucia found her asleep in the chair, her head propped on her hand. Brushes and drawings were scattered all around her.

Lucia looked closely at one of the portraits and was filled with admiration.

— Signora, why do you hide them? — she asked when Beatrice woke up. — If the guests knew how well you paint, they would be commissioning portraits from you instead of forever asking where you bought the curtains.

Beatrice laughed, but hurried to put the sheets away. She admitted that she had loved painting since she was a child, but she did not want anyone to find out about her pastime.

Lucia promised to keep the secret.

Over the following months the two of them began working together in the evenings, when everyone else had gone to bed. Lucia brought fruit, flowers and objects to draw, and sometimes sat for a portrait. They talked, they laughed, and little by little they built a closeness that went beyond the usual relationship between mistress and maid.

Lucia had a lively mind and a sense of humour. Whenever Beatrice heard footsteps in the corridor and rushed to put her brushes away, she would joke:

— If you carry on like this, signora, you’ll soon be painting faster than I can open the door.

Little by little Beatrice regained her skills. She began painting portraits of the people she knew and became more and more absorbed in natural human expressions.

Most of all she loved to paint her daughter, Elena.

The girl asked questions without end and could not bear to sit still. But when she became engrossed in a book, Beatrice could watch her for a long time. One afternoon she painted Elena by the window, a book in her hands and a look of concentration on her face.

A few months later Andrea commissioned a formal family portrait from a well-known painter. The man arrived at their home and began to prepare the composition, but he had difficulty capturing the expression of little Elena, who grew bored with the long sittings.

Beatrice remembered her own drawing and cautiously showed it to him.

The painter studied it with interest.

— Who made this? — he asked.

— I did — Beatrice admitted.

The man looked at her in surprise and asked her to show him more of her work.

After looking through the portraits and sketches, he acknowledged that she had real ability. He offered to present one of her paintings at an upcoming gathering of artists and collectors.

Beatrice was thrilled. She agreed, but asked for the painting to be shown without her name.

The work attracted interest. Several collectors asked about the artist, and one wished to buy it. The painter was pleased and encouraged Beatrice to attend the next gathering in person.

— You will be able to talk with other artists, get advice and present your own work — he explained.

For Beatrice this offer meant far more than public recognition. It gave her the chance to be part, once again, of the world she had loved as a child.

She began preparing a new painting. Lucia helped her with the materials and delighted in her excitement. Beatrice chose a beautiful gown for the occasion and spent a long time imagining how she would talk with people who shared her interest in art.

But shortly before the gathering, Andrea learned that his wife’s name was to be announced before the guests.

He was surprised. He knew she loved painting, but he had never imagined that she wanted to present it in public.

— You have a beautiful home, a family and everyone’s respect — he said. — Why do you need to seek still more recognition?

Beatrice tried to explain to him that she wanted to develop her skills, to talk with other painters and to learn new techniques. She told him about her father and about the years when she spent hours in the studio.

Andrea listened to her, but he went on worrying about how society would view her decision. He was afraid the guests would start talking about his wife as a woman who sought attention outside the home.

— I won’t forbid you to go — he said at last. — But think about how this might affect our family. That same evening I have invited important guests, and I would like you to be at my side.

The conversation ended, but Beatrice could not sleep for almost the whole night.

She pictured the hall with the paintings, the meetings with the artists and the moment when she would be able to say her own name as the artist. Then she thought about Andrea’s worry and the comments the guests might make.

The next morning Lucia brought the beautiful gown. The painting was already wrapped.

Beatrice sat down in front of the mirror and studied her reflection for a long time. She imagined herself walking in among the artists, and then coming home and having to explain her decision to Andrea.

In the end she quietly asked Lucia to put the canvas away.

The maid looked at her in surprise.

— Are you sure, signora?

— It is probably the most sensible thing. There will be other opportunities.

Lucia was silent for a moment.

— And are you sure this is your decision?

Beatrice did not answer.

She took off the gown she had chosen for the meeting with the artists and put on another, suitable for the family reception.

That evening she received the guests, made polite conversation and smiled whenever someone turned to her. No one suspected that a few streets away people were looking at paintings among which her own work might have been.

When the reception was over, Beatrice went back to her private room. She took off her jewels and stood in front of the mirror.

In the corner lay the wrapped painting.

It was then that she spoke the promise which would gradually come to shape her life:

“I will be the woman everyone wants to see. What I am only for myself will stay hidden.”

After that day she painted less and less often.

At first she would open the chest, look at the brushes and promise herself that she would soon finish one of the paintings. But social duties filled her days once more, and when Lucia encouraged her to work, Beatrice usually replied that she had more important things to do.

The years went by.

Elena grew up, Andrea went on expanding his trade, and Beatrice became one of the respected women of Venetian society. Young hostesses sought her advice, guests admired her taste, and everyone believed she was entirely content with her life.

But when someone asked her what she liked to do in her free time, she rarely mentioned painting.

Lucia was still by her side. From time to time she would take out an old drawing and leave it on the table.

— Signora, your paints have probably decided by now that you have abandoned them for good — she would joke.

Beatrice would laugh, but she usually put the sheet away again.

When Elena married and moved to another city, the house gradually grew quieter. Beatrice began to feel sad at her daughter’s absence, and social gatherings no longer gave her the same pleasure.

One autumn Andrea fell ill and had to cut back on his work. He began spending more time at home, and the evenings that had once been full of guests and talk of business gradually became quieter.

For the first time in many years the two of them had time to talk without hurrying.

One afternoon Andrea was looking for a book in the library and happened upon several drawings. Among them was a portrait of Lucia, a picture of little Elena by the window and a self-portrait of a woman with her hair loose.

He looked at the sheets for a long time.

When Beatrice came in, he asked her why she had never shown him so much of her work.

At first she tried to play the drawings down, but when she saw his genuine interest she began to talk. She shared her memories of her father, the secret evenings with Lucia and the offer to present her paintings to artists.

She also told him about the day she gave up the meeting.

Andrea was silent for a long time.

— I didn’t understand how important it was to you — he admitted at last. — I thought you simply wanted more recognition. But you wanted to carry on with something you had loved since you were a child.

Beatrice looked at him. For so many years she had feared he would never understand her wish, and now, for the first time, they were talking about it openly.

— I should have told you more — she said quietly.

— And I should have listened to you more carefully back then.

Andrea offered to get her new materials and a suitable room to work in. He encouraged her to start painting again.

Beatrice smiled, but she was afraid that after so many years she had lost her skills.

— No one expects you to paint a masterpiece on the very first day — said her husband.

— That is probably the most sensible artistic opinion I have ever heard from you — she replied, and they both laughed.

Over the following months Beatrice began making small sketches while Andrea rested. He looked at her work, asked questions about colours and techniques, and little by little came to know the part of her personality that had stayed hidden for so long.

His illness, however, grew worse, and a few years later he died.

The loss was heavy. Together they had built a family, lived through many good moments and managed to find a new closeness in their last years.

After his death the house grew quieter still. Elena lived with her family in another city, and Beatrice’s social obligations had dwindled. Lucia was still by her side, although she, too, was older now.

One morning a letter arrived from Elena.

Her daughter wrote that for some time she had been making decorative objects. Her friends liked her pieces and some had even wanted to buy them. Elena dreamed of developing this work, but she was afraid of the disapproval of her husband and his relatives. She asked her mother whether such a decision might damage the respect in which the family was held.

Beatrice read the letter several times.

She remembered the day when she herself had sat in front of the mirror in the beautiful gown meant for the meeting with the artists.

Then she opened the old chest.

Among the drawings she found the self-portrait she had made on the night after that long reception. From the sheet a young woman looked out at her, with loose hair, slightly tired eyes and a smile she could still recognise.

That evening she wrote a long letter to Elena.

For the first time she told her about painting, about her father, about Lucia and about the meeting with the artists she had turned down. She admitted how much she had regretted her decision and how it was only years later that Andrea had understood what art meant to her.

At the end she added:

“If you want to create something of your own, explore the possibilities, talk to your husband and consider how you can develop your abilities. I would be glad to see your work. And if anyone starts discussing your choice, accept that the people of Venice have always shown a remarkable talent in that field.”

After sending the letter, Beatrice went back to her private room.

She opened the windows, put away some of her ornaments and set a new canvas on the easel.

A little later Lucia came in and found her sorting her brushes.

— At last! — she exclaimed. — I was beginning to worry we would have to leave them to the next generation without anyone ever having used them.

The two of them burst out laughing.

The first attempts were hard. Beatrice’s hand no longer had its former ease, and the colours did not always come out the way she saw them in her imagination. Several times she felt like abandoning the work.

But little by little she remembered what her father had taught her.

She began to paint a little every day. She made sketches, looked through her old drawings and tried out new compositions. She took pleasure in the work itself and worried less and less about what anyone might say about the result.

After a while she decided to paint her own portrait.

She set the easel in front of the great oval mirror and studied her face carefully. Her hair had turned grey, there were wrinkles around her eyes, and her hands bore the marks of the years.

When she was young, she had spent hours choosing her hairstyle and ornaments so as to look flawless before the guests. Now she wanted to paint the woman she actually saw.

She began with the eyes. She tried to capture the curiosity she had kept through the years and the faint smile that appeared every time Lucia told one of her stories. Then she painted her hands, placing a brush in one of them.

She worked for several weeks.

When she had finished, the canvas held a portrait of an elderly woman with grey hair, a natural expression and a lively gaze. Beside her were paints, brushes and an unfinished drawing.

Beatrice looked at the painting for a long time.

Then she took a fine brush, dipped it in the paint and carefully wrote her own name in the lower corner.

For the first time she felt no wish to hide it.

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The Karmic Vow — I Will Be What They Expect Me to Be

The deepest symbolic trace in Beatrice’s story appears on the day she turns down the meeting with the artists. She is afraid that if she begins to show a different side of herself, she will lose the approval of the people whose opinion she values.

Her promise runs:

“I will be the woman everyone wants to see. What I am only for myself will stay hidden.”

A similar belief can surface in this present life too, when a person believes they must constantly play a certain role in order to be loved and respected.

Perhaps everyone relies on you to be the strong one in the family who never complains. At work you are the dependable employee, always ready to take on one more task, and among your friends you are the cheerful one who keeps everyone laughing. These qualities may genuinely be part of your personality, but that does not mean you have to display them at every moment.

It is also possible that you keep some of your interests away from other people’s eyes because you are afraid of criticism. You love a certain kind of music, dream of a new profession or want to develop a talent, but you are convinced that those close to you will see it as a strange or unsuitable pursuit.

Beatrice’s story shows how a person can gradually drift away from their own wishes while trying to live up to the expectations of others. Her husband did not understand why painting meant so much to her, but for a long time she, too, did not let him get to know this part of her personality.

The new promise could be:

“I can be loved and respected when I express my own wishes, develop my abilities and show more of the person I truly am.”

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How the Antique Mirror May Show Up in Your Life Today

Love — when your partner knows only one side of you

Imagine a woman who loves the theatre, travelling and meeting friends, but whose partner prefers to spend his free time at home. At first she often goes along with his wishes, because she wants them to be together. Gradually she starts turning down invitations, missing performances and setting her favourite pastimes aside.

Years later she senses that her daily life has become far too narrow, and her partner is genuinely surprised. He had believed their tastes were almost identical, because she had so rarely shared her own wishes.

For someone else, the theme may be linked to the need always to appear strong and confident. A man may keep his professional worries to himself because he believes his partner loves him precisely for his ability to cope with everything. A woman may try always to be cheerful and attractive, afraid that if she shows tiredness or uncertainty, the one she loves will lose interest.

But true closeness requires the chance to be known in different states and circumstances. Can you express an opinion that differs from your partner’s? Do you have time for your own interests? Do you allow yourself to ask for support when you need it?

Family — the role of the good child

Perhaps you grew up believing that a good child always defers to their parents, fulfils their expectations and avoids decisions that would disappoint them.

Imagine a woman who has heard since childhood that she must be sensible and think of others. As an adult she organises the family get-togethers, helps everyone and finds it hard to say no to requests. When she wants to set aside time for her own interests, she feels guilty, because she is used to being the person everyone relies on.

In another person this trace may show itself through a profession chosen at the parents’ insistence. He has a stable job, but he is still interested in an entirely different field, one for which he once received no support.

Elena’s story shows how such beliefs can be passed down the generations. When the daughter wants to pursue creative work, she feels the same anxieties that once held Beatrice back. But this time the mother manages to tell her own story and help her look for a different path.

Think about which family expectations still influence your decisions. Which of them truly match your wishes, and which have you accepted only because you are afraid of disapproval?

Friendships — when everyone knows your smile

Perhaps among your friends you are always the one who suggests meeting up, dreams up surprises and manages to make everyone laugh. But when you are going through a hard time, you find it difficult to admit that you need support.

Someone else may be known as the good counsellor who listens to other people’s problems and is forever helping. When they themselves need time for themselves, they start to worry that saying no will be taken as a lack of friendship.

In a third person the theme may show itself as constant agreement with everyone else. They rarely voice a different opinion because they avoid arguments, and gradually they begin to feel that their friends know only part of who they are.

The relationship between Beatrice and Lucia shows us how precious a person can be in whose presence we can speak freely about our interests and feelings. Lucia knew the respected mistress of the house, but she also saw the artist who painted late into the night with her hair loose and her hands smeared with paint.

With which people can you be that natural? In front of whom do you feel free to share an opinion that others might not like?

Work, money and the talent you keep to yourself

Imagine a woman who makes beautiful jewellery. Her friends love her pieces, and some encourage her to start selling them. She, however, keeps repeating that it is only a hobby. She is afraid that if she shows her work publicly, people will start judging and comparing it.

Someone else may have interesting ideas at work but stay silent in meetings, worrying whether their colleagues will accept them. Later they hear a similar proposal from another employee and regret not having voiced their own thought.

The theme can have a financial dimension, too. If you underestimate your abilities, you may find it hard to put a price on your work, to ask for fair pay or to present your services to new clients.

Beatrice had a real talent, one that a respected painter noticed. Yet only at the end of her life did she find the courage to return to painting. Her story reminds us that abilities grow through work and that a person can begin again, even after a long break.

Perhaps your own wish is still achievable, though it calls for time, learning and fresh effort. Or perhaps you will discover that you would rather keep the pursuit purely for pleasure. Both possibilities deserve to be considered.

The Most Important Trace — who are you when no one is watching?

Beatrice was a good wife, a loving mother and a respected woman. These qualities were a genuine part of her personality, and she valued the life she had built.

But she also possessed an artistic talent that stayed hidden for a long time. When she began to believe she had to choose between her family and her own creative work, she gradually gave up the pursuit that brought her so much joy.

The antique mirror invites you to look at the different sides of your personality. Which qualities do you show freely? Which wishes have you pushed into the background? And which people could get to know more of you if you found the right way to tell them about these things?

Perhaps you discover that you love a particular pursuit you have never shared. You may want to express your feelings more openly or to have more time for your own interests.

Of course, everyone has a right to a private world. Not everything needs to be shown to an audience. What matters is that you yourself decide what you wish to keep to yourself and what deserves more room in your life.

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Practice for Working Through It — Seven Reflections Towards Yourself

I offer you a seven-day practice that will help you look at the roles you play and the wishes you have set aside.

First reflection — the mask. Write down how people see you in the different areas of your life. The responsible one, the cheerful one, the strong one, or the person who always finds a solution? Which of these qualities do you like in yourself, and when do they start to weigh on you?

Second reflection — the hidden face. Think about what you love to do when no one expects anything of you. Write down five interests or wishes you rarely share. Choose one and give it at least half an hour during the day.

Third reflection — the gaze of others. Whose opinion influences your decisions most strongly? What are you afraid will happen if this person disapproves of a wish of yours? Consider whether the worry is about actual consequences or about assumptions.

Fourth reflection — the forgotten wish. Recall a pursuit that once brought you joy. Do you still want to develop it? If so, choose a small first step — find the materials, set aside the time or look into a suitable course.

Fifth reflection — the true voice. Choose an ordinary situation in which you often keep your preferences to yourself. For example, choosing a film, a restaurant or a shared plan for the day. If circumstances allow, try to express your wish clearly and respectfully.

Sixth reflection — the new promise. Draw a simple mask and on it write the beliefs that hold you back: “I must always be strong”, “Everyone has to like me” or “My wishes can wait”. On the back of the sheet, write what you would like to replace them with.

Seventh reflection — the self-portrait. Describe or draw the person you want to be over the coming year. Include the qualities you value, the relationships that make you happy and the abilities you want to develop. Choose one concrete action for the next seven days.

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The Symbol You Take with You — The Mask and the Self-Portrait

For this path, keep two symbols: the mask from the sixth day and the self-portrait from the seventh.

Put the mask in an envelope marked “Case closed”, and leave the self-portrait somewhere you can see it. After some time, come back to the two images and consider what has changed in the way you see yourself.

Perhaps you will discover new wishes, qualities and abilities you do not yet suspect today. A person goes on changing and getting to know themselves throughout their whole life.

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Continue Your Karmic Investigation on FatedWays

If the antique mirror has reminded you of a talent, a wish or a part of your personality that you rarely show to others, you can continue on FatedWays — the Game of the Soul.

In the room Gifts you can ask: “Which ability have I pushed into the background, and how could I develop it?” In The Lineage you can explore the family roles and expectations that influence your decisions, and in Karma — the fear of other people’s disapproval.

If the theme concerns a partner, the rooms Love and Compatibility can help you look at your communication and the differences in your needs. In My People and Friend you can turn your attention to the relationships in which you feel most natural, and in Letting Go — to the beliefs you wish to change.

For professional decisions and creative ventures, you can continue in The Crossroads and Money.

You can continue with the large Tarot spread “The Karmic File — Declassified”, and now with the symbolic regression journey “The Door to a Forgotten Life” as well.

Enter the Game of the Soul

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The Last Page of Your File — The Two Portraits

Many years after Beatrice had started painting again, her daughter Elena came back to the old house by the canal to see to the belongings of her late mother.

The house was quiet. The heavy red curtains framed the tall windows, and the huge oval mirror still reflected the room in which Beatrice had spent so many evenings.

Elena was by now a grown woman with a family of her own. Over the years she had managed to develop her work with decorative objects, and she often recalled the letter in which her mother had told her of her love for painting.

Among the belongings she found the wooden chest with the brushes, albums of drawings and several wrapped canvases.

She looked through them carefully.

In one of the albums she found a portrait of herself as a little girl, sitting by the window with a book in her hands. Then she saw a drawing of Lucia, so natural that she could almost hear her familiar jokes.

On the wall of the great drawing room still hung the formal portrait of the young Beatrice. Elena had known it since childhood. Her mother was shown in a sumptuous gown, with beautiful jewels and a serious expression. Guests had always admired the painting and taken it as proof of the family’s wealth and standing.

But Elena was looking for another portrait.

Her mother had written to her about the painting she made after the long break, and had mentioned that she wished her daughter to keep it one day.

After a while Elena noticed a folded linen cloth behind the great mirror. She went closer and discovered a carefully stored canvas.

She unwrapped the cloth.

Before her appeared the portrait of the elderly Beatrice.

Her hair was grey and loose, there were wrinkles around her eyes, and she held a brush in her hand. Her gaze was alive, her smile natural, and on the table beside her lay paints and an unfinished drawing.

Elena looked at the face for a long time.

This was her mother as she remembered her from their best evenings together — when they talked about books, laughed at Lucia’s stories and shared their little secrets.

Then her eyes fell on the lower corner of the canvas.

Beatrice Contarini.

It was the first time she had seen a painting on which her mother had written her own name.

Beside the canvas lay a small note.

“Elena, I would like you to keep the two portraits together. I loved my life as a wife and mother, but I loved painting too. For a long time I believed I had to choose which of the two faces to show the world. Let the two women meet at last. I spent enough years trying to keep them in separate rooms.”

Elena smiled through her tears. Even in her last words her mother had kept her sense of humour.

She did as her mother wished.

In one of the spacious rooms she hung the two portraits side by side. Beneath the first she wrote her mother’s name and her family position. Beneath the second she placed the same name, followed by the word “painter”.

When she stepped back, she saw two different faces belonging to one and the same woman. One told of social standing, of family and of the life Beatrice had built. The other showed the artist who had painted in secret for many years and in the end found the courage to sign her own work.

Later Elena began telling her children about their grandmother, about the old chest of paints and about the first brush, given to Beatrice by her own father. Whenever one of them showed an interest in music, drawing or some other pursuit, she did her best to give them the chance to discover their abilities.

And so the two portraits became a family story that went on being told long after Beatrice’s death.

If you have chosen the antique mirror, I wish you to develop your abilities with joy, to meet people with whom you can be natural, and to keep time for the pursuits you love. May the years bring you new interests, good encounters and the courage to show more of your true self. And the next time you look in the mirror, remember that the most interesting part of your portrait may be yet to be painted. This time the brush is in your own hands, and the signature at the bottom will be yours.

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The File Is Open

While an old merchant archive in the French city of Lyon is being cleared out, a heavy metal key with a richly decorated handle is discovered. It has been put away in a leather pouch bearing almost obliterated initials, and beside it lie two eighteenth-century account books. They are bound in exactly the same way and record the very same transactions, but the sums in them differ.

Among the papers there is also a yellowed folder containing an official decision restoring the good name of a man accused, decades earlier, of financial misconduct. On the first page someone has written: “The documents have been kept so that the whole truth may be known.”

Strangest of all, the key was found on the table beside the open door of the archive. According to the old inventories, the room had always been kept locked, and only the most trusted employees of the merchant house had access to it.

Why did the last keeper leave the door open? What was in the two books, and why did someone wait almost half a lifetime before revealing what was written in them?

I confess that antique keys instantly awaken my curiosity. Especially when they are large enough to unlock a family treasure or a secret room. But if someone handed me a key like that with the words “I am trusting you with this, just promise never to ask questions”, I would probably ask for at least a brief description of what we are guarding. After all, a person ought to know whether they are taking responsibility for a few family letters or for an entire accounts department with more than one version of the truth.

Your symbolic karmic file is connected with trust, gratitude, loyalty and promises that gradually begin to weigh more than you expected. Perhaps you once defended someone to whom you owe a great deal, even though you had doubts about their behaviour. Or you have found yourself between two people close to you who both trust you but expect opposite things of you.

You may be keeping a family secret, feel indebted to someone who helped you at a difficult moment, or feel guilty every time you try to set a boundary.

The story will take us to Lyon in 1756. There a young clerk receives the key to the private archive of a wealthy merchant who once saved his family from poverty. The young man accepts the responsibility entrusted to him as the greatest proof of trust. But when he discovers falsified accounts and realises that an innocent man will bear the consequences, he must choose between gratitude and his own conscience.

And the old key, which at first fills him with such pride, will gradually become an object he cannot free himself from, even after his benefactor’s death.

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Regression Journey — The Six Decisions of the Keeper

Before you read the story, I invite you on an imaginary journey inspired by symbolic regression practices. Through the antique key you can explore your relationship with trust, promises and personal responsibility. The images that appear are creative associations and do not in themselves prove memories of an actual past life. If any scene feels unpleasant, you can change it, watch it from a distance or end the exercise.

Imagine a long corridor in an old European house. The stone floor is worn by countless footsteps, candlelight outlines the heavy wooden doors, and the air smells of wax and old paper. At the end of the corridor stands a table, and on it lies a metal key.

The first decision — the promise. Imagine a person receiving the key from someone they deeply respect. It may be a parent, a friend, a teacher or an employer. What do they promise? Do they know what lies behind the door? Do they understand all the obligations they are taking on, or do they feel such gratitude that it does not even occur to them to ask a question?

The second decision — the discovery. Time moves forward. The person unlocks the old door and finds a document, an object or a piece of information that changes their view of the one who entrusted them with the key. What do they feel? What means do they have to check the information and understand the circumstances?

The third decision — the person who pays the price. Before them appears someone whose interests are harmed by the secret being kept. Perhaps they were unjustly accused or lost something precious. What questions do they ask? Imagine the person with the key listening to them without trying to justify their own actions in advance.

The fourth decision — the difficult conversation. The person goes back to the one who entrusted them with the secret. They now have more information and want an explanation. How does the other react? Do they admit their mistake, or insist that the promise be kept regardless of the consequences? How might the keeper express their position with respect and clarity?

The fifth decision — many years later. Imagine the person grown old. What kind of life have they built? Which of their decisions do they value, and which do they regret? Ask them: “Which promise was hardest for you to keep, and what would you have liked to know before you made it?”

The sixth decision — returning the key. The old metal object lies on the table once more. The person can keep it, pass it on to someone else or leave it beside the open door. What do they choose? Imagine that you, too, can lay beside the key a responsibility you have long wanted to reconsider.

Gradually bring your attention back to the present and write down which decision seemed hardest to you.

The question that remains: “Which promise do I go on keeping out of gratitude, fear or a sense of duty, even though I now doubt whether it is fair?”

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The Story from a Past Life — The Merchant’s Two Books

Lyon, France, 1756. Carts laden with silk cloth rolled through the streets, the voices of the weavers rang out from the workshops, and suppliers and buyers from various European cities arrived at the great merchant houses. Lyon was famous for its silk, but behind the beautiful fabrics lay an intricate world of credit, contracts and obligations, in which a single altered figure could cost a man more than everything he owned.

In one of the wealthy merchant houses worked a twenty-four-year-old clerk known for his precision and his good memory. He was serious and diligent, and he had an astonishing ability to spot errors in documents that others had already checked several times.

But behind his diligence lay a reason his colleagues rarely mentioned.

As a child he had known poverty. His father had died young, leaving debts, and his mother had fallen ill and could barely manage to work. The boy left school to help at home, and for a long time he believed he would never have the chance to develop his abilities.

Then the owner of a large silk merchant house noticed how hard-working he was and offered him a job. At first the boy carried letters and filed papers, but his employer soon discovered that he had a feel for numbers. He paid for his training, allowed him to work with the account books and gradually began entrusting him with more complex tasks.

With a regular wage, the young man was able to pay off part of the family’s debts and secure better lodgings and treatment for his mother.

That is why the merchant meant far more to him than an employer. He saw him almost as a second father — the man who had appeared at the hardest moment and given him the chance to build a future.

The merchant himself was clever, ambitious and respected. He had created jobs, struck profitable deals and built up a large enterprise. But success had gradually made him overconfident in his own judgement. He found it hard to accept disagreement, rarely admitted mistakes and was convinced that, since so many families depended on his decisions, he had the right to decide alone which means were acceptable for keeping the business going.

The young clerk knew mainly his generous side and rarely questioned his decisions.

One day the merchant called him into his study.

On the great wooden desk lay a heavy metal key with a richly decorated handle.

— From today you will be in charge of the private archive — the owner announced. — The most important contracts, accounts and letters are kept there. I am entrusting you with the key because I know you can keep what is placed in your care.

The young man took it, deeply moved.

Access to the archive was granted only to the merchant’s closest assistants. For him this was an enormous recognition.

— Everything you learn from the documents must stay between us — his employer added. — The future of the whole house depends on this information.

The clerk promised.

He did not even ask what secrets the room might hold.

As he left the study he met the elderly housekeeper, Madeleine. She had worked for the family for more than thirty years and knew the master well enough not to be impressed by every one of his solemn speeches.

She noticed the key and raised her eyebrows.

— So you’ve been admitted to the holy of holies. Just remember, my boy, that the master is very fond of talking about honour and dignity. Especially when a conversation about money is coming.

The young man laughed.

— You are far too suspicious, Madeleine.

— After thirty years in this house I have earned the right to doubt at least half the promises I hear.

He took her words as just another joke and went on down the corridor, the key clutched in his hand.

Over the following months he worked even harder. He went through contracts, checked payments and made sure the important documents were safely kept. He liked being the owner’s confidant, and gradually he began to regard the merchant house’s successes as his own.

Among the employees there was also an elderly bookkeeper who had worked for the firm for more than twenty years. He was an honest man, a husband and the father of three children. His colleagues respected him for his patience and his good nature.

The bookkeeper often helped the young clerk. He explained the complicated accounts to him, shared his professional experience and asked after his mother’s health. Sometimes he brought herbs or small gifts prepared by his wife.

When the young man was given the key to the archive, it was the old bookkeeper who was among the first to congratulate him sincerely.

That autumn, however, the merchant house began to run into difficulties.

Several deliveries were delayed, an important client cancelled an order, and the owner held more and more tense conversations with his creditors. He demanded that reports be prepared immediately, went over the accounts and sometimes left his study visibly irritated.

The young clerk noticed the anxiety, but he believed his employer would find a solution, as he had so many times before.

One evening he stayed on after the working day was over to check the papers for a large delivery.

As he compared the sums, he found a discrepancy between the recorded payments and the cloth actually delivered. At first he assumed it was a mistake.

But when he checked several more transactions, he noticed similar differences.

He took the key, unlocked the archive and looked for the original contracts.

Among the documents he found a second account book.

He laid the two books side by side.

The official one recorded payments that did not match the original records. The other showed that part of the funds had been transferred to the owner’s personal accounts, and that the losses from certain transactions had been concealed.

The young man checked the figures once more.

The differences were far too consistent to be accidental.

The next morning he asked to speak with his employer.

The merchant heard him out, closed the door of the study and admitted that the firm’s financial position had worsened.

— I had to move funds temporarily — he explained. — When the new payments come in, I will restore everything.

The clerk pointed to the altered documents.

— But the partners don’t know the true position.

— If they find out now, they will demand their money back at once. The workshops will close and hundreds of people may lose their livelihood. I need only a few months.

The young man hesitated.

He knew how many families depended on the firm. He also knew the merchant’s skill; time and again he had overcome serious difficulties.

— Is there no other way? — he asked.

— I have thought of everything — the owner replied. — Right now I need someone I can rely on.

Then he looked at him closely.

— Can I rely on you?

The young man remembered the years of poverty, his sick mother and the help he had received.

He promised to keep silent.

Over the following weeks he tried to convince himself that the arrangement was temporary. As soon as the new orders were fulfilled, the money would be restored and no one would be harmed.

But the financial difficulties continued.

One of the partners noticed the missing funds and demanded an audit.

The merchant realised that the irregularities might come to light and decided to turn suspicion towards the elderly bookkeeper.

Soon a document was produced according to which it was he who had authorised the improper transfer of funds.

When the young clerk saw the document, he immediately recognised the altered records.

He knew his old colleague was innocent.

He went to his employer and demanded an explanation.

— If the whole house collapses, everyone will suffer — the merchant replied irritably. — The bookkeeper will find other work. And we must save what we have spent years building.

— But the accusation will ruin his good name. He has a family.

— You have a family too — the owner reminded him. — Think of your mother. Think of everyone who relies on this work.

Then he added:

— Don’t forget your promise.

The clerk left the study with a heavy heart.

That evening he went home and found his mother in bed. The doctor had recommended a new treatment, which would require extra money.

The young man sat down beside her and promised to provide what was needed.

— I am proud of you — his mother said. — You have done so much for us. How fortunate that the master gave you the chance to work all those years ago.

Her words hurt him more than she could ever have imagined.

When he was left alone, he took the key out of its pouch and laid it on the table.

If he told the truth, he might lose his job. If he went on keeping silent, an innocent man would bear the consequences.

Soon the accusation became official.

The bookkeeper was dismissed, and rumours spread through the city’s trading circles. Old acquaintances began to avoid him, opportunities for work dwindled, and his family fell into financial hardship.

The man insisted that he was innocent, but the document that had been produced looked convincing.

One evening, as the young clerk was leaving the merchant house, he saw the bookkeeper outside the entrance.

The old man was waiting for him, dressed in his old coat.

— Can we talk?

The young man nodded.

— You know the accounts — the bookkeeper began. — Just tell me whether you really believe I did this.

The clerk felt his face flush.

Before him stood the man who had helped him so many times, who had asked after his sick mother and had sincerely rejoiced in his successes.

He knew the truth.

For a moment he wanted to tell him everything.

Then he remembered his wage, his mother’s treatment and his fear of poverty.

— I don’t know all the details — he replied.

The bookkeeper gave him a long look.

— I thought that you, at least, would believe me.

Then he turned and walked away.

The young man stayed by the entrance while the old man’s figure gradually disappeared down the street.

That evening he took out the key again.

Once he had been proud that such an important responsibility had been entrusted to him. Now the metal object reminded him of the truth he knew and of the man he had let walk away undefended.

It was then that he made the promise that would haunt him in the years to come:

“I will protect the people who saved me, even if I have to keep silent against my own conscience.”

The next day Madeleine noticed how troubled he was.

When they were alone, he admitted to her that he knew more about the accusation than he had said.

The old woman listened to him carefully.

— The master gave you work when you had nothing — she said. — But that doesn’t mean you owe him your conscience.

The young man explained that his mother depended on him and that he could not risk his wage.

Madeleine nodded. She knew the hardships his family had faced.

— I understand why you’re afraid. But at least don’t convince yourself that everything is all right. When a person can’t do the right thing straight away, they must at least admit to themselves what is really happening.

Over the following months new orders gradually restored the merchant house’s finances.

The accusation against the bookkeeper, however, remained.

The young clerk was promoted. His wage went up, his mother began receiving better treatment, and his employer assured him that he had a great future ahead of him.

Everyone congratulated him.

But every time he unlocked the archive, he remembered the old man’s question.

In time he learned that the bookkeeper had left Lyon with his family. They had settled in a small town where they hoped to make a fresh start, but the accusation went on making their lives difficult.

The years went by.

The clerk’s mother gradually recovered, and he started a family of his own. He gained experience, saved money and set up in trade on his own account.

He became a respected man, known for his precision and his honesty.

When he trained his employees, he insisted that every account be checked carefully. He forbade any changes that might mislead clients and required all important decisions to be documented.

His colleagues joked that with him even the smallest figure had to be ready to account for itself, should anyone decide to question it.

But behind this strictness the memory of the two account books lived on.

When his former employer died, the heirs began going through the old archives.

By then the man was forty-eight years old.

They invited him to help with the documents, because he knew the merchant house better than most of its employees.

He came and walked once more along the familiar corridors.

In the archive he found the two account books and the draft of the document by which the innocent bookkeeper had been accused. The corrections made before the final text was submitted were still visible on the pages.

This time no one could order him to keep silent.

But when he put the documents into his bag, he felt afraid once again.

If he revealed the truth, he would tarnish the memory of the man who had once helped his family. He would disappoint the man’s heirs, and hardest of all, he would have to admit publicly to his own part in it.

He went home with the documents but did nothing.

That evening his son told him about a quarrel between friends.

One boy had broken a window and blamed another. His son had seen what happened, but he was afraid to tell the truth because he did not want to lose the friendship of the boy who was to blame.

The father heard him out.

— And what if you were the one unjustly accused? How would you feel if everyone knew the truth but preferred to keep quiet?

The boy thought about it.

— I would want someone to stand up for me.

The man did not answer straight away.

Once again he saw the old bookkeeper standing outside the entrance of the merchant house.

That night he took out the documents, laid the two books side by side and began to write down everything he knew.

After several weeks of searching, he learned that the old bookkeeper had already died.

The news struck him hard.

So many times he had imagined that one day he would find a chance to speak with him and ask his forgiveness. Now that conversation would never take place.

But he found one of the bookkeeper’s daughters, who lived in a small town not far from Lyon.

He got the documents ready and set off to visit her.

The woman received him politely, but with visible caution. She knew his name and remembered that her father had once spoken of the young clerk with respect.

The man laid the documents on the table.

He told her about the altered records, the financial misconduct and the promise he had made to his employer. He admitted that he had known her father was innocent, but that he had been afraid of losing his job and the money for his mother’s treatment.

The woman listened to him without interrupting.

Then she asked a single question:

— And when my father was alive and could still have heard these words, where were you?

The man bowed his head.

— I was afraid — he answered quietly.

— He was afraid too — she said. — He was afraid we wouldn’t be able to feed ourselves, that his children wouldn’t get an education and that no one would ever believe his name again. But every day he repeated that he was innocent.

Then she told him about their life after they left Lyon.

Her father had struggled to find work. Her mother had had to take on extra duties, she herself had broken off her studies, and her brothers had started working while they were still boys.

Over the years the family had waited for someone to prove the truth, but no one had ever come.

— You had a choice — the woman concluded. — My father did not.

The man did not try to justify himself.

He knew his fear had once been real. But now he saw quite clearly how many people had borne the consequences of his silence.

— I made a mistake — he admitted. — And I don’t expect you to excuse me.

He offered to present the documents to the proper institutions and to the trading community, to testify to what had happened and to help restore her father’s good name.

The woman looked through the pages.

— I will accept your help — she said. — But don’t expect me to tell you that it’s all forgotten.

— I understand.

This time the words carried a different meaning.

Over the following months the man presented the documents, spoke with former employees and took on his own share of the responsibility. He had to answer difficult questions. Some people accused him of tarnishing the memory of his benefactor; others wanted to know why he had kept silent for so many years.

He told the facts, concealing neither the help he had received nor the injustice his employer had committed.

After a lengthy process the accusation was reviewed and the bookkeeper’s good name was restored. The family also received money that was owed to them.

None of this could bring back the lost years.

But the bookkeeper’s children and grandchildren could now speak of him as an honest man.

The daughter did not send a letter of thanks.

She only let him know that her children finally knew the truth about their grandfather.

That was the only acknowledgement the man received.

And this time it was enough for him.

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The Karmic Vow — I Will Keep Silent, Even When My Conscience Speaks

The young clerk’s symbolic vow is born of gratitude towards the man who once saved his family from poverty. When he receives the key, he sincerely wants to prove that he deserves the trust placed in him.

But gradually he comes to believe that every request of his benefactor must be carried out, whatever the consequences.

His promise runs:

“I will protect the people who saved me, even if I have to keep silent against my own conscience.”

A similar belief can arise when someone has helped you at a difficult moment and you gradually begin to treat their every wish as an obligation. You are afraid to say no, because you think you will seem ungrateful.

You may also have grown up with the family rule that those close to you must always be defended, no matter how they have behaved. Or you may be keeping someone else’s secret that now affects people who never had any part in the original promise.

The story draws an important line between trust and taking part in an injustice. We can be grateful for the help we have received, keep confidential information safe and respect those close to us, without accepting all their actions as right.

The new promise could be:

“I value the trust and help I have received, but I have the right to ask questions, to set boundaries and to make decisions according to my own conscience.”

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How the Antique Key May Show Up in Your Life Today

Love — when loyalty begins to demand excuses

Imagine a woman who knows that her partner is in financial difficulty. At first she respects his wish to keep their problems within the family. But gradually she discovers that he keeps taking out new loans and expects her to cover up the real situation.

When she asks him how they are going to cope, he reminds her how important it is for partners to stand together.

The woman begins to worry that if she insists on more clarity, she will seem disloyal. Little by little she takes on someone else’s financial obligations and puts off her own plans.

For someone else the theme may be linked to a partner who repeatedly breaks their promises. You keep finding explanations for the people close to you — a heavy workload, a difficult period, family problems. Some of the reasons may be genuine, but over time you begin to avoid conversations about your own feelings.

If you recognise a situation like this, ask yourself what exactly you are protecting — the person you love, or actions of theirs that are causing harm. And what the relationship would look like if you could talk openly, without every question being taken as an accusation.

Family — the child who keeps the grown-ups’ secrets

Imagine a child whose mother confides her marriage problems and asks the child not to tell the father anything. After a while the father, too, begins turning the child into his confidant.

The child loves them both. Gradually they begin to feel responsible for their parents’ relationship, even though they have no way of solving their problems.

As an adult, such a person may go on playing a similar role. Relatives confide their conflicts, expect them to mediate and take offence when they refuse to take sides.

For someone else, the family obligation may be financial. Perhaps a relative constantly relies on you to pay off their debts, because they once helped you and believe you must now return the favour.

The old story invites you to look at which responsibilities truly belong to you. You can love your family, help as far as you are able and still keep the right to set your own boundaries.

Friendships — when trust becomes a burden

Perhaps among your friends you are the person everyone confides their secrets to. One friend tells you about a conflict with another, the second shares her own version, and a third expects you to tell her who is right.

Soon you find that you know almost everything about the relationships between them, but you are constantly careful about what you say.

You may feel guilty because you cannot help everyone. Or you may be afraid that if you refuse the role of go-between, your friends will decide they can no longer rely on you.

But trust does not always require you to take responsibility for resolving other people’s conflicts.

Madeleine is a wonderful example of a different kind of support. She knew the young clerk and understood his fear of poverty, but she did not try to convince him that he was doing the right thing. She told him the truth he himself was afraid to admit.

Sometimes the most valuable friend is the person who can listen to you with understanding and at the same time tell you that a particular decision deserves to be reconsidered.

Work and money — when gratitude has a price

Imagine an employee who got their job thanks to someone who helped them at a difficult moment. Over the years they gain experience, take on more responsibilities and become a valued member of the team.

But when they ask for better pay, their manager reminds them that it was he who once gave them a chance.

The employee begins to feel ungrateful, even though the working conditions changed long ago.

For someone else, the situation may be far more serious. An employer or business partner asks them to cover up a wrongful decision, insisting that the future of the whole enterprise depends on it.

The person is afraid to refuse, because they have a family, loans and responsibilities.

The clerk’s story shows how hard such decisions can be when financial security is genuinely under threat. That is why it is important to consider your options carefully, to seek reliable advice and, where there are legal or professional risks, to consult a qualified specialist.

Gratitude towards someone who has helped you can remain sincere and lasting. But every new situation deserves its own judgement.

The Most Important Trace — when confession does not bring forgiveness

Perhaps the hardest lesson in the clerk’s story is that when he finally reveals the truth, he does not receive the forgiveness he has dreamed of for so long.

The bookkeeper’s daughter accepts his help but refuses to declare what happened forgotten.

And she has every right to.

The man cannot bring back the lost years, the education the children never received or their father’s life. But he can acknowledge what he knew, why he kept silent and what he is prepared to do now.

This is an important question for your present life too. Perhaps you once kept quiet about something because you were afraid of the consequences. Or you made a promise that later began to conflict with your own convictions.

Think about what truly depended on you back then and what possibilities you have today. If you can put right some of the consequences, that possibility deserves to be considered. But the other person’s decision whether to forgive you belongs to them.

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Practice for Working Through It — The Seven Teeth of the Key

I offer you a seven-day practice that will help you look at the promises, trust and boundaries in your own relationships.

First tooth — the promise. Write down a situation in which you feel responsible for someone else’s secret or problem. What did you actually promise, and what additional obligations have you started taking on over time?

Second tooth — gratitude. Consider whether your sense of duty is connected with someone who once helped you. What are you grateful to them for? How does this gratitude influence your decisions today?

Third tooth — the price. Look at the consequences of keeping the promise for so long. How does it affect your time, your finances and your relationships? Are other people affected?

Fourth tooth — the boundary. Divide a sheet of paper into two parts. In one, write down the actions and decisions for which you truly bear responsibility. In the other — what belongs to the other person. Consider which obligations you could reconsider.

Fifth tooth — the truth. Choose one situation in which you would like to state your position more clearly. Prepare a short, concrete conversation. If there is a risk of serious consequences, seek suitable support or professional advice before you take action.

Sixth tooth — making amends. Consider whether you can put right something from the past — through an admission, help, clarification or a change in your own behaviour. Choose a sensible step, without expecting gratitude or forgiveness in advance.

Seventh tooth — the new key. Formulate a personal promise to replace the old belief. For example: “I can be grateful and loyal to the people I love without taking responsibility for all their decisions.”

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The Symbol You Take with You — The Key of Conscience

Choose a small key or a decorative pendant, or draw a key on a sheet of paper.

Place it beside a short promise you wish to keep:

“I will value the trust I receive and weigh my responsibilities with honesty towards myself and others.”

Whenever someone asks you for a new promise, recall this symbol and ask yourself: “What exactly is expected of me, and what might the consequences be?”

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Continue Your Karmic Investigation on FatedWays

If the antique key has reminded you of a promise you find hard to keep, of a family secret, or of someone towards whom you feel a strong sense of duty, you can continue on FatedWays — the Game of the Soul.

In the room The Lineage you can ask: “Which family belief makes me take on other people’s responsibilities?” In Karma you can look at recurring patterns of loyalty and guilt, and in Letting Go — at the sense of obligation you wish to free yourself from.

If your question concerns a particular person, the rooms Love, Compatibility, Friend and My People can help you explore trust and mutual expectations. For professional and financial decisions you can continue in Money and The Crossroads, and in Gifts — look at the abilities that will help you develop a more independent path.

You can continue your symbolic exploration with the large Tarot spread “The Karmic File — Declassified”, and now with “The Door to a Forgotten Life” as well.

Enter the Game of the Soul

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The Last Page of Your File — The Unlocked Door

Many years after the events in the old silk house, the elderly merchant once again stood before the building where he had first started work as a poor boy.

The business had long since changed its purpose. The former warehouses were used for other things, the corridors were almost empty, and the walls bore the marks of time.

But the old archive still existed.

The man was carrying a small leather bag containing a few documents and the heavy metal key he had kept through all those years.

He walked along the familiar corridor and stopped in front of the door.

He put the key in the lock.

The metal creaked and the heavy door swung open.

Inside, the shelves were almost empty. Dust lay on the table, and pale morning light came in through the high window.

The man went in and set his bag down on the wooden surface.

He took out the last documents relating to the accusation against the bookkeeper. Among them were the official decision restoring his good name and the testimonies about the real financial misconduct.

He arranged the sheets in an archive folder.

Then he placed beside them the copies of the two account books.

One showed the official records, the other — the transfers of funds.

Decades ago these pages had filled him with fear.

Now they told a story that no one needed to hide any longer.

The man closed the folder and laid a short note on top of it:

“The documents have been kept so that the whole truth may be known.”

Then he went over to the window.

Outside, Lyon was slowly waking up. The wheels of carts and the voices of merchants could be heard, and the distant workshops were beginning yet another day.

He remembered his mother, who had once sent him off to work in the hope that their family would at last have a better life. He also remembered his benefactor, who had given him the chance to learn and develop his abilities.

Then he thought of the old bookkeeper.

Of the man who had shown him how to check complicated accounts, who had brought herbs for his mother and had sincerely rejoiced in his successes.

And of the daughter who had asked him where he had been through all those years.

That question would never lose its meaning.

But it would no longer remain unanswered in the archives.

The man turned towards the door and for a moment pictured Madeleine standing in the corridor with her familiar smile.

She would surely have told him that he ought to have unlocked this door much sooner. And then she would probably have added that at least he had finally understood what the key was for.

He smiled sadly.

He picked up his almost empty bag and made his way towards the exit.

On the threshold he stopped.

He looked at the key he had carried with him for so many years and laid it on the table beside the door.

He left the room open.

This time no one had ordered him to unlock it.

The decision was his.

When he stepped out into the street, the morning sun was already lighting up the façades of the old houses. The man set off for home with slow steps, the leather bag in his hand almost empty.

For the first time in many years he did not have to clutch the old key in his palm.

If you have chosen the antique key, I wish you to meet people whose trust brings you joy, and to receive support that does not turn into a lifelong debt. May you have the wisdom to tell when loyalty calls for help and when it calls for an honest conversation, may you know how to admit your mistakes, and may you find ways to put right what truly depends on you. And if one day life once again hands you a heavy antique key and asks you to promise eternal secrecy, first ask what exactly lies behind the door. Especially if the person handing it to you begins with the words “Trust me, there’s nothing to explain”. After an introduction like that, I personally would also ask for the terms in writing.

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The File Is Open

After the death of an elderly photographer, a silver pocket watch with cracked glass is found in his old studio. Its hands have stopped at exactly 17:17. Beside it lies a large leather album bearing the inscription: “Paris, 1896. The photographs I never showed.”

Its pages are filled with photographs of strangers, bustling markets, old workshops and children beside railway stations. Beneath the images the photographer has written short stories. Some of the pictures are so beautiful that it is hard to believe their author kept them in a cupboard instead of presenting them to the public.

His family say the watch was damaged on a journey the photographer never managed to complete. For decades he refused to have it repaired. When people asked him why he kept the broken thing, he would answer: “There are hours a person never forgets.”

Yet among the studio's last papers there is also a receipt from a watchmaker's workshop. It turns out that shortly before his death the photographer did, after all, ask for the mechanism to be mended.

What made him change his mind after so many years? Why did 17:17, of all times, remain the most important hour of his life, and what had he discovered that made him want the hands to move again?

I confess that human beings have a rather peculiar relationship with time. When we are waiting for good news, the clock seems to drag its feet on purpose. When we are rushing to an appointment, the minutes vanish with suspicious speed. And whenever our dreams come up, there is always some lovely “tomorrow” on hand, promising to be far more convenient than today. Except that this tomorrow has an astonishing knack for sliding ever further along the calendar.

Your symbolic karmic file is connected with interrupted plans, missed opportunities and the feeling that you constantly have to catch up. Perhaps you once came very close to fulfilling an important dream, but events forced you to take a different direction. You broke off your studies, lost a job, went through a separation or postponed a decision that seemed fateful at the time.

The years have passed, but you keep comparing your life with the future you once imagined. Even after considerable success, you may feel that you are falling behind, that you have to work harder, or that the best opportunities have already been left in the past.

The story will take us to Turin in 1896. There a young photographer is preparing for a journey to Paris, convinced that his big chance has finally arrived. But a sudden accident cuts his journey short, and the watch his father gave him stops at 17:17.

The man will spend many years trying to make up for what he lost before he understands why another person has kept the memory of that same hour with enormous gratitude.

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Regression Journey — The Four Faces of Time

Before you read the story, I invite you on a short imaginary journey inspired by symbolic regression practices. Through the image of the old watch you can explore your own relationship with time, interrupted plans and the wishes you keep putting off. The images that arise are personal associations of the imagination and do not in themselves prove memories of a past life. If a scene feels unpleasant, you can change it, watch it from a distance or end the exercise.

Imagine an old European street with cobblestones, handsome façades and balconies with iron railings. The scent of fresh bread drifts from a bakery, a carriage passes along the street, and a clock on a tall tower strikes the hour. Among the passers-by you notice someone taking out a pocket watch. Look at their face, their clothes and the way they glance at the hands. What are they waiting for so impatiently?

The first face of time — anticipation. Imagine an important day this person has long been preparing for. It may be a journey, a meeting, a professional opportunity or a new beginning. Look at the luggage and at the people seeing them off. What do they hope to achieve? How do they picture their life after this day?

The second face of time — interruption. An unforeseen change occurs. Unwelcome news may arrive, the journey may be cancelled or circumstances may demand a different decision. The person looks at the watch again, but the hands are no longer moving. What do they feel? What do they promise themselves after what has happened? Do they begin to believe they must make up for the lost opportunity at any cost?

The third face of time — life after that day. Now the person is much older. Look at their home, their loved ones, their work and everything they have created. Which people came into their life after the interrupted plan? What new opportunities did they discover? Do they notice their own achievements, or do they still compare everything with the future they once expected?

The fourth face of time — the watch in your hands. The elderly person hands you the damaged watch. You can keep it as a memento, leave it on the table or take it to be repaired. What do you choose? Think of a wish from your own life that still matters to you. Could it take on a new form, suited to the possibilities you have now?

Gradually bring your attention back to the present and write down which scene stirred the strongest feeling.

The question that remains: “If I could have back just one hour of my life, what would I want to do with it, and what is this answer telling me to give more time to today?”

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The Story from a Past Life — Seventeen Minutes Past Five

Turin, Italy, 1896. The city was gradually changing its face. Horse-drawn trams and carriages passed through the streets, workshops were filling with new machines, and shop windows offered inventions that only the previous generation would have thought unbelievable. Photography was becoming ever more popular. Wealthy families commissioned formal portraits, travellers bought pictures of famous places, and some photographers were beginning to turn their lenses on ordinary life.

Among them was a twenty-nine-year-old man who owned a small studio near the centre. He had learned the trade from his uncle and knew how to make beautiful portraits, but what he loved most was photographing people in the streets — craftsmen, traders, children, old men and women whose faces bore the marks of the passing years.

Every morning he arrived at the studio at the same time. He prepared his equipment, checked the plates and took out his silver pocket watch to set it against the wall clock.

His clients joked that he could probably measure even the length of a smile.

The watch was a gift from his father, who had worked for many years as a watchmaker. The old craftsman loved intricate mechanisms and dreamed of one day opening a large workshop where he would make watches to his own designs. But the family was always in need of money, new obligations kept appearing, and every year he put his dream off.

Shortly before his death he gave his son a watch he had assembled with his own hands from parts collected over many years.

— Don't leave your life for later, the way I did — he told him. — Work, study and look after the people you love, but when you truly want something, make room for it while you can.

The young photographer remembered those words.

Gradually he came to believe that he had to succeed early enough not to repeat his father's regrets. He wanted to travel across Europe, to photograph the lives of ordinary people and one day to present his photographs to a large audience.

In the spring of 1896 he received a letter from an acquaintance in Paris who worked with publishers and collectors. He invited him to present some of his work to people who could offer him new commissions and places in exhibitions.

The photographer could hardly believe the news.

He began selecting his finest pictures, made handsome mounts and prepared a large leather album. Beneath each image he wrote a short story about the person photographed. Among the photographs were an old cobbler, a woman with a basket of flowers, two brothers in a bakery and a little boy beside the enormous wheel of a locomotive.

His greatest support was Maria, a young literature teacher with whom he had been together for several years. She loved his photographs and often helped him with the texts. Maria herself dreamed of writing a book about the women of Turin — teachers, seamstresses, shop assistants and elderly neighbours whose stories rarely found a place in literature.

The two of them could talk for hours about art and travel.

But Maria found it hard to accept his habit of turning every free minute into yet another task.

— After Paris everything will be different — he would assure her. — I'll get new commissions, I'll hire an assistant and we'll have more time.

— Wonderful — Maria would reply. — Just tell me which year you have in mind, so I can write it down.

On the evening before his departure the two of them went through the album once more. Maria helped him pack and saw him off, hoping the journey would bring him the recognition he deserved.

The next morning the photographer boarded the train for France. He carried the leather bag with the album, his camera and a few photographic plates. In his waistcoat pocket his father's watch was ticking.

The journey began pleasantly. Through the windows one could see green slopes, small villages and distant mountain peaks.

In the compartment were an elderly gentleman, two merchants and a young mother with a little boy.

The child immediately noticed the camera bag.

He began asking how the camera worked, why people had to keep still and whether one day photographs would be able to be in colour.

The mother apologised several times for his curiosity, but the photographer was genuinely enjoying himself.

— And can you take a picture of us too? — the boy asked.

The man glanced at the light by the window and agreed.

He set up the camera and asked the two of them to sit close together. The boy tried so hard to stay still that his face took on the expression of someone appearing before a very strict examining board.

— You may smile, you know — said the photographer.

— Mummy said not to move!

— We'll allow the smile as an exception.

The boy finally laughed, and the photographer took the picture.

He promised to send a copy once it was developed. The mother thanked him, and the child went on asking questions until he gradually grew tired.

In the afternoon the weather turned.

Heavy clouds gathered over the mountains. A downpour began, and the train started to move more slowly. Streams of water ran down the windows, conversations gradually died away and the passengers looked outside more and more often.

The photographer took out his watch.

It was 17:17.

The next moment there was a loud noise.

The carriages jolted sharply, the wheels screeched and the train began to stop abruptly. The rain had brought a landslide down onto the tracks.

The luggage swayed. A suitcase fell from the rack, the elderly gentleman clung to his seat, and the little boy, who had just stood up, lost his balance and pitched towards the compartment door.

The photographer reacted instantly.

He pulled the child towards him and shielded him from the blow, but his right hand struck hard against the metal edge of the seat.

He felt a sharp pain.

The camera fell, and the pocket watch slipped out of his waistcoat and hit the floor.

Minutes of confusion followed. Railway staff began checking the carriages, passengers searched for their luggage, and the mother held her sobbing boy.

When she realised the child was unhurt, she turned to the photographer and began to thank him.

But the man could barely hear her.

His hand hurt badly, his equipment was damaged, and the journey to Paris now seemed impossible.

He bent down to pick up the watch.

The glass was cracked, and the hands had stopped at 17:17.

A few days later he returned to Turin.

The doctor warned him that his hand would take time to heal. The meeting in Paris had been missed, some of the equipment needed repairing, and the album he had prepared ended up back in the cupboard.

Maria looked after him, brought him books and assured him that once he recovered he would be able to look for a new opportunity.

But the photographer thought only of Paris.

He imagined the meeting with the collectors and all the commissions he might have received. In his imagination the life he had missed grew ever more wonderful, while the present one looked pale beside it.

One evening he took out the damaged watch and remembered his father's words.

“Don't leave your life for later.”

He felt ashamed.

It seemed to him that he had already repeated his father's fate and let his greatest chance slip away.

It was then that he made himself a promise:

“Never again will I leave my life unfinished. I will succeed in time, even if I have to sacrifice everything else.”

After a few months he gradually returned to work. His hand healed slowly, and sometimes he needed help carrying the heavy equipment.

But he took on more and more commissions.

He worked from early morning until late at night, looked for new clients and constantly calculated what more he could get done.

Soon the work increased, his income improved and his name began to become known.

But the satisfaction never lasted long.

After every finished commission he thought about the next one. Every free afternoon looked to him like a missed opportunity.

A few years later he and Maria married, and a daughter was born to them.

From an early age the girl showed an interest in photography. She loved looking through the albums, asking questions and watching her father at work.

He loved her dearly and dreamed of one day passing his craft on to her.

But he kept putting it off.

When his daughter begged him to show her how the camera worked, he promised they would do it the next day. When Maria suggested going for a walk, an urgent commission usually turned up.

Maria herself gradually gave up her literary pursuits. She taught, looked after the home and helped in the studio. The notebooks with the stories of the women of Turin stayed put away in the cupboard.

One Sunday their daughter came into the studio with a little notebook.

— Papa, will you take me to the market? I want us to photograph the people.

— Of course. We'll go this afternoon.

The girl was delighted and began preparing her questions.

But a little later a client arrived with an urgent commission. Then several plates had to be developed, and finally yet another engagement came up.

By the time the photographer had finished, the market was already closed.

His daughter was waiting for him on the stairs.

— You always say tomorrow.

He began to explain how important the work was and how soon they would have more time.

— I wanted us to take pictures today — the girl replied.

Then she put away her notebook and went up to her room.

Her words hurt him.

That same evening Maria found him in the studio, sitting in front of the old Paris album.

— For years you've been talking about the time you lost — she said. — And while you try to make it up, you keep missing the life we have now.

He objected that he was working for their family's future.

— I know — Maria replied. — But our daughter is growing up, we're getting older, and you still live as if that train were waiting for you somewhere.

Then she fell silent.

— At least you know which dream you're trying to catch up on. I'm beginning to forget what mine was.

The photographer looked at her in surprise.

Maria told him about the unfinished book, about the women whose stories she had long wanted to write down, and about the evenings when she was too tired even to open her notebooks.

— I don't want to discover one day that I've spent my life waiting for all the other tasks to be finished — she said.

That evening the two of them talked for a long time.

For the first time the photographer realised that his drive to make up for the missed meeting in Paris had gradually begun to dictate the time of the people he loved as well.

The next morning he closed the studio for a few hours and took his daughter to the market.

The girl arrived with her notebook, as excited as if the two of them were setting off on a distant expedition.

They wandered among the stalls, talked with the traders and took photographs.

Soon the photographer discovered that his daughter saw the world in an entirely different way. While he looked for the right light and composition, she noticed the chance smiles, the gestures and the little incidents.

At one point she insisted that they photograph an old woman who was laughing at a joke in the market.

— The light isn't good — her father objected.

— But look how beautifully she's laughing!

In the end they took the picture.

When they developed the plate, the photographer was surprised. The smile was so natural that the image looked more alive than many of his carefully prepared portraits.

He placed the photograph among his favourites.

Gradually the two of them began going out together more and more often. He passed on his technical knowledge, and his daughter helped him look at the familiar city with fresh curiosity.

Maria, too, returned to writing.

In the evenings she wrote down the stories of the people the two of them had met during the day. Gradually the photographs and the stories began to complement each other.

The years went by.

Their daughter grew up and decided to take up photography. Her father supported her, though he worried whether the profession would provide her with enough to live on.

One day the girl came across the old album prepared for Paris.

She looked through the photographs, read the notes and asked why they had never been shown to the public.

Her father told her about the journey, the injured hand and the missed meeting.

His daughter heard him out.

— But you went on taking pictures — she said. — And through all these years you made so many more wonderful photographs. Why should one missed meeting decide the fate of all your work?

He could not answer straight away.

To him the album meant a missed chance.

His daughter, however, saw the beginning of a story they could continue together.

She suggested they select the old pictures and add new images of the same streets, markets and workshops. Maria could write the texts, and the two photographers could show how the city had changed.

And so they began preparing an exhibition entitled “The People of Our City”.

They sought out the descendants of the people photographed, talked with old clients and gathered stories about places that no longer existed.

Maria drew on some of her literary notes, and their daughter added photographs of life in Turin in the new century.

When the exhibition finally opened, the photographer was already an old man.

But he felt the same excitement with which he had once prepared the album for Paris.

Visitors stopped in front of the pictures, recognised relatives and shared memories.

One woman looked for a long time at the portrait of the old cobbler. Then, deeply moved, she admitted that it was her father, of whom she had hardly any good photographs.

The man listened to her with joy.

For the first time in many years he began to see his old pictures through the eyes of the people whose stories he had preserved.

A little later he noticed a visitor who was studying, at length, a photograph of a mother and child in a railway compartment.

The picture had been taken in the spring of 1896.

The stranger was a middle-aged man. He read the caption beneath the image and asked who the author was.

When the old photographer introduced himself, the visitor looked at him in surprise.

— Then you're the man who shielded me on the train.

The photographer looked closely at his face.

Gradually he remembered the little boy, his curiosity about the camera and the mother who kept apologising for his questions.

The man told him that his mother had kept the memory of that day all her life.

— She often told me about the stranger, a photographer, who pulled me towards him when the train suddenly stopped — he said. — She used to tell how you hurt your hand while you were protecting me.

Then he took a small yellowed photograph out of his pocket.

It was a copy of that same picture from the compartment, which his mother had received after the accident and kept through the years.

— She used to say that we had met a very good man that day. She told the story so many times that even my own children know it now.

The old photographer took the picture.

As he looked at it, he remembered the misted windows, the mountain slopes, the loud noise and the pain in his hand.

Then he recalled the watch falling to the floor.

17:17.

All these years he had linked that hour with the missed meeting, the damaged camera and the future he had imagined in Paris.

And now before him stood the person he had once protected.

A man with a family, children, a profession and a whole life that had carried on after that afternoon.

For a long time the photographer could not find any words.

For the first time he understood how differently the two of them remembered the same event.

While for years he had regretted not managing to arrive on time, a mother had been telling her son about the man who had reacted exactly in time.

After the meeting the photographer stayed in front of the picture for a while.

When his daughter came over, he told her what had happened.

That same evening he went back to the studio, opened the drawer and took out the old watch.

He looked at the cracked glass and at the hands stopped at 17:17.

For the first time the object also reminded him of something good that had happened that day.

The next morning he took the watch to a craftsman.

— Do you think it can be repaired?

The watchmaker examined the mechanism.

— It will need careful work, but I'll probably manage.

The photographer smiled.

— There's no hurry. This watch has waited long enough as it is.

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The Karmic Vow — I Will Succeed in Time, Whatever It Costs Me

The photographer's symbolic vow appears after the interrupted journey to Paris. From his father he has learned that dreams deserve attention and that a person should not put off everything they love. But after the accident he begins to take those words as a warning that any delay may rob him of the future he longs for.

His promise runs:

“Never again will I leave my life unfinished. I will succeed in time, even if I have to sacrifice everything else.”

Over time he starts to measure his days by the work completed, the goals achieved and the opportunities seized. Rest, shared experiences with Maria and time with their daughter are endlessly postponed to the future.

And so the man who is most afraid of missing his life begins to put off the very things that truly fill him with joy.

A similar belief may show itself today, when after a loss, a financial difficulty or an interrupted plan you feel the need to catch up constantly. Even when circumstances improve, you keep working as though every free hour were a danger of falling behind.

Perhaps you postpone meetings, trips and personal wishes until you have reached a certain level of security. Or you compare your present life with the future you once imagined, without noticing everything you have already built.

The new promise might be:

“I will take care of my future while leaving time for the people, the relationships and the experiences that make my life precious today.”

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How the Old Watch May Show Up in Your Life Today

Love — when closeness is always waiting its turn

Imagine a couple who have long dreamed of a trip together. But one partner keeps suggesting they wait until next month, until an important project is finished, a particular expense is paid off or a more convenient moment comes along.

The months go by, and the shared plans keep being put off.

The other person gradually begins to feel as though the relationship always comes last, after every other obligation.

In another person the fear of lost time may lead to the opposite. After a series of unsuccessful relationships, he begins to believe he is already running late for starting a family. From the very first dates he wants to know when they will move in together and how quickly the relationship will develop.

The wish for a serious relationship is entirely understandable, but the anxiety that time is passing can stop two people from getting to know each other naturally.

There is also the person who postpones love until they change jobs, buy a home or reach perfect financial security.

Little by little, closeness becomes the last item on a list that keeps growing longer.

The story of the photographer and Maria reminds us how easily a shared future can swallow two people's present. Think about which good experience you can share with your partner now, without first having to finish every other task.

Family — the promised tomorrow

The little girl's words — “I wanted us to take pictures today” — show how differently we perceive time in the different periods of our lives.

A parent may work hard to secure the family's future and believe that the missed walks and conversations will be made up for later.

But children grow, their interests change, and certain experiences belong to a particular period of life.

The same can happen with our elderly parents. We have long wanted to visit them, look through the old photographs or hear some family story, but a new obligation constantly turns up.

You may also have grown up in a family where work was the highest value and rest was seen as a reward to be earned once all the tasks were done.

Think about which family rules still influence your attitude to time. Perhaps some of them deserve to be changed, so that you have more opportunity for meetings and experiences with the people you love.

Work and money — when success is never enough

Imagine someone who lost their business but years later managed to start again. Their new venture is doing well, the clients are multiplying and the income now provides a good life.

But they keep working at weekends, accepting almost every commission and fearing that if they slow down, they will lose everything again.

For another person it may be an interrupted career or education. Years later they return to their professional development, but they constantly compare themselves with their peers, who carried on without a break.

Instead of valuing the effort a new beginning required, they calculate how much further ahead they would be if circumstances had been different.

Feelings like these are understandable, especially when someone really has suffered serious losses. But it helps to look at your present situation in terms of your real possibilities, and not only through comparison with the life you imagined years ago.

Age — when the calendar starts deciding for you

Perhaps you once decided that by thirty you had to have a certain profession, by forty a home of your own, and by fifty enough money to travel and enjoy life.

But circumstances turned out differently.

A woman may decide at forty that she is too late to change profession, at fifty that the great love has already been left in the past, and at sixty that the journeys she dreams of belong to the young.

Another person constantly compares themselves with their peers. One has a family, another has bought a home, a third has built a successful career. Gradually they begin to feel left behind, without taking into account how different human circumstances can be.

Ask yourself who set the deadlines by which you measure your own life.

Of course, age does affect some real possibilities. But many wishes can take on a new form suited to your present situation. A person can begin studying, return to creative work, build relationships or discover new places in a period of life that was never even part of their original plan.

Unfinished dreams — what is still waiting in the cupboard

In the photographer's studio two projects stayed put away for a long time — the album for Paris and Maria's book.

Both of them held on to their wishes, but gradually came to see them as pastimes they would find time for later.

Perhaps you, too, have an unfinished project like that.

You want to learn a language, start painting, write a book or visit a particular place. You keep materials, notes and plans, but every time something more urgent comes up.

Imagine someone who dreams of travelling and has already collected a whole set of itineraries. They know which museums they want to visit, where they will stay and what they will see, but they always find a reason to postpone the trip. Years later they know the cities almost like a local guide, although they have never been there.

For another person the unfinished wish is a musical instrument or an old manuscript. Every time they see it, they remember how much they loved the pursuit, but at once they start calculating how much effort it would take to reach their former level.

The photographer's story shows us that some dreams can be continued in a way that differs from the original one. The meeting in Paris never took place, but the photographs found their audience through the exhibition created with Maria and their daughter.

Perhaps your wish, too, deserves a new chance. Or perhaps you have already discovered another dream that means more to you today.

The Most Important Trace — life carried on after 17:17

One of the most interesting questions in this story is why two people remember one and the same event so differently.

For the photographer, 17:17 was the hour when he missed the chance to present his work in Paris. For the mother on the train it was the day when a stranger helped her child.

Both memories are part of what the characters really lived through.

But when the photographer began to measure his whole life by the missed meeting, he gradually stopped noticing how many good things happened after it.

The old watch invites you to look at the years after the event that changed your plans.

Which people have come into your life? What have you learned? Which difficulties have you overcome? And which moments today would you not trade even for the chance to go back to your original plan?

Perhaps the loss really was great, and its consequences deserve to be acknowledged. But that does not mean all the years that followed must be measured by it alone.

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Practice for Working Through It — The Seven Hours I Take Back

I offer you a seven-day practice devoted to time, interrupted dreams and whatever you wish to make more room for in your everyday life. You can set aside twenty minutes a day, or more if you are able.

The first hour — the stopped watch. Write down an event after which you began to see your life differently. What did you expect, and what actually happened? What was beyond your control, and what belief did you form after the experience?

The second hour — the lost route. Recall the future you imagined before that. Which wishes still matter to you, and which have already changed? Perhaps today you want entirely different things, and that deserves to be acknowledged.

The third hour — the years afterwards. Write down at least five good or important events that have happened since that moment. They may be meetings, friendships, knowledge, journeys or difficulties you have overcome. If you have photographs, look through them and recall the people and places of that period.

The fourth hour — the promised tomorrow. Recall something you have long been promising yourself or someone close to you — a visit, a meeting, a conversation or a shared activity. Choose a specific day and take the first step towards making it happen.

The fifth hour — the forgotten dream. Find an object connected with an old wish. It might be a book, an instrument, a drawing or a note from a planned trip. Do you still want to carry on? If so, choose one small action. If the wish no longer matters to you, allow yourself to leave it in the past.

The sixth hour — the new timetable. Look at your daily routine. How much time do you give to work and obligations, and how much to the activities that bring you joy? Choose one thing you would like to have more often in your life, and look for a realistic way to make time for it.

The seventh hour — the seventeen minutes. Choose an activity you enjoy and give it exactly seventeen minutes. It might be music, reading, a walk, drawing or a cup of coffee that you will finally drink while it is still hot. Set the other tasks aside, and afterwards write down how you felt.

When you finish the practice, go back to the first day. Consider whether your attitude to the old event has changed and which part of your life you would like to develop from now on.

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The Symbol You Take with You — The Clock of the Present

Choose a small clock or draw a clock face.

If you have an old, broken watch, you can place it next to another one that shows the present time. One will remind you of what you have lived through, the other of the possibilities that keep appearing.

You can also draw a clock face on which, instead of the numbers, you write the areas of life that matter to you: love, family, work, friendships, creativity, travel and personal wishes.

Look at which of them receive enough attention and which have long been waiting their turn.

The question to the symbol is: “What is the most important thing I want to find time for today?”

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Continue Your Karmic Investigation on FatedWays

If the old pocket watch has reminded you of an interrupted plan, an old dream or the feeling that time is always running ahead of you, you can continue on FatedWays — the Game of the Soul.

In the room Karma you can ask: “Which experience makes me believe I am always late for the important things?” In The Lineage you can explore your family's beliefs about work, success and rest, and in Letting Go the regret over an opportunity you can no longer bring back.

If you wish to choose a new direction, visit The Crossroads. In Gifts you can turn your attention to abilities you have set aside, and in Money to the financial fears that may be driving you to work more and more.

For relationships with a partner you can continue in Love and Compatibility, and in Friend and My People you can explore your bonds with the people you want to find more time for.

You can continue with the large Tarot spread “The Karmic File — Declassified”, and now with the symbolic journey “The Door to a Forgotten Life” as well.

Enter the Game of the Soul

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The Last Page of Your File — The Watch Runs Again

A few weeks after the exhibition the old photographer was going through the latest pictures in the studio. Portraits from different years hung on the walls, and on the big table lay albums, letters and several old cameras.

By the window Maria had left the manuscript of her book.

Their daughter was packing for a trip to a neighbouring town, where the three of them intended to visit a photography exhibition and stay for a few days.

While her father was putting away the pictures, she came in with a small box.

— The watchmaker has repaired it.

She set the box down on the desk.

The photographer opened it.

Inside lay the silver pocket watch. The case had been cleaned, the glass replaced, and the hands were moving again.

The man picked it up and held it to his ear.

For the first time in many years he heard the familiar ticking.

— Do you remember when it stopped? — his daughter asked.

— I'll never forget. Seventeen minutes past five.

She pointed to the large clock on the wall.

— Then perhaps it's time to set it right.

Her father carefully adjusted the hands.

He looked at the small dial, then put the watch away in the inside pocket of his waistcoat.

This time the object brought him joy again.

Maria came into the studio and glanced at the luggage.

— Are you ready? If we don't leave soon, we'll miss the train.

The photographer turned towards the worktable.

On it still lay several unfinished commissions and letters that needed to be looked through.

For a moment he felt the familiar urge to finish everything first.

Then he closed the drawer and took his coat.

— I'm ready.

Maria looked at him with slight disbelief.

— Are we really going to leave without you checking all the papers one more time?

— There'll still be work when we get back.

— I absolutely must write that down — she replied. — After all these years I've finally heard something I had almost given up hope of.

The three of them laughed.

Their daughter locked the studio, and they set off down the street.

The city was lively. People were chatting outside the shops, children were running about the square, and from far off came the clang of a tram.

Maria took her husband's arm.

— Why are you smiling?

— I was thinking how much time I spent trying to make up for one missed day.

— And what conclusion did you reach?

He looked at her, then at their daughter.

— That I want to make better use of the time we have now.

Maria smiled.

— Wonderful. Just hurry up a little, because this time we really could miss the train.

The three of them went on towards the station.

In the photographer's pocket the watch was ticking quietly. Its hands had long since passed 17:17, and ahead of them lay a few days that no one had filled with work or promises for later.

This time the photographer would be travelling together with the people he loved.

If you chose the old pocket watch, I wish you time for good meetings, interesting journeys, beloved people and dreams that still excite you. May you manage to enjoy what you have achieved, discover new opportunities after difficult periods and not measure your whole life by what once did not work out. And if your plans change again, I wish you to find a new route that will lead you to something precious. Just don't forget to check the departure time — it is lovely to live without needless rushing, but the railways do have their own opinion on the matter.

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The File Is Open

In an old violin workshop in the Italian city of Cremona, among instruments, yellowed letters and wooden boxes, a small velvet case is found. Inside lies a gold ring with a dark red stone, and on its inner side are engraved the words “Until the return”.

Beside the case two musical scores have been kept, written in different hands. One is connected with a young violinist who died in 1859, while the other was written much later and bears a dedication from a man named Alessandro.

The family papers tell of a woman who wore the ring for more than fifteen years. Those who knew her admired her faithfulness to her fallen beloved and long believed she would never want another man at her side.

Yet the ring was found in the case, and the metal shows that it was worn for decades. Someone took it off after believing for so long that it had to stay on their hand forever.

Why did the woman change her mind? Who is Alessandro, and what does his music have to do with Lorenzo's violin?

I confess that rings are remarkable objects. A small circle of metal can carry more promises than some people manage to keep in a whole lifetime. And our memory has a strange habit — we can forget why we walked into the kitchen, yet remember perfectly the words of the person who put a ring on our finger thirty years ago. Especially when we truly loved them.

Your symbolic karmic file is connected with promises of love, attachment to the past and the feeling of guilt that can arise after a loss or a separation.

Perhaps you hold on to the memory of a loved one you have lost and worry that a new relationship would mean forgetting them. You may compare every new partner with your first great love, or keep waiting for the return of someone who long ago went their own way.

Or perhaps you have grown so used to a particular idea of faithfulness that you now find it hard to tell your own wishes apart from the promise you once made.

The story will take us to Northern Italy in the nineteenth century. We will meet a young violinist with a wonderful talent and dubious skill at repairing his own instrument, a woman who loves both him and her work, and a man who appears many years later with a damaged cello and a story of love and loss of his own.

And in the end we will understand why it is sometimes necessary to take off a ring in order to discover that what we really want to keep was never locked inside it.

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Regression Journey — The Four Circles of the Promise

Before you read the story, I invite you on a short imaginary journey inspired by symbolic regression practices. It can help you explore old promises and your relationship with love. The images are personal associations and do not in themselves prove memories of a past life. If you have gone through a recent loss, you may skip any scene that feels unpleasant. There is no need to make a decision about a future relationship.

Imagine an old Italian house with a small garden, tall windows and a door open onto an inner courtyard. Somewhere nearby a violin is playing. You enter a room where a velvet case lies on a wooden table.

You open it and find a ring. Look at its colour, its stone and the inscription on its inner side. What feeling arises when you take it in your hand?

The first circle — the day of the promise. Imagine two people exchanging the ring. Where are they, and what do they promise each other? What future do they see ahead of them? Notice what their words really mean at the moment they speak them.

The second circle — the changed promise. Time has passed, and circumstances are now different. One of the two looks at the ring again. What do they feel, and how do they interpret the old words now? Perhaps they have gradually begun to demand more of themselves than the two of them ever promised each other.

The third circle — the new guest. Years later someone appears at the door bringing the possibility of new closeness, friendship or an interesting experience. How does the owner of the ring react? Are they glad of the meeting? Do they feel hesitation or guilt? What would they themselves want, if they could choose freely?

The fourth circle — the meeting with oneself. The ring lies on the table again, and beside it are two empty boxes. One is for the memories the person wishes to keep, the other for their future wishes. Let them decide for themselves where to put the object, or whether to go on wearing it. Then imagine their younger self appearing beside them. What would they want to say to that younger self after all the years they have lived through?

Gradually bring your attention back to the present. Write down which promise you recalled and what it means to you today.

The question that remains: “Which promise from the past am I still keeping, even though the person I made it to, or the circumstances in which we spoke it, are now different?”

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The Story from a Past Life — The Ring of the Woman from Cremona

Cremona, Lombardy, the spring of 1859. The city was famous for its musical traditions and for the workshops in which generations of masters made violins, violas and other stringed instruments. Musical exercises drifted from open windows, merchants and craftsmen passed one another in the narrow streets, and behind the wooden doors of the workshops the masters shaped the wood, tuned the strings and repaired instruments that were often older than their owners.

But that spring, conversation turned more and more often to the war between the Austrian Empire and the allied forces of Piedmont-Sardinia and France. Families worried about the young men who were leaving, and news from the battlefields arrived with alarming delay.

In a small house with an inner courtyard lived a twenty-three-year-old woman who worked in the family workshop for stringed instruments.

Her father was a respected master, and since childhood she had spent hours among wooden bodies, varnishes and carefully arranged instruments. She had an accurate ear and skilful hands. She could detect a small change in the sound that the violin's owner had not noticed at all.

Her father was proud of her, although he often warned her to show more patience with the clients who first repaired their instruments themselves and then brought them to the workshop in a considerably worse state.

The most frequent visitor to the workshop was a young violinist named Lorenzo.

He taught music to children from wealthy families and played at local musical gatherings. The two had known each other for years, and their friendship had gradually turned into a love that showed more in their everyday habits than in grand declarations.

Lorenzo was lively and sociable and loved telling funny stories. He was late for appointments, easily got carried away by new ideas and was convinced that he knew almost as much about repairing violins as the real masters.

His beloved had ample evidence that this last conviction was entirely mistaken.

One afternoon he arrived at the workshop with his violin and declared that the instrument needed urgent repair.

She checked the strings, played a few notes and looked at him suspiciously.

— What exactly is the problem?

— It seems to me the sound has lost some of its tenderness.

— The cause is probably the musician.

Lorenzo sighed theatrically and declared that with such stern masters a man would soon start worrying about his instruments' feelings.

Then he stayed another hour, supposedly to discuss a new kind of varnish, but really because he wanted to be near her.

Their evenings were often spent in the inner courtyard. Lorenzo played while she cleaned instruments or repaired small parts.

They had a favourite melody, which he would begin to play whenever he sensed that his beloved was cross.

Once the two of them quarrelled because the violinist had decided to repair a scratch on his instrument himself and had left an even bigger mark.

— I wanted to save you the work — he explained.

— If you keep helping me like this, I'll soon have to open a second workshop just for the consequences of your good intentions.

He picked up the violin and began their favourite melody.

She tried to keep a serious face, but soon burst out laughing.

The two of them dreamed of a home together with a small garden, a music room and enough space for children. She wanted gradually to begin making her own instruments, and Lorenzo wanted to go on teaching and playing.

— If we have a son, I'll teach him to play before he can even walk — he assured her.

— First learn to pick your music up off the floor, so the child has somewhere to walk.

They talked about the future with the confidence of two people who believe the most important decisions have already been made.

But in the spring Lorenzo announced that he wished to go with the troops as a volunteer medical orderly.

Several of his friends had already left, and he believed he could help the wounded.

His beloved was alarmed.

— Why do you have to go? So many people need help here in Cremona too.

Lorenzo heard her out. He admitted that he was afraid himself, but he considered his decision the right one.

On the evening before his departure they were left alone in the inner courtyard.

The spring air smelled of flowers. A candle burned on the little table, and music could be heard from the house next door.

Lorenzo was unusually quiet, which at once worried his beloved. Usually he managed to find words even when everyone else would rather have listened to his violin.

After a while he took out a small case.

Inside lay a gold ring with a dark red stone.

On the inner side were engraved the words:

“Until the return.”

— I wanted to give it to you when I came back — Lorenzo explained. — But why wait? When I come home, we'll start preparing for the wedding.

She looked at the ring and embraced him.

— I'll wait for you. Just try not to be too late, because I have no intention of growing old while you wander the world.

Lorenzo laughed, promised to be careful and began to play their melody.

The next morning he left.

In the first weeks the young woman went on working in the workshop and waited for news every day. Lorenzo's mother often visited her. The two of them talked about him, recalled funny incidents and imagined his return.

But at the end of June alarming reports arrived of the great battle near Solferino.

There was talk of countless wounded and dead. There had been no letter from Lorenzo for a long time.

When word finally came, the young woman learned that he had been killed while helping to carry the wounded from the battlefield.

At first she could hardly believe it.

She heard out the man who had brought the news, then went back to the workshop and sat down by the window. She looked at the ring and remembered their last evening.

In the weeks that followed, those close to her tried to support her. Her father took on more work, her friends visited her, and Lorenzo's mother spent long hours with her.

The two women found comfort in talking about him.

A few weeks later Lorenzo's personal belongings arrived.

Among them was his violin.

When the woman opened the case, she immediately recognised the scratch he had once made during his overconfident attempt to repair the instrument.

She touched it with her fingers and smiled in spite of herself.

Then she remembered his laughter, his eternal lateness and their favourite melody.

She pressed the violin to her and wept.

She put the instrument away in a special cupboard, but she went on wearing the ring every day.

At first it reminded her of the love she had lived. But gradually she came to believe that her promise to wait for Lorenzo must also determine all the years that followed.

“If I love again, it means I have forgotten you.”

This belief surfaced whenever anyone showed an interest in her.

The years went by.

After her father's death the woman took over the family workshop. Gradually she became a respected master, trained assistants and accepted commissions from musicians who came even from other cities.

She had friends, she enjoyed her work and she was close to Lorenzo's mother.

But when someone invited her out, she usually refused.

She explained that she had already lived her great love.

Some acquaintances admired her faithfulness. Others worried that she had begun turning down opportunities that might have brought her joy.

She herself asked less and less often what she wanted.

Almost fifteen years after Lorenzo's death a man of about forty walked into the workshop with a large cello case.

His name was Alessandro.

He worked at a printing house that published books, scores and theatre programmes. He had been a widower for several years, and the cello had belonged to his late wife, who had taught music.

— For a long time I couldn't open the case — he admitted. — But lately I've started playing again, and I'd like the instrument to be repaired.

The woman examined the cello carefully and explained to him what she could do.

Alessandro asked interesting questions about the wood, the strings and the sound. Their conversation went on far longer than an ordinary discussion of a repair.

A few days later he came back.

At first he visited the workshop because of the instrument, and then he began finding other reasons too.

He had a quiet sense of humour, loved books and knew how to listen. He was different from Lorenzo, who used to come in noisily and fill every room with music and laughter.

Alessandro spoke more slowly and weighed his words. He liked to plan ahead and found it hard to accept sudden changes to arrangements.

One day he brought her a beautiful edition with engravings of musical instruments.

— I saw it at the printing house and thought you would like it.

She was touched by his thoughtfulness and invited him for tea.

Gradually they began to meet outside the workshop as well.

They walked by the river, went to musical performances and talked about books, travel and life in Cremona.

The woman found that she looked forward to their meetings.

But when Alessandro invited her to dinner, she often accepted and then cancelled the arrangement.

Once she felt particularly happy after one of their meetings. She went home, kept smiling, and only then noticed the ring on her hand.

Her joy suddenly gave way to guilt.

It seemed to her that she had spent a whole evening without once remembering Lorenzo.

The next day she avoided Alessandro.

He gradually began to notice her hesitations, but he did not press for an explanation.

One afternoon, as they were walking by the river, the conversation turned to the past.

The woman told him about Lorenzo, the war and the ring.

Alessandro heard her out, then shared the story of his wife. He spoke of the years they had spent together and of how hard it had been to go on with his life after her death.

— I loved her and I will always remember her — he said. — But when I started playing again, I realised how much I had missed the music itself, too.

The woman admitted that she felt guilty when she enjoyed his company.

— I'm afraid that if I let another person close to me, I'll be betraying Lorenzo.

Alessandro looked at her with a sad smile.

— And does anyone in Cremona issue permits for love? If there's such an office, I'd like to submit my papers in good time.

She laughed.

But when he gently touched her hand, she drew back again.

Over the following months they began spending more time together. Alessandro gradually became an important person to her, but after every closer meeting she felt anxious and withdrew.

For a long time he tried to understand her behaviour.

Finally, one evening, he visited her at the workshop and asked if they could talk.

— I know how much you loved Lorenzo — he began. — And I will never forget my wife. But lately I've had the feeling that every time I invite you to dinner, I have to ask permission from a man I never knew.

The woman lowered her eyes.

— I don't want to hurt you.

— I believe you. But I have feelings too. I want a home, closeness and someone to share ordinary days with. I'd even be glad to argue about perfectly mundane things, such as who forgot to buy the bread. By now that seems to me like it would be real progress.

She smiled through her tears.

Alessandro went on:

— I love you. But I need to know whether you yourself want us to be together. I can't live endlessly waiting for a decision you keep putting off.

Then he left.

The woman remained alone in the workshop.

For the first time she considered that her old promise was also causing pain to a man who bore no blame at all for what had happened years before.

Meanwhile people in Cremona had begun talking about her relationship with Alessandro.

Hardest of all was talking to Lorenzo's mother.

The old woman had learned about the new man from acquaintances and for a while avoided seeing her.

When they finally talked, she admitted why she had pulled away.

— I was afraid of losing you too — she said. — All these years we've remembered Lorenzo together. And now you're starting another life, and I worry that you won't need me any more.

The woman embraced her.

— You're part of my family. That won't change just because I've met Alessandro.

The two of them talked for a long time.

The mother talked about Lorenzo as a child — curious, stubborn and constantly busy with music.

His beloved remembered the young violinist who used to turn up with invented faults so that he could see her.

They discovered that each of them kept a different part of his story, and that over the years a closeness had grown between them that had a meaning of its own.

When they parted, the old woman admitted that she would need time to get used to the change.

— So will I — replied the young craftswoman.

A few days later she opened the cupboard with Lorenzo's belongings.

She took out the violin and began to clean it carefully.

Her eye fell on the old scratch.

She remembered how he had insisted he could repair the instrument himself. Then she recalled his eternal lateness, his scattered music and his self-assured explanations.

She laughed.

Over the years she had come to remember Lorenzo mostly as young, wonderful and full of promise. But now the real man she had loved appeared before her again — with his talent, his jokes, his flaws and all those little habits that keep love alive.

For a moment it saddened her that she could no longer quite recall his voice.

Then she touched the strings of the violin.

The memories had changed, but her love for what she had lived remained a part of her.

She looked at the ring.

The inscription still read “Until the return”.

When the two of them had chosen it, they believed Lorenzo would come back and they would marry. No one had imagined what would happen.

It was only after his death that she herself turned the promise to wait for him into a rule never to love again.

That same evening she took a sheet of paper and wrote:

“If I love again, it means I have forgotten you.”

She looked at the words for a long time.

Then she took a second sheet.

“I will remember you with love, and I will let my heart live.”

She left the two sheets beside the ring.

She did not hurry to take it off. She wanted the decision to be her own, and not yet another promise she had to keep at any cost.

After a while she sought out Alessandro.

She invited him for a walk and told him about her conversations with Lorenzo's mother and about her own hesitations.

— I love the time we spend together — she admitted. — I want us to try to build a life together. But I'll have to learn to speak more openly, instead of disappearing every time I get frightened.

Alessandro heard her out.

— And I'll have to tell you when something worries me, instead of pretending I understand everything. It seems to me we both have work to do.

She laughed.

Gradually their relationship began to develop differently.

Alessandro had a habit of leaving books on every free surface, while she loved order. He maintained that books should be within arm's reach, and she reminded him that this would not be possible at all if soon nobody could get across the room.

They argued over trifles, made up, talked and learned to accept their differences.

Music was an important part of their life together.

One day they decided to prepare a small performance for friends.

The woman suggested that the first melody should be Lorenzo's favourite piece, and Alessandro chose another composition that had personal meaning for him.

When the rehearsals began, she took the old violin out of its case.

She tuned the instrument, tried a few notes and for a moment remembered those now distant evenings in the inner courtyard.

Alessandro was watching her.

— If you like, we can choose a different piece.

— No — she replied. — I want us to play exactly this one.

Friends, acquaintances and several of the workshop's clients came to the musical evening.

Among the guests was Lorenzo's mother.

The woman was moved when she saw her.

She took up the old violin, and Alessandro sat down with the cello.

The first notes of the beloved melody rang out.

The music filled the room.

As she played, she remembered the young violinist who once used to turn up with invented faults, make her laugh and promise a future together.

When the piece ended, she looked at his mother.

There were tears in the old woman's eyes.

Then she and Alessandro began the second composition.

It sounded different — with a new mood and new harmonies. The woman looked at the man beside her, saw the attention with which he followed the music, and felt joy in what they were creating together.

After the performance Lorenzo's mother came up to her and embraced her.

— While you were playing the first melody, I remembered how he used to practise it as a boy — she admitted. — He kept getting the same passage wrong, but he insisted on starting from the beginning until he played it perfectly.

The two of them laughed through their tears.

The old woman looked over at Alessandro.

— I'm glad that music is still a part of your life.

Then she added quietly:

— And that I can still be part of it.

The woman embraced her once more.

Later, when the guests had gone, she went back to the workshop.

She opened the small velvet case and carefully took off the ring.

She looked at the red stone, stroked the inscription “Until the return” with her finger and laid the ring on the velvet.

She put the case away beside Lorenzo's violin.

Next to it she left the two scores.

The first kept the memory of the love of her youth. The second was connected with the man she had met many years later.

She looked at them and smiled.

Then she put out the light and went out.

Alessandro was waiting for her at the door with her coat.

— Are you ready? We promised to go and see our friends.

The woman took his hand.

— I'm ready.

The two of them set off down the street, talking about the music, the guests and everything they wanted to do in the days ahead.

In the old workshop the violin, the ring and the two scores remained.

And the woman now knew that she could keep the first melody with love and go on making music with the man walking beside her.

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The Karmic Vow — If I Love Again, It Means I Have Forgotten You

The symbolic vow of the woman from Cremona is born after Lorenzo's death. When she promised to wait for him, she believed their separation would be temporary. After the loss, however, she gradually begins to see her words as an obligation for life.

“If I love again, it means I have forgotten you.”

And so the old promise begins to shape her attitude towards new people. When she enjoys her meetings with Alessandro, she feels guilty. When she laughs, she worries that she is gradually forgetting Lorenzo. Over time even other people's admiration for her faithfulness reinforces the idea that she must remain alone.

A belief like this can arise after the death of a loved one, when new closeness awakens painful feelings. But it can also show itself after a separation, if you keep waiting for a former partner or comparing every subsequent relationship with your first great love.

This does not mean that everyone should look for a new partner. A life on your own can be an entirely conscious and fulfilling choice.

The question is whether you yourself wish to live this way, or whether you feel fear and guilt at the thought that you could choose something else.

The new promise might be:

“I will keep with love the people and experiences that have mattered to me, and I will make decisions about the future according to my own feelings and wishes.”

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How the Old Ring May Show Up in Your Life Today

Love — when the new person is competing with a memory

Imagine a woman who went through a painful separation after a long relationship. Years later she meets a considerate man with whom she shares interests and enjoys pleasant conversations.

But gradually she begins to compare him with her former partner.

If he does not write the same messages, has a different sense of humour or loves other pastimes, she worries that their relationship will never be as strong.

Little by little the new person finds himself in a competition with an image that memory has preserved in its most beautiful form.

For another person the theme may be connected with their first great love. Many years have passed, but they still believe they will never again feel anything like it.

Except that love changes along with us. At twenty we may dream of adventures, grand gestures and endless conversations until morning, and later come to value trust, a shared everyday life and the person who knows how we take our coffee.

Lorenzo and Alessandro were different men. One loved noisy jokes and music, the other preferred careful conversation and books. Each had his own wonderful and his own tiresome qualities.

The woman from Cremona begins to build a new closeness only when she allows Alessandro to be himself, instead of constantly comparing him with the past.

When the relationship has ended but the hope goes on

Imagine a woman who for years has had occasional contact with a former partner. They write to each other, recall good moments and talk about their lives, but he takes no concrete steps towards rebuilding the relationship.

She keeps hoping that one day he will come back.

When she meets someone else, she begins to hesitate about giving him a chance, because she fears that this might be exactly the moment her former partner wants a fresh start.

In a story like this it is important to look at the actual actions and intentions of the person from the past. Is there a mutual wish for a shared future? Are you making concrete plans? Or does the waiting continue mostly in your own hopes?

Another person may hold on to the memory of a love that never had the chance to develop because of distance or family circumstances. Years later they imagine how wonderful their life would have been if they had stayed together.

But that future was never tested by everyday life, which is why it often looks more perfect than real relationships.

Consider whether you are still waiting for a particular person with whom you genuinely share intentions, or whether you are holding on to the hope of a life that never came to be.

Family — the promises we have inherited

Perhaps there was a woman in your family line who, after her husband's death, never formed a new relationship. The family told her story with admiration and presented her as an example of exceptional devotion.

It may well have been her own conscious choice.

But if a family story gradually turns into a rule, the following generations may begin to believe that true love happens only once.

Another person may worry how their grown-up children will react if, after losing a partner, they want new closeness. They fear the children will take the decision as disrespect towards the parent who has died.

The story of Lorenzo's mother shows how complicated such feelings can be. She feared that the woman's new relationship would also take away the closeness the two of them had built over the years.

Only when they manage to talk openly do the two of them understand that they can keep the memory of Lorenzo and continue their own relationship.

If this theme feels familiar, consider which family ideas about faithfulness you genuinely share and which you have adopted because they were always presented as the only right choice.

Friendships — the people who are still beside us

After a great loss in love, a person may feel that the world around them is gradually changing.

Friends start families, move away, begin new relationships and change their daily lives. And the person who has gone through the loss may feel that their own life is unfolding in a different way.

Some of those close to them insist that it is time to meet a new partner. Others constantly remind them how wonderful the old love was.

Both reactions can be painful when a person needs to work out for themselves what they want.

Perhaps you, too, have begun turning down invitations to concerts, trips or get-togethers because pleasant experiences awaken a feeling of guilt.

Think about which relationships and activities still bring you joy. You may wish for a new love, but you may also find fulfilment in friendships, creativity and closeness with your family.

Work and money — independence as protection

After a painful separation some people turn all their attention to professional development and financial security.

Imagine a man who, after the end of a long relationship, decides to build a successful career. He works hard, gradually improves his position and begins to take pride in his independence.

When someone asks him whether he would like to have a partner again, he usually replies that he has no time.

But at certain moments he feels the lack of closeness and wonders whether work has become a convenient reason to avoid the risk of fresh disappointment.

Another person may have been in a relationship in which they were financially dependent on their partner. After the separation they decide never again to end up in such a position. Gradually they build stability, but they begin to see every new relationship as a threat to their freedom.

The woman from Cremona built up her workshop successfully and was able to take care of herself. Meeting Alessandro leads her to discover how she might keep her independence and at the same time build a new closeness.

Perhaps for you, too, the question is which boundaries, agreements and conditions would make a future relationship right for the life you have created.

The Most Important Trace — the two melodies

The most beautiful moment in the story is the evening when the woman takes up Lorenzo's violin and begins to play with Alessandro.

The first melody reminds her of her youth and the love she lived. The second is connected with the relationship she builds many years later.

The two pieces sound different, but they find a place in one and the same evening.

This is also the most important question of your karmic file: what does keeping a love from the past mean to you?

Perhaps you want to go on keeping photographs, letters and treasured objects. You may prefer to speak about a particular person only with those closest to you. Or perhaps new relationships still feel like too difficult a possibility.

There is no deadline by which you have to make a decision.

But you can look at whether your life today reflects your own wishes, or a rule you made many years ago under entirely different circumstances.

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Practice for Working Through It — The Seven Circles of Faithfulness

I offer you a seven-day practice that will help you explore old promises of love and their place in your present life. You can set aside fifteen or twenty minutes, and if an exercise stirs up painful feelings, leave it for another day. After a recent loss you can focus solely on the memories, without weighing up the possibility of a new relationship.

The first circle — the day of the promise. Write down a promise you once made to someone you loved. What were the circumstances, and what future did you imagine? How has the meaning of the words changed over the years?

The second circle — the love I lived. Recall three good moments from the relationship. They might be a walk, a funny incident, a conversation or a small gesture. Write down the details you still remember with affection.

The third circle — the person behind the memory. Think of your loved one with all their qualities and flaws. What made you laugh? Which habits sometimes irritated you? What made your relationship real and different from all the others?

The fourth circle — the years afterwards. Write down five important experiences since the end of that love story. What people have you met, what have you learned and what new interests have you discovered? How have your own needs changed?

The fifth circle — the new guest. Think about how you react when someone shows an interest in you. If you would like a new relationship, what would help you get to know the person without constant comparisons? If you prefer a life on your own, write down which relationships and activities you want to develop.

The sixth circle — the ring and freedom. Go back to the old promise. If you would express it differently today, write the new words. For example: “I will keep my important memories with love, and I will make decisions according to my feelings and wishes today.”

The seventh circle — the two melodies. Choose two pieces of music. The first may remind you of an important person from the past, the second of the life you wish to build from now on. Listen to them one after the other and write down what each of them awakens in you.

When you have finished, consider which memories you want to keep and what you would like to experience in the years ahead.

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The Symbol You Take with You — The Ring of Memory

Choose an object you associate with an important love story. It might be a ring, a photograph, a letter, a book or a small gift.

Look at it carefully and recall what it meant when you received it, and what significance it holds for you today.

If you wish, place it in a special box together with a short text about what this love gave you.

You can go on wearing the object, put it away, or return to it only when you choose.

The question to the symbol is: “What do I want to keep from this love, and which decisions do I want to belong to me today?”

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Continue Your Karmic Investigation on FatedWays

If the old ring has reminded you of a love that still influences your decisions, you can continue on FatedWays — the Game of the Soul.

In the room Love you can ask: “What still binds me to this old love, and how does it affect my relationships today?” If a new person is already present in your life, Compatibility can help you explore how your characters and needs meet.

In Letting Go you can explore the feelings that keep drawing you back to a story that has ended, and in Karma the old promises you have turned into personal rules.

If your question concerns family ideas about love and faithfulness, visit The Lineage. In The Crossroads you can look at the possibilities before you when you are torn between waiting for someone from the past and the wish for a new beginning.

The rooms My People and Friend can help you turn your attention to the people close to you who are part of your life after a separation or a loss, and Money to questions of independence and security in relationships.

You can continue with the large Tarot spread “The Karmic File — Declassified”, and now with the symbolic journey “The Door to a Forgotten Life” as well.

Enter the Game of the Soul

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The Last Page of Your File — The Melody That Had Not Yet Been Written

Cremona, many years after the war.

In the old workshop the woman was putting away the repaired instruments that the clients were due to collect the next day.

A cello could be heard from the next room.

Alessandro was once again rehearsing a piece they intended to perform for friends. Every so often he stopped, went back over a few notes and grumbled that the instrument had evidently decided to show a character of its own.

— I can tune it once more — the woman called out. — But that won't stop it having its own opinion of the musician.

Alessandro appeared in the doorway.

— After so many years with you, I really ought to have learned how to negotiate with stubborn characters by now.

She laughed.

Then she noticed a small sheet of paper in his hand.

— What's that?

— Something I've started writing.

He handed her the sheet.

On it were a few lines of musical notes.

— A new composition? — she asked.

— I'm trying. So far I have a beginning I like very much and an ending I'm still arguing with myself about.

The woman sat down at the table and studied the notes carefully.

Alessandro took up the cello and played the first bars.

The melody was tender, with a slightly sad opening, but it gradually moved into brighter and livelier tones.

She listened with interest.

— I like it — she admitted. — But I think that in one place the violin could answer the cello.

— That's exactly why I'm showing it to you. I want us to finish it together.

The woman looked at the score again.

Over the years the two of them had performed many pieces, but they had never tried to write one of their own.

— What shall we call it?

Alessandro shrugged.

— I don't know yet. First we have to find out whether we can agree on the notes.

— That really is the hardest part — she replied.

She left the sheet on the table and opened the cupboard with the musical instruments.

Inside lay Lorenzo's violin.

Beside it was the little case with the ring.

The woman opened it for a moment.

The red stone still caught the light in the same way as on that distant spring evening when Lorenzo had given it to her.

She touched the engraved words and remembered his voice, his laughter, his promises and their favourite melody.

Then she closed the case and put it back.

She took the violin.

When she returned to the next room, Alessandro had already placed the music on the stand.

— Are you ready to try?

— Yes. But on the third line I would change a few notes.

He sighed in mock despair.

— I knew I shouldn't show the piece before it was finished.

— Then it would have been too late to fix it.

— That's exactly what worries me. With you, the corrections usually turn out better than the original.

The two of them laughed and began to play.

The first attempt was hesitant. In one place the cello rushed ahead, in another the violin came in too early, and then they both stopped, because at the same moment they had each decided to change the same phrase.

After a few attempts the melody began to take shape.

The woman played a few new notes, and Alessandro repeated them and added his own reply.

Gradually the music filled the old workshop.

She looked at him and smiled.

In her life she had known a wonderful love with Lorenzo, which ended much sooner than either of them had expected. Then she met Alessandro, with whom she built an entirely different closeness — with shared days, disagreements, many conversations and a love of music.

And now the two of them were creating something that had never existed before.

When the last notes died away, Alessandro put down his bow and looked at the score.

— Well, now we have almost the whole piece.

— All that's left is to think of a title.

He thought for a moment.

— And how does “The Next Melody” sound to you?

The woman looked at him, then at the old violin in her hands.

— Wonderful.

Alessandro took up the pen and wrote the title on the sheet.

Beneath it he added two names.

Then he handed her the score.

— Now we can argue about who wrote the better part.

— We won't argue — she replied. — I did, of course.

Their laughter rang through the room.

In the cupboard next door the ring and the two old scores were still kept. They would always be a reminder of the music and love of different years.

But now a third score lay on the table as well.

This time the two of them had written it together.

If you chose the old ring, I wish you a love you can remember with gratitude, and people with whom to share your life just as you yourself wish. May your good memories keep their place, and may the future bring you new meetings, music, joy and plenty of reasons to smile. And if one day you receive a new ring, I wish you promises that are mutual, sincere and possible to keep. Because even the most beautiful love needs two people who, besides promising each other eternity, can also agree on who is going to buy the bread.

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The File Is Open

While repairing an old medieval bridge over the Danube, workers discovered a stone block bearing an unusual mark. Carved into it were two towers joined by an arch, and beneath them a few words could be made out in a language foreign to the city. The mark had remained hidden in the masonry for centuries, and thousands of people had probably passed by it without suspecting it was there.

Among the old records of the bridge's repairs, researchers found the name of a stonemason who had come from the lands around Verona. He took part in strengthening the structure in the thirteenth century and gradually became a respected master. But no document explains why he chose to carve two towers instead of the usual mark of his trade.

Did he want to keep the memory of his home town alive? Or were the two towers connected with people he loved but never managed to bring together in one place?

Bridges are particularly curious creations. People build them to get more easily from one bank to the other, yet notice how many stories begin precisely with a crossing. One person sets off for work, another for love, a third simply wants to see the world. He promises to come back in a few months, and one day he discovers that twenty years have passed and he now has a home, a family and friends somewhere else. Then the most interesting question appears — where is he actually from? In the new country they call him a foreigner, and when he goes back to the old one, they start explaining to him how much he has changed. There ought probably to be a certificate of belonging with two stamps for cases like this, though I suspect that even then someone would ask for one more document.

Your symbolic karmic file is connected with roots, migration, family promises and the feeling that you have to choose between different parts of yourself. Perhaps you left your home town or country and built a home elsewhere, yet you feel guilty that your loved ones have stayed far away. You may have grown up between different languages and cultures and long ago got used to changing your behaviour depending on the people you are with.

Or perhaps you never left the place you were born, but chose a profession, a partner or a way of life different from what your family expected.

The story will take us to medieval Regensburg, to a young stonemason named Matteo, who leaves his native land with a few tools, a little money and a promise to his father. In the unfamiliar city he will meet a friend who constantly corrects his pronunciation, a woman who will love him along with all his differences, and people to whom, for years, he will try to prove that he is one of them.

And when, after a long absence, he returns to the family workshop, he will discover that the memory of home and home itself have become two different things.

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Regression Journey — The Three Crossings of the Bridge

Before you read the story, I invite you on an imaginary journey inspired by symbolic regression practices. It will help you look at your relationship with the places, people and decisions that have changed your life. The images that appear are personal associations and do not in themselves prove actual memories of a past life. If a scene feels unpleasant, you can change it, watch it from a distance or end the exercise.

Imagine an old stone road running down to a wide river. Trees grow along the banks, the water reflects the clouds, and above it rises a bridge with beautiful arches. You hear the ringing of a bell, the creaking of wheels and conversations in an unfamiliar language. Among the travellers you notice a person with a small bag slung over one shoulder. Look at their clothes, their face and the things they carry. Where are they headed, and what do they hope to find?

The first crossing — the leaving. The person stops before the bridge and looks back at the place they have known since childhood. Picture the people they are saying goodbye to. Why have they decided to leave? What do they promise them? Perhaps they believe they will be away for only a very short time, or perhaps they fear they will never have the chance to return. In their hands they clutch a small object given to them by someone close. What does it mean to them?

The second crossing — the unknown world. The years go by. See the same person among new streets, a different language and people whose customs they did not understand at first. What kind of life have they built? Which new relationships have become important to them? Imagine a situation in which someone reminds them that they are different. Do they change their behaviour in order to be accepted? What part of their origins are they trying to hide?

The third crossing — the return. After many years the person arrives once more in their birthplace. The streets look familiar, but some of the people have changed, others have gone away, and some are no longer among the living. They walk into the old family house and reach out for an object they always used to find in a particular spot. But the object is now somewhere else. How do they feel when they realise that life has gone on without them?

The last image — the two objects. The person finds themselves on the bridge once again. In one hand they hold an object from their birthplace, and in the other — a gift from their new home. Someone has told them that they must leave one behind in order to go on. But who made that rule? Let them look at both objects and decide for themselves what they wish to do.

Before you finish, imagine a meeting between the young traveller and the person they have become. What would the older one tell them? Which decision would they praise them for, and what advice would they give?

Bring your attention back to the present and write down the images that moved you.

The question that remains: “Which part of myself do I keep changing in order to be accepted, and what would I like to keep no matter where I live and whom I spend my time with?”

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The Story from a Past Life — The Stonemason of Two Banks

Regensburg, the Holy Roman Empire, the middle of the thirteenth century. Merchant boats sailed along the broad Danube, travellers from many lands passed one another in the streets, and above the river rose the great stone bridge, built in the previous century. Its arches joined the two banks and caught the eye of every master who understood how much labour and knowledge such a structure required.

Among those arriving in the city was twenty-two-year-old Matteo, a young stonemason from a small settlement near Verona.

He had dark hair, a sun-browned face and strong hands that bore the marks of years of work. His father was a master builder and from childhood had taught his son how to recognise good stone, how sturdy foundations are laid and why a well-made arch can survive for generations.

Matteo was talented, hard-working and rather proud. Especially when someone questioned his abilities.

In his home town, however, work was growing scarce. The family was struggling financially, and the young man dreamed of using his craft in a bigger city.

When he learned that stonemasons were wanted in Regensburg, he decided to go.

At first his father was against it.

— Our family has worked with stone for generations. One day the workshop is meant to be yours.

— But if I stay, soon there won't be enough work even for the two of us.

They argued for several evenings. In the end his father admitted that he understood his wish, although it was hard for him to part with his most capable assistant.

Matteo promised that he would come back in a few years, once he had saved enough money.

His mother prepared food for the journey and gave him an old wooden crucifix that had belonged to her father.

— Take it, so you remember where you set out from.

Matteo embraced her and promised to return before she had grown too old.

— Then hurry — she replied. — Because time has already started working on that.

The next morning the young stonemason set off across the Alps.

The journey was long. He travelled along mountain roads, stopped in unfamiliar towns and gradually entered lands where people spoke languages he barely understood.

When he finally arrived in Regensburg, the first thing that caught his attention was the stone bridge.

Matteo studied the arches for a long time, trying to work out how the foundations had been prepared and how the individual blocks bore the weight of the structure.

To him it was a true miracle of craftsmanship.

The first weeks, however, turned out to be hard.

He spoke very little of the local language and often did not understand the masters' instructions. But instead of asking, he would nod confidently and hope he had guessed what was expected of him.

One morning the master mason sent him to fetch a particular tool. Matteo understood only some of the words and came back with something entirely different.

The other workers burst out laughing.

He was so stung that the same evening he began learning the new words, repeating them in front of the small mirror in his room.

But the language was only one of the difficulties.

At first he was given the heaviest work, and some of the local masters openly doubted his skills.

They called him “the Lombard” or “the man from the south”.

Some did it in a friendly way, while others used the nickname to remind him that he was a foreigner.

Matteo worked harder and harder.

One day he repaired a stone block that the others considered unusable. The master mason examined his work and asked where he had learned the craft.

— From my father. In our workshop near Verona.

From that day on they began giving him more complex tasks.

Gradually he won the respect of his fellow workers, but he still felt uneasy about his origins and his accent. He tried to speak like the locals and talked about his birthplace less and less often.

His closest friend became a carpenter named Konrad.

The two of them often worked together, and Konrad had a lively sense of humour and was forever correcting his pronunciation.

One evening, in a tavern by the river, Konrad declared:

— You already speak almost like someone from Regensburg.

— Wonderful. Now all that's left is for you lot to start speaking a little more slowly, so I can understand you perfectly.

The two of them laughed.

Konrad helped him find work, introduced him to people and explained the local customs that Matteo still found hard to understand.

During one of the first larger repairs near the bridge, the young stonemason noticed that the water had undermined part of the foundation. He suggested a way of reinforcing it that he had learned from his father, but the master mason cut him short.

— The bridge has stood for more than a century. It hardly needs advice from someone who arrived yesterday from faraway lands.

The remark was made in front of everyone.

Matteo felt humiliated and did not insist any further.

A few months later, after prolonged rain, the Danube rose and damaged that very section.

Part of the approach to the bridge had to be closed.

When he saw the damage, Matteo immediately recognised the weakness he had warned them about.

For a moment he wanted to remind everyone that he had been right.

But then he saw the merchants waiting with their carts and the workers trying to make the site safe.

He went up to the master mason and once again proposed his method of reinforcement.

This time he explained in detail how the blocks should be replaced and stronger supports prepared.

Konrad and several other workers backed him.

The master mason did not look delighted, but he agreed to give it a try.

After weeks of work they managed to strengthen the damaged section.

When it was all over, the master admitted that Matteo's suggestion had been useful.

The young man felt enormous satisfaction.

For the first time he saw how the knowledge he had received from his father could have real value in his new life as well.

Around that time he met Gertrude, the daughter of a local merchant.

She helped in the family shop near the market, had a practical mind and knew how to talk to customers from many lands without losing her patience, even when someone haggled over a price that had already been lowered quite enough.

Matteo began visiting the shop for tools, but soon discovered that his conversations with Gertrude were far more interesting than the purchases.

One day he tried to ask for a particular metal tool but used the wrong word.

Gertrude heard him out with a perfectly serious expression.

— Do you really intend to repair stone arches with a cooking pot?

When he realised what he had said, they both burst out laughing.

Gradually they began meeting outside the shop as well.

They walked along the Danube and talked about books, work and the places they loved.

Gertrude took a genuine interest in his home village. Matteo told her about the mountains, the family workshop and his mother, and she introduced him to the people and customs of Regensburg.

For the first time since his arrival, he did not feel uneasy when he talked about home.

Their love gradually grew serious.

But Matteo hesitated whenever their conversations turned to the future.

— Will you go back to your parents for good one day? — Gertrude asked him as they walked across the bridge.

He thought about it.

— When I left, I believed I would be away for only a few years.

— And now?

— Now I don't know any more.

Gertrude took his hand.

— Then we'll have to talk about it before we begin a life together.

In time they married.

They made a home not far from the river, two sons were born to them, and Matteo gradually became a respected master with his own commissions and apprentices.

Gertrude went on taking part in the family trade and often helped him negotiate building contracts.

The two of them sometimes argued about expenses, because Matteo loved buying new tools, while his wife usually asked how many of the previous indispensable tools were still waiting to be used.

At home the habits of the two worlds gradually wove together.

Gertrude learned to cook dishes from her husband's native land, and he began to take part in the local festivals. The children grew up with stories of faraway lands, but spoke mostly the language of Regensburg.

One day the elder son came home upset.

Some boys had mocked his father's accent when he was talking to a merchant from the south.

That evening Matteo began telling him a story in his native dialect, and the child suddenly interrupted him.

— Dad, don't talk like that in front of my friends.

The words hurt him more than all the mockery he had ever heard from the local masters.

— You must never be ashamed of your family!

The boy burst into tears.

— I just want to be like the other children.

Matteo left the room in anger.

Later Gertrude found him in the workshop.

— For years you tried to speak like the locals yourself — she reminded him. — And now you're angry with your son for being afraid of the very thing you were afraid of.

Matteo fell silent.

The next day he talked to the boy.

He admitted that he had reacted too harshly and told him about his first days in Regensburg, when he often did not understand what people were saying and was afraid of making a fool of himself.

His son listened with interest.

For the first time he began to understand that behind his father's strange accent lay a whole story.

Meanwhile Matteo kept sending letters and money to his parents.

His mother wrote about the neighbours, the harvest and life in the village. His father wrote less often, but almost always mentioned the family workshop and his hope that one day they would work together again.

Matteo kept putting off his visit.

After the next big commission, once the building work was finished, when the children were a little older...

There was always a new reason.

One autumn a letter arrived from his brother.

Their father had died after a long illness. Their mother was left alone, and the family workshop was gradually losing its commissions.

His brother urged Matteo to come back, because he could not manage everything on his own.

At the end of the letter he wrote that their father had been waiting for his eldest son until the very last.

Matteo read the words several times.

Then he took out the old wooden crucifix his mother had once put in his luggage.

He remembered his promise to return in a few years.

Now he would never be able to work with his father again.

Over the following days he began to talk about returning for good.

He considered whether to take Gertrude and the children and carry on the family craft near Verona.

His wife listened to him, but when he began discussing the move as a decision already made, she asked him:

— And have you thought about what this means for me and the boys?

Matteo frowned.

— My mother is alone. My brother needs help.

— I understand. And I want us to help them. But Regensburg is also our home, my work, my family and the children's friends. If we leave, we'll have to start everything from the beginning.

— So you want me to abandon my mother?

Gertrude looked at him with pain in her eyes.

— I want us to decide how to look after her. But I can't accept that my love for you means leaving behind everything I've built without our even having talked about it.

That same evening, once the children were asleep, Matteo finally admitted what was tormenting him.

— If I stay, I betray the family I come from. If I leave, I betray the family I have made.

Gertrude looked at him for a long time.

— For years you've been searching for a place where they'll call you one of their own. And I wonder when you'll notice that with me you've been at home for a long time.

Her words moved him.

Over the following days he also talked with Konrad, who asked him a simple question:

— Do you really want to leave Regensburg, or are you trying to keep a promise made by a young man who didn't yet know what kind of life lay ahead of him?

Matteo could not answer.

In the end he decided to go alone first, to see his mother and find out what his brother actually needed.

The journey across the Alps stirred up many memories.

When he reached his home village, he recognised the narrow streets, the stone houses and the little church.

But many things were different.

Some friends had moved away, others had started families, and the young people hardly knew him.

His mother greeted him with tears and held him for a long time.

On the first evening they talked about everything that had happened while he was away.

The next morning Matteo walked into his father's workshop.

The smell of stone dust was the same. Light came in through the familiar small window, and on the walls hung the tools with which he had once learned to work.

Matteo automatically reached out towards the spot where his father had always left his favourite chisel.

But a different tool lay there.

He looked around.

His brother had changed the workshop, added new equipment and moved some of the old tools.

For a moment he felt a deep sadness.

He had returned to the house he remembered, but life in it had gone on without him.

A little later his brother arrived.

The two embraced, but within the very first days they began arguing about the work.

Matteo proposed new techniques and changes he had learned in Regensburg, and his brother listened with growing irritation.

In the end he put down the tool he had picked up.

— You left. I stayed. All these years I looked after the workshop, after Mother and Father and the commissions we could barely manage to finish. Now you turn up and straight away start explaining to me how I ought to work.

Matteo felt hurt.

— I'm trying to help.

— Then first ask me what I need.

The two of them fell silent.

For the first time Matteo realised that his brother also carried his own story of missed opportunities.

He himself had blamed himself for years for leaving. And his brother sometimes regretted having stayed and never having come to know the world beyond his birthplace.

Over the following days they began to talk more openly.

Matteo helped with the commissions, demonstrated techniques he had learned in Regensburg and handed over some of the tools he had brought.

They discussed the possibility of a young relative going across the Alps for a while to learn the craft and then coming back with new knowledge.

Gradually they found a way to help each other without either of them having to leave the life he had built.

The hardest conversation, however, was with his mother.

One evening they sat in the small garden.

She asked him about Gertrude and the boys.

Matteo told her at length about his home in Regensburg, his work and the children.

At last he admitted:

— I promised Father I would come back. And now I'll never be able to keep my promise.

His mother heard him out.

— Your father very much wanted the two of you to work together again — she said. — But he was proud of everything you had achieved. He wanted to see you more often. That is the truth. But you have a wife and children who need you too.

Matteo lowered his eyes.

— I'm afraid that if I go back to them, I'll be abandoning you all over again.

His mother took his hand.

— I can't bring back the years you were far away. But I don't want you to lose what you have built during them either.

The two of them stayed in the garden for a long time.

When, a few weeks later, Matteo set off back to Regensburg, his brother saw him off with a promise to stay in regular contact. His mother gave him the small chisel that had once belonged to his father.

— Take it. And when you teach your sons the craft, tell them about the man from whom you learned everything.

On parting, Matteo promised that they would try to arrange a visit with the whole family.

This time he already knew how important it was for such a promise to be tied to real possibilities.

When he arrived in Regensburg, he crossed the great stone bridge and saw Gertrude and the children on the other bank.

His younger son came running towards him.

The elder one immediately began examining the presents.

Gertrude embraced him.

— Well, have you come home?

Matteo smiled.

A few weeks earlier he had felt the same joy when his mother welcomed him in his home village.

— Yes — he replied. — I've come back.

Then he told her about his brother, his mother and the changed workshop.

The two of them decided to carry on their life in Regensburg while keeping a closer bond with their relatives near Verona.

In time a young relative arrived to learn the craft from Matteo.

Gertrude helped him settle into the city, Konrad introduced him to the masters, and the children were curious about the stories of their father's birthplace.

Matteo used his native dialect at home more and more often.

One evening his elder son asked him to teach him a few words.

— I want to be able to talk to Grandma when we go to see her.

Matteo looked at him, deeply moved.

They began with easy words, but the boy kept pronouncing them wrong.

In the end the two of them burst out laughing.

For the first time Matteo allowed himself to take joy in his different origins without worrying about how others would see them.

The years went by.

Matteo went on working on various stone structures and gradually became one of the city's respected masters.

One day he was given the chance to lead an important repair of the old bridge over the Danube.

The water had damaged part of the masonry, and the work required strengthening the foundations and replacing several stone blocks.

Matteo spent long days by the river.

He explained to his apprentices how to prepare the stones, why the measurements had to be exact and how a well-built arch distributes the weight between its separate parts.

One of the young masons noticed that he used a technique different from the familiar local ways of dressing stone.

— Where did you learn it?

Matteo smiled.

— From my father. In our workshop near Verona.

Then he explained in detail how the old master had taught him to judge the quality of stone and to repair damaged blocks.

The apprentices listened with interest.

Matteo remembered his first years in Regensburg, when he had avoided talking about his origins because he was afraid he would never be accepted.

And now it was precisely the knowledge from his birthplace that was among the most valuable things he could pass on.

When the repair was almost finished, he set aside one stone block.

On it he began carefully carving two towers.

Between them he placed a beautiful arch that joined them.

Beneath the mark he inscribed a few short words in his native dialect.

The apprentices watched him with curiosity.

— What does it mean, master?

Matteo looked at the two towers and smiled.

— I'll tell you when we've finished the work.

Then he went on carving.

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The Karmic Vow — Wherever I Stay, I Will Betray Someone

The deepest symbolic trace in Matteo's story appears when he receives the letter about his father's death. He had promised to return, but over the years he has built a family and a home in Regensburg. Now he begins to see every possible decision as a betrayal of the people he loves.

“Wherever I stay, I will betray someone I love.”

A belief like this can arise when you have left your birthplace to study, work or start a family somewhere else.

With every phone call from your loved ones you feel guilty that you are not there with them. When you visit them, you begin to worry about the obligations you have left behind in your new home. And when you go back, your thoughts turn once more to the relatives who have stayed far away.

Another person may feel something similar without ever having left their home town. Their parents expect them to carry on the family profession, while they want a different path. Or they already have a family of their own but still take on all the duties they carried out as a child.

Matteo's story reminds us that promises are made in particular circumstances, and life gradually changes them. Sometimes we can find ways of caring for the different people we love. At other times we will have to make difficult decisions and accept that someone may be disappointed.

The new promise might be:

“I will cherish the people and places that are part of my life, and I will make decisions with care for their needs and for my own possibilities.”

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How the Old Stone Bridge May Show Up in Your Life Today

Love — When Two People Come from Different Worlds

Imagine a woman who grew up in a family with traditional ideas about marriage. Her partner comes from a background in which personal independence and freedom matter a great deal.

The two of them love each other and want a future together, but when they start making concrete plans, they discover differences over relationships with relatives, holidays, bringing up children and the division of family responsibilities.

In a relationship between people from different countries, the questions can be even more complicated.

Where will they live? Who will move? What professional opportunities will the person who leaves their country have? How will they stay connected with their loved ones?

At first the differences may seem exciting. But when one of them has to leave their home, their work and their friends, the decision takes on an entirely different meaning.

Gertrude loves Matteo, but she refuses to accept that this love automatically means abandoning everything in Regensburg. She wants the two of them to find a solution that takes both their lives into account.

If you are in a similar situation, ask yourself what changes you are truly prepared to make and which questions you are still avoiding discussing.

Family and Lineage — The Roots You Carry with You

Perhaps you have been living far from your parents for years.

You have built a home, you have work and friends, but every time you visit your birthplace the conversation begins about when you will finally come back for good.

You may feel anxious that your loved ones are growing older and you cannot be with them as often as you would like.

Another person may have stayed in their home town yet feel a similar guilt because they want to change profession or start a family in a way their parents do not approve of.

In Matteo's story the most important moment comes when he discovers that his brother has changed their father's workshop. Over the years he had kept one image of home, while real life had gone on unfolding.

If you too have lived through a homecoming like this, think about which of your expectations are tied to memories and which correspond to your present relationships with your loved ones.

You may discover that today your family needs a different kind of support from the one you once promised to give.

Friendships — When You Are Different Even Among Your Own

Imagine someone who grew up in a small town and who, after years of study, work and travel, has become interested in different things.

When they meet their old friends, they still love them, but more and more often they keep quiet about some of their interests, because they are afraid of being accused of having changed.

Another person may feel something similar among new colleagues. In order to be accepted, they start agreeing with opinions they do not actually share, and gradually lose the confidence to express their own preferences.

Konrad is an important person in Matteo's life because he helps him get to know the new city without demanding that he give up his history. Their friendship includes jokes, arguments and support, but the most precious thing is that the two of them gradually learn to respect each other as they are.

With which people can you talk openly about your origins, your interests and your wishes? And which friendships do you keep alive only through the image of the person you once were?

Work and Money — The Price of a New Beginning

Matteo leaves in order to use his craft and help his family. But in the new city he has to start almost from scratch, learn the language and prove his abilities to people who do not know him.

A story like this may be familiar to someone who went abroad for a few years and gradually built a successful career.

When an opportunity arises to buy a home or start their own business, they begin to hesitate. They fear that such a decision would mean finally drifting away from their birthplace.

Another person may have a good professional opportunity in a new city, but worry about whether they will manage to make friends, adapt and feel part of the new surroundings.

The old bridge invites you to look at what you actually gain and lose with a decision like this. Perhaps you will discover that the change requires more preparation than you first assumed. Or perhaps the fear of the unknown has begun to look bigger than the real difficulties.

The Most Important Trace — The Home That Keeps Changing

Matteo returns to his father's workshop hoping to find the place he remembers from his youth.

But his father's favourite chisel is no longer in its familiar place. His brother has changed the arrangement, taken on new responsibilities and carried on the family craft in his own way.

This small detail reveals something Matteo has long avoided accepting: the people and places we love go on changing, even when we are far away from them.

Perhaps you too keep a memory of a home, a town or a period of your life that you dream of returning to.

When you visit it after years, you discover that the old café has closed, your friends live elsewhere and the family house now looks different.

This may stir sadness, but it may also help you get to know your loved ones as they are today.

Matteo gradually discovers that he can keep the memory of his father, help his brother and at the same time carry on his life in Regensburg.

The old bridge does not offer him a chance to bring back the past. But it reminds him that new connections can exist between the different parts of his life.

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Practice for Working Through It — The Seven Stones of the Bridge

I offer you a seven-day practice that will help you look at your roots, your life choices and your sense of belonging. Set aside fifteen or twenty minutes a day and write down whatever seems important to you.

First stone — the home shore. Recall the place where you grew up. Describe the sounds, smells, people and family traditions you associate with it. If your childhood was difficult, choose another place where you felt accepted. Which three things from that time still matter to you?

Second stone — the first step. Recall a decision that changed your life — leaving, a new job, education or starting a family. What did you expect, and what actually happened? Which good opportunities appeared thanks to that choice?

Third stone — the outsider's gaze. Write down a situation in which you felt different because of your origins, your language or your preferences. How did you react then? How would you like to act today, now that you have more experience?

Fourth stone — the new home. Describe five things that give you a sense of belonging today. They may be people, activities, places or small everyday habits. Which of them would you like to develop?

Fifth stone — the two objects. Choose two objects that symbolise different parts of your life. One may be connected with the past, the other — with the present. Consider what each one means and think about whether you really have to choose between them.

Sixth stone — the bridge of choice. Write down a decision you keep putting off for fear of disappointing someone. Which people will be affected, and what are their needs? What do you yourself want? Could you have a conversation or find a solution that takes the different circumstances into account?

Seventh stone — my mark. Draw a bridge between two shores. On one write what you value from your past, and on the other — the people and wishes that matter to you today. In the middle add the qualities that help you connect these parts of your life.

When you have finished, look at the drawing and choose one concrete step — a conversation, a meeting, a visit or a decision that will help you feel closer to the life you want to build.

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The Symbol You Take with You — The Stone of Belonging

Choose a small stone from a place you love, or an ordinary object you associate with home.

Hold it in your hand and recall the people, the language, the customs or the experiences that have shaped you.

Then think of another place or person that came to matter later.

If you wish, place the stone beside the drawing from the seventh day and write:

“I carry my roots with me, and I have the right to create a new home.”

Let the symbol remind you of everything you have received from the different periods of your life, and of your freedom to choose for yourself how you will connect them from now on.

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Continue Your Karmic Investigation on FatedWays

If the old stone bridge has reminded you of your birthplace, of a family promise or of the feeling that you must constantly prove you belong, you can continue on FatedWays — the Game of the Soul.

In the room The Lineage you can ask: “Which family expectation makes me feel guilty when I choose a different life?” In Karma you can explore the fear that every decision you make will disappoint someone, and in Letting Go — your attachment to a place or a period that has changed over the years.

If you are considering leaving, returning or a new professional direction, in The Crossroads you can look at your options. The rooms Love and Compatibility are well suited to relationships with a partner from a different culture or family background.

In Friend and My People you can turn your attention to the loved ones and friendships that give you a sense of belonging, and in Money and Gifts — to the financial and professional decisions that shape your way of life.

You can continue with the large Tarot spread “The Karmic File — Declassified”, and now with the guided symbolic journey “The Door to a Forgotten Life” as well.

Enter the Game of the Soul

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The Last Page of Your File — The Mark the Son Completed

Regensburg, many years after young Matteo's arrival.

The old stone bridge rose above the Danube, and merchants, travellers and townsfolk passed over its paving.

The elderly master walked slowly along the parapet with his elder son, who was now learning the builder's craft.

The two of them examined the sections repaired over recent years and talked about the stones, the foundations and the power of the river.

When they reached one of the blocks, the son noticed an unusual mark.

— Father, did you carve this?

On the stone were two towers joined by an arch.

Beneath them were inscribed words the boy did not recognise.

Matteo smiled.

— Yes. I made it when we finished the repair.

— And why two towers?

The elderly master touched the carved lines.

— One is for the place where I was born. For my father, my mother and the workshop where I learned the craft. The other is for Regensburg. For your mother, for the two of you and for the life we have built.

The son studied the arch.

— And why did you join them?

— Because for a long time I believed I had to choose only one place.

The boy thought about it.

— But we went to see Grandma. And our uncle sends us tools. And our cousin came to learn from you.

Matteo nodded.

— Exactly.

The son traced the letters beneath the mark.

— What does it say?

— In my native dialect it means “Two shores, one road”.

The boy repeated the words but got the pronunciation muddled.

Matteo gently corrected him.

The two of them laughed.

Then the son took out a small piece of paper and a stick of charcoal.

— May I draw the mark? I want to keep it.

— Of course.

The boy knelt beside the stone and began sketching the two towers.

As he drew, he asked:

— Father, if one day I go off to work in another city, will you be angry?

Matteo looked at him in surprise.

— Why do you ask?

— A master who came from Prague told me about great building works. One day I'd like to see how the masters work there.

Matteo smiled.

Once he himself had stood before his father with the very same wish.

— I'll miss you — he admitted. — But I'll be glad for you to see new places and learn things I don't know.

The boy went on drawing.

— And if I decide to stay somewhere else?

This time Matteo did not answer straight away.

He looked towards the river and remembered his father, who had once tried to keep him in the family workshop.

Then he laid a hand on his son's shoulder.

— Then we'll talk about what kind of life you want to build. And we'll find a way to keep seeing each other. Just don't promise me you'll come back in two years if you don't yet know what awaits you.

The boy laughed.

— Why not?

— Because in our family we already have a certain amount of experience with promises like that.

When the sketch was ready, the son showed it to his father.

The two towers were drawn with care, and the arch between them looked wider than the one on the stone.

Matteo noticed something else as well.

The boy had added a third little tower at one end of the drawing.

— And what's this?

The son shrugged.

— Maybe the place where I'll go one day.

Matteo looked at the drawing for a long time.

Then he smiled.

— Then you'll have to draw one more arch.

— I'll add it when I know where it leads.

Matteo nodded.

That struck him as a wonderful answer.

On the other side of the bridge Gertrude appeared with a basket of shopping.

When she spotted them, she waved.

— Have you finally finished with the stones? Supper has no intention of waiting for you until tomorrow!

Matteo laughed.

— We're coming!

But his son tugged at his sleeve.

— Just one more thing. Will you show me how to carve a mark like that?

— Tomorrow — Matteo replied. — Today your mother has already shown enough patience with our craft.

The three of them set off for home.

The boy carried the sketch, Gertrude told them about things that had happened at the market, and Matteo listened to them with a smile.

Behind them remained the stone bridge with the two towers and the arch between them.

The mark would go on recalling its master's two worlds. But the drawing in his son's hands already had a third tower.

And one day there might be many more.

If you chose the old stone bridge, I wish you places you return to with joy, people among whom you can be yourself, and roads that lead you towards new possibilities. May your roots be a source of strength, and may everything you learn along the way enrich your life. I wish that your loved ones understand your choices, even when they differ from their own ideas, and that you have the courage to build your own future. And when someone asks you where you are from, may you be able to answer with a smile, even if it takes a few sentences and a small map. After all, a person can love more than one place, speak more than one language and make a home wherever life brings them together with people they love.

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The File Is Open

While the belongings in an old Florentine house were being catalogued, a locked room was discovered, full of family paintings, books and documents. Among the covered furniture, attention was drawn to a large portrait in a heavy wooden frame with darkened gilding. The painting had been turned to face the wall, although everything suggested that it had once held a place of honour in the house.

When they turned it round, a young woman looked out at them from the canvas, with dark eyes, loosely gathered hair and a barely noticeable smile. She wore a beautiful but modest dress and a blue shawl, and in her hands was a small book. The artist had caught her expression as though at any moment she would say something to make the people around her laugh.

On the back of the frame, in faded ink, two words were written:

“Forgive me.”

A little higher up, a sealed envelope bearing the name “Giulio” was attached. The handwriting differed from that on the frame, and the family papers show that the letter had been left there while the young woman was still alive.

Why had the portrait been hidden? Who wrote the plea for forgiveness? And why had a letter meant for the person who kept the painting remained unopened for so many years?

Old portraits have always interested me. The people in them often look so serious, as if the artist has just informed them that they will have to sit for another six hours and pay extra for the frame. And yet among them there were surely cheerful people who were late for appointments, loved sweets and drove their families mad with some small habit.

The woman in the blue shawl was clearly one of those who are hard to keep quiet. Even her portrait looks ready to strike up a conversation.

Your symbolic karmic file is connected with guilt after loss, excessive responsibility and the belief that if you love someone strongly enough, you ought to be able to protect them from all suffering.

Perhaps you have lived through an event after which you keep going back to the last conversations and decisions. You ask yourself whether you should have noticed a particular sign, insisted more or reacted faster. You may also be, even today, the person who takes care of everyone, solves other people's problems and feels guilty when their efforts do not bring the desired result.

The story will take us to Florence in 1884. We will meet a doctor who promised, while still a boy, to protect his younger sister; Elena herself, who dreams of seeing the sea; and an experienced colleague who will one day be forced to tell Giulio a truth he has long avoided.

And behind the old portrait we will find a letter that was never meant to weigh like a sentence.

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Regression Journey — Four Glances at the Portrait

Before you read the story, I invite you on an imaginary journey inspired by symbolic regression practices. Through the image of the portrait you can look at your relationship with caring, loss and the responsibilities you have taken on. The images that appear are personal associations and do not in themselves prove memories of a past life. If the theme is connected with a painful personal loss, you can skip the exercise, change the scenes or stop at any moment.

Imagine an old house with tall windows and a long corridor whose walls are hung with family portraits. You open a door and step into a bright room with a bookcase, an armchair by the window and a large painting. On the canvas is a person who clearly held an important place in someone's life.

The first glance — the person before the hard day. Imagine an ordinary moment in the life of the person in the portrait. What do they love doing? How do they laugh, what interests them, and which of their habits are familiar to their loved ones? Perhaps they read, play music, talk with friends or dream of a journey. Try to see them through everything that filled their everyday life.

The second glance — the day of helplessness. Another person stands before the painting, someone who once wanted to help but could not change what happened. There is no need to picture the painful event itself. Watch the person in front of the portrait. What do they keep telling themselves? Which decision do they blame themselves for? What did they actually know at that moment, and which circumstances were beyond their power?

The third glance — life after the loss. Time moves forward. The person is older now. How do they live? Do they work too much, worry constantly about their loved ones, find it hard to accept help from others? What have they set aside of their own wishes?

The fourth glance — the reflection. Beside the portrait hangs an old mirror. The person looks into it and sees themselves after all the years they have lived through. Imagine that they can talk with their younger self. What would they say to that younger self about love, responsibility and what they could not foresee? What would they wish for their own life from now on?

Turn your attention to the present and write down the strongest image.

The question that remains: “Whom do I keep trying to save in my thoughts, and what have I set aside of my own life while carrying this responsibility?”

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The Story from a Past Life — The Doctor and the Portrait with the Blue Shawl

Florence, 1884. The city lived between its centuries-old traditions and new scientific discoveries. Carriages passed along the streets, politics and medicine were discussed in the cafés, and doctors were gradually learning more about infectious diseases. Despite their progress, the possibilities for treating serious infections remained limited.

Not far from an old church lived a thirty-two-year-old doctor named Giulio.

He worked at a hospital and had a small consulting room filled with medical books, instruments and notes. His colleagues respected him, his patients trusted him, and young doctors often sought his advice.

Giulio was clever, attentive and exceptionally hard-working. He had, however, one habit that his family knew perfectly well — he could hardly hold an ordinary conversation without finding a medical topic in it. If someone at the family dinner mentioned a headache, Giulio would immediately start asking questions, as if a new patient were sitting in front of him.

The one who teased him most often was his younger sister, Elena.

She was a twenty-five-year-old young woman with dark eyes, a lively imagination and a wonderful sense of humour. She loved literature, music and teaching. She helped at a small school and dreamed of one day working with older pupils.

The two had been very close since childhood.

When Giulio was sixteen and Elena only nine, their father died after a serious illness. Their mother was left alone with the two children and many worries about the future.

One evening little Elena came into her brother's room.

— Giulio, what if Mamma dies too?

He hugged her.

— I'll take care of you. Always. I won't leave you alone.

The girl gradually calmed down and fell asleep beside him.

Giulio, however, lay awake for a long time afterwards.

In his mind the promise took on enormous significance. Gradually he came to believe that he had to be strong, capable and careful enough to protect his sister from every danger.

Years later he chose medicine.

He studied hard, worked late and believed that the more knowledge he acquired, the better he would be able to care for the people he loved.

But Elena had grown up.

She had her own dreams, friends and plans. She valued her brother's care, yet more and more often she reminded him that she could make her own decisions.

One afternoon they quarrelled because she wanted to take a teaching post at another school, and Giulio immediately began listing the possible difficulties.

— You understand medicine beautifully — Elena interrupted him — but when it comes to teaching I'd rather talk to people who spend more time among pupils than among patients.

Giulio frowned.

— I just want to be sure you'll be all right.

— If one day I decide to marry, I hope I'll at least get to choose the groom. Although you'll probably want his medical records and a doctor's reference first.

Her brother laughed in spite of his irritation.

Elena often managed to make him laugh just when he was taking himself too seriously.

Her greatest dream in those years was to see the sea.

She read books about coastal towns, looked at engravings of harbours and imagined standing on the shore, feeling the sea wind and seeing the distant ships.

Several times she suggested a short trip with her brother and their mother.

Giulio kept putting it off.

First he had to finish an important case, then new patients appeared, and after them — other duties.

One Sunday Elena found him at breakfast with a medical book open.

— Have you decided when we're going?

— In a few weeks I'll be able to say more precisely.

— Wonderful. If you carry on like this, I'll probably have to take you to the seaside after you retire. And then you'll certainly check whether sea air is suitable for elderly doctors.

Then she closed his book and insisted that at least one breakfast should pass without talk of illnesses.

In the spring a family friend, a young painter, offered to paint Elena's portrait.

She accepted with enormous pleasure.

She chose her favourite blue shawl, a modest dress and a book she had actually read.

— I have no intention of letting people a hundred years from now believe that I spent my whole life posing with imposing volumes just for the look of it — she explained to the painter.

Work on the portrait turned out to be a real test of his patience.

Elena talked constantly, asked questions and took an interest in everything he did.

When he asked her to keep still, she promised to try, provided he told her something interesting.

One afternoon she thought up a little surprise.

She asked the painter to fix a sealed envelope with a letter to Giulio behind the frame. She was convinced that one day her brother would want to hang the painting in his study and would then discover the message.

The painter agreed and promised to keep the secret.

When the portrait was finished, the family gathered to look at it.

Giulio gazed for a long time at his sister on the canvas.

— You look as if you know something the rest of us don't.

— If I told you, you'd probably want a medical explanation — she replied.

Everyone laughed.

The painting took a place of honour in the sitting room.

In the summer Elena began to complain of tiredness, headaches and feeling unwell.

At first the symptoms were vague. Giulio assumed it was a relatively mild illness that might pass with rest and observation.

But her condition gradually worsened.

Her temperature rose, new signs of infection appeared, and Giulio began to suspect a serious illness consistent with typhoid fever.

He called in his colleagues, discussed the case and arranged the care that was available to them.

Among the doctors was Carlo, an older colleague of his with many years of experience.

Carlo acknowledged that some of the symptoms might have been followed up earlier. But he stressed that even recognising the illness sooner would not have guaranteed a different outcome, given what medicine could do at the time.

Giulio, however, kept going back to those first days.

He went over his notes, read the medical books and thought about what he would have done differently.

He hardly left his sister's bedside.

One evening Elena noticed him sitting with an open book.

— Giulio, put it down for a while.

— I want to check one more thing.

— And I want to find out whether you can still hold a conversation that doesn't begin with symptoms.

He smiled wearily.

He put the book down and began telling her a funny incident from the hospital, in which a young assistant had mixed up the names of two visitors.

Elena laughed.

Then the two of them recalled stories from their childhood.

For a while they were once again simply a brother and sister who could joke and talk.

Shortly before she fell asleep, Elena asked him:

— And the sea? Do you still mean to take me?

— Of course. When you're well, we'll go.

— This time I'll want a specific date. Your promises are starting to look like doctors' prescriptions that nobody can read.

Giulio laughed.

But over the following days the illness continued to take a severe course.

Despite the care and the doctors' efforts, Elena died.

After her death Giulio fell into deep despair.

He went over the symptoms, the decisions and his conversations with his colleagues again and again. He tried to find the exact moment at which he could have prevented what happened.

He also remembered the promise he had once made to nine-year-old Elena after their father's death.

He had promised that he would always take care of her.

Now he began to believe that he had broken the most important word of his life.

“If I could not save you, then I did not love you enough.”

One evening he walked into the family sitting room.

His gaze fell on his sister's portrait.

The blue shawl, the book and the smile were exactly as he remembered them. But he could no longer see the young woman who had constantly made him laugh.

The painting reminded him only of the last days, the illness and his own helplessness.

He took the portrait down.

He turned it round and wrote on the back of the frame:

“Forgive me.”

Then he put the painting away in a room he seldom entered.

Over the following years Giulio began to work even harder.

He took on more patients, stayed at the hospital late and often visited people who could not afford medical care.

His colleagues admired his dedication.

But Giulio found it harder and harder to accept that there are illnesses and circumstances whose consequences do not depend entirely on him.

If a patient missed an appointment, he sent someone to look for them.

When someone did not follow his advice, he felt an almost personal disappointment.

Carlo gradually began to worry about him.

One day he found him checking, for the third time, the notes of a patient whose condition had already been discussed by several doctors.

— Giulio, if you keep reading the same notes, the patient is hardly going to get better any faster. But the paper will certainly wear out.

The young doctor laughed, but soon went back to his work.

His personal life gradually shrank to his home and the hospital.

His friends stopped inviting him to gatherings, because he seldom accepted.

His mother worried about him, and whenever anyone suggested a trip or a holiday, Giulio immediately began listing the patients who needed care.

During this period he met Sofia several times, a teacher who had worked with Elena.

She remembered his sister as a cheerful, inquisitive woman, much loved by her pupils.

Gradually the two of them began talking about books, music and the school.

Sofia took an interest in Giulio as a person, and not only as a respected doctor.

He liked her company, but every time their relationship grew closer, he began to pull away.

One day she invited him to a small literary gathering.

Giulio promised to come, but at the last moment he stayed at the hospital, even though his colleagues could have taken over the work.

When they met again, Sofia asked him:

— Do you actually want us to spend time together?

— Of course. It's just that my work carries a great deal of responsibility.

— I know. But relationships between people take time too. There's no way I can get to know someone who keeps promising me a meeting after his next patient.

Giulio felt hurt.

But her words made him think.

A few years later a young patient with a serious infectious disease was admitted to the hospital.

Giulio took charge of his care and once again began spending almost all his time at his side.

Carlo offered to take over from him, but he refused.

He was afraid that another doctor might miss an important sign.

After several almost sleepless nights, however, Giulio himself failed to notice a change in the patient's condition in time.

Another doctor spotted it and immediately called Carlo.

The two of them arranged the necessary care, and the patient gradually got through the most dangerous period.

When he realised what had happened, Giulio was horrified.

Carlo called him in for a talk.

— You're trying to prevent every loss, and you're already so tired that you're starting to create dangers you would otherwise have noticed.

Giulio tried to object, but Carlo went on:

— Good medicine requires attention, knowledge and the ability to admit your own limitations. No doctor can do the work of an entire hospital.

The case was reviewed professionally. Giulio acknowledged his oversight, and together with his colleagues they discussed how to improve the monitoring of patients and the handing over of information.

It was a painful experience.

But gradually he began to understand that his urge to control everything had become dangerous both for him and for the sick.

After one of their conversations, Carlo told him about a patient he himself had lost many years before.

He admitted that for a long time he had analysed his decisions, sought the opinion of other doctors and tried to understand what might have been done differently.

— We must admit our real mistakes — he said. — But we must also accept that medicine has limits. Loving someone close to us does not give us power over every circumstance.

Giulio was silent for a long time.

Then, for the first time, he told Carlo how bitterly he blamed himself for Elena's death.

He spoke about the first symptoms, about the promise from his childhood and about the fear that drove him to work himself to exhaustion.

Carlo heard him out.

He reminded him that the decisions surrounding his sister's illness deserved an honest assessment in the light of the knowledge and possibilities of the time, but that there was no reason to accept that her whole fate had depended on him alone.

After that conversation Giulio gradually began to change the way he worked.

He accepted help from his colleagues, trained the young doctors and tried to share out responsibilities more sensibly.

The first attempts were hard.

When he came home earlier, he sometimes did not know what to do with his free time.

One evening his mother saw him at the table even before supper.

— Have they finally discovered at the hospital that doctors can eat at home?

Giulio laughed.

— Carlo insists that I work more sensibly.

— I'll send him a letter of thanks. He's obviously the only person you listen to, at least now and then.

Gradually the two of them began spending more time together.

One evening his mother took out an old album.

Among the photographs they found Elena at a family gathering, laughing among friends.

His mother began telling how her daughter had insisted that everyone be photographed, even though Giulio was in a hurry to get to work.

Then the two of them recalled more stories.

For the first time in years, Giulio laughed while talking about his sister.

A little later he met Sofia again.

This time it was he who suggested they meet.

She raised her eyebrows.

— Are you sure the hospital will survive your absence for one evening?

— I've recently received fairly convincing proof that my colleagues are capable of managing without me.

The two of them laughed.

They began to meet more often. They talked about books, music and travel, and Giulio gradually discovered how much he had missed closeness with someone who knew him outside his profession.

But he still avoided the room with the old portrait.

One day his mother mentioned that the frame needed repairing and asked him whether he would like to have the painting restored.

At first Giulio refused.

A few days later, however, he went into the locked room himself.

He pulled off the cover and carefully turned the portrait round.

Elena's face appeared before him once more.

The blue shawl, the little book and the smile were the same as on the day the painter had brought the picture.

Giulio remembered her jokes during the sittings.

He could almost hear her voice.

Then he turned the frame over and saw the words he himself had once written:

“Forgive me.”

For a moment he felt the familiar weight again.

But this time he also noticed the small envelope fixed at the top edge.

On it his name was written in Elena's handwriting.

Giulio carefully detached the envelope.

He opened it.

Inside was a short letter.

“Dear Giulio,

If you are reading this, it means you have finally found time to look at my portrait. I hope you have noticed how patiently I sat, even though the painter claims I am the most talkative model he has ever had. In my opinion, he simply runs short of interesting stories.

You promised to take me to the sea. I have decided not to wait until you retire, because by then I will probably have to be the one taking you.

And if you put off the trip again, at least come on time on Sunday. I want to spend a lovely afternoon with my brother, with whom I can talk, laugh and discuss books, before he sets off once more to save the whole of Florence.

I will make your favourite cake, although I have serious doubts as to whether you have earned it after your last late arrival.

With love, Elena.”

Giulio read the letter several times.

At first he smiled.

Then his eyes filled with tears.

He sat down by the window with the small sheet of paper in his hand.

For so many years he had been searching for a medical answer to the question of why he had failed to save his sister. And now he had found a letter written on a perfectly ordinary afternoon, when Elena was thinking about books, cakes, the sea and time with her brother.

She had never asked him to be the person who could prevent everything.

She had wanted him by her side.

Giulio looked at the portrait again.

For the first time in many years, what he mostly saw was the smiling young woman in the blue shawl, and not the last days of her illness.

In the weeks that followed he had the frame restored and hung the painting back in the family sitting room.

He went on grieving for his sister, but gradually he began to talk about her through the good memories as well.

With his mother he recalled funny incidents.

Sofia told him about the children at the school who had loved Elena.

And when Giulio spoke about his sister to new acquaintances, he could now begin with her books, her dreams and her sense of humour.

One day he received an invitation to a medical gathering in a coastal town.

At first he began calculating how much work he would miss.

Then he looked at the portrait in the sitting room.

He remembered the letter.

And for the first time he decided that the sea would wait no longer.

He invited Sofia to go with him.

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The Karmic Vow — If I Cannot Save You, Then I Did Not Love You Enough

The deepest symbolic trace in Giulio's story begins in childhood, when he promises his frightened sister that he will always take care of her.

Over the years this promise gradually turns into the conviction that he must be strong and capable enough to prevent every danger.

After Elena's death the thought takes on a painful form:

“If I cannot save you, then I did not love you enough.”

A pattern like this can show up in someone who has lived through a heavy loss and keeps analysing the last conversations and decisions. Or in someone who for years has taken on the role of rescuer in the family and feels guilty every time someone close to them has a problem.

It is important to distinguish responsibility for our own actions from responsibility for every possible consequence. We may miss an important sign, make a wrong decision and regret it later. Such cases deserve an honest assessment and a lesson learned. But love on its own does not give us the power to foresee and prevent everything.

The new promise might be:

“I will care for the people I love, I will take responsibility for my own actions, and I will accept that not every circumstance depends on me.”

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How the Old Portrait May Show Up in Your Life Today

Love — When You Become Your Partner's Rescuer

Imagine a woman who begins a relationship with a man going through a difficult period. He has money problems, tension at work and complicated family relationships.

At first she supports him willingly. Gradually, however, she begins organising almost his entire life — looking for work on his behalf, helping him financially and resolving his conflicts with his relatives.

After a while she discovers that almost all their conversations are devoted to his difficulties, while her own wishes receive attention less and less often.

In another person the rescuer pattern may show up as a constant fear for their partner. If the partner is late or does not answer the phone, they immediately begin imagining the worst. Concern gradually turns into attempts to control the partner's decisions.

It is also possible that after a loss you avoid new closeness because you are afraid of suffering again.

The story of Giulio and Sofia reminds us that relationships require mutual attention and the freedom for both people to be themselves, including when they feel anxious or need support.

Family — The Child Who Had to Be Strong Too Early

Perhaps you grew up in a family where one parent was ill or absent, or where the family was going through serious difficulties.

Even as a child you began looking after the younger ones, helping at home and trying not to cause any extra problems.

As an adult, everyone still relies on you.

Imagine a woman who organises the family's obligations, looks after her elderly parents, helps her children and almost never turns down a request.

When she herself needs support, she finds it hard to ask for it. She is used to being the person who finds solutions.

For another person the theme may be connected with the loss of someone close, after which they began to worry constantly about the remaining members of the family.

The old portrait invites you to look at when caring began to turn into an unbearable duty and which responsibilities could be shared.

Friendships — When Everyone Relies on You

Imagine someone whose friends are forever calling them for advice.

One is going through a break-up, another has a problem at work, a third needs help with an important choice.

They listen to everyone, offer solutions and find it hard to say no, even when they themselves are tired.

Gradually they begin to worry that if they do not pick up the phone, they might leave someone alone at a difficult moment.

Another person may constantly mediate in conflicts between friends and feel responsible when they fail to reconcile them.

But closeness also includes the right to be listened to, to ask for help or to say that right now you are not able to talk.

Think about which friendships are built on mutuality and in which you have gradually taken on the role of the person who has to solve everything.

Work and Money — When Your Worth Depends on Your Usefulness

Giulio begins working himself to exhaustion because he believes that only he can take good enough care of his patients.

A belief like this can appear in any profession.

Imagine an employee who constantly takes on extra tasks, stays after hours and finds it hard to delegate. They fear that if they say no, the work will fail and their colleagues will be disappointed.

Financial relationships can also involve this pattern.

Perhaps you constantly help relatives who are struggling, and gradually you start using your own savings, putting off personal plans or taking on other people's obligations.

When you try to set a boundary, you feel guilty.

Giulio's story shows that excessive responsibility can become a risk both for the person who helps and for the people who rely on them.

Guilt After Loss — The Questions That Remain

After the death of someone close, the question “What if I had done something differently?” can keep returning for a long time.

Perhaps you have thought that you should have insisted on another examination, noticed a symptom earlier or had a conversation you kept putting off.

It is important to look at what you actually knew at the time, what means you had at your disposal and which circumstances were beyond your control.

Giulio had reason to assess some of his medical decisions carefully. But over time he began to see his sister's whole fate as a personal failure.

And his memory of her gradually shrank to the last days of her illness.

The old portrait invites you to remember the person beyond the difficult period as well — their character, their favourite pastimes, their jokes and the experiences you shared.

If the feeling of guilt is strong, long-lasting or significantly affects your daily life, talking with a psychologist or a grief specialist can be valuable support.

The Most Important Trace — The Person Beyond All Responsibilities

When Giulio puts the portrait away, he gradually begins to avoid his own feelings too.

For years he cares for his patients, works himself to exhaustion and pushes his personal wishes into the background.

Only when he himself makes a serious oversight does he realise how important it is to accept the help of others.

And Elena's letter reminds him of something even more personal.

His sister had needed his attention and love, their conversations and laughter, ordinary time together.

That is precisely why the most important question in your file concerns the person you are beyond all your duties.

What do you love doing? When did you last make time for a wish of your own? And whom can you allow to help you, instead of always being the one who helps?

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Practice for Working Through It — The Seven Brushstrokes of the Portrait

I offer you a seven-day practice that will help you look at your relationship with caring, guilt and your own needs. You can set aside fifteen or twenty minutes a day. If the theme is connected with a painful personal loss, choose only the exercises that feel right for you at the moment.

First brushstroke — the face. Describe a person you feel strong concern for or whom you associate with a feeling of guilt. If they have died, recall their character, their interests and the good moments you shared. If they are part of your life today, write down their abilities and wishes that exist independently of your help.

Second brushstroke — the promise. Recall when you began to believe that you must always be strong and useful. What did you promise yourself or someone else? Do those words still match your real capacities?

Third brushstroke — the hands. Choose a situation you feel guilty about. What did you know then, and what decisions did you make? Which circumstances were beyond your control? If you find a genuine mistake, think about what you can learn and whether there is a way to repair some of the consequences.

Fourth brushstroke — the shadow. Write down the thoughts that appear when you fail to help someone. Are they supported by concrete facts, or do they come from fear? Try to put into words a more accurate view of your own responsibility.

Fifth brushstroke — the mirror. Describe yourself through at least seven qualities, interests or wishes that have nothing to do with how useful you are to others. Which of them would you like to develop?

Sixth brushstroke — the light. Think about when you last allowed another person to help you. Choose a small situation in which you can share a worry or accept support.

Seventh brushstroke — the new portrait. Create your own symbolic self-portrait in words or in a drawing. Include the people you love, your own dreams and the qualities you value. Choose one concrete thing you will do for yourself over the coming days.

When you have finished the practice, look at the seven brushstrokes as parts of one whole picture. Think about how you can keep your caring nature while also respecting your own strength and wishes.

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The Symbol You Take with You — The Frame of Memory

Choose a small frame in which to place a photograph, a drawing or a short piece of text.

If you wish to honour the memory of someone close who has died, choose an image that reminds you of their life, their character and your relationship.

If the theme is connected with present relationships, you can place in the frame words that describe the way you wish to care for others.

For example:

“I love, I help and I share the responsibility.”

Put the frame in a place you like. Let it remind you that a person is much more than the difficulties they go through, and that your own worth is much more than your ability to solve other people's problems.

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Continue Your Karmic Investigation on FatedWays

If the old portrait has reminded you of a feeling of guilt, a heavy family promise or the habit of constantly taking care of everyone, you can continue on FatedWays — the Game of the Soul.

In the room Karma you can ask: “Which experience makes me believe that I have to save the people I love?” In The Lineage you can look at the family role in which you began taking on too many responsibilities, and in Letting Go — the guilt that goes on affecting your life after a difficult loss.

If the theme touches on your relationship with a partner, the rooms Love and Compatibility can help you explore mutual care and personal boundaries. In Friend and My People you can look at the relationships in which everyone relies on you, and at the possibilities for greater mutuality.

For professional decisions and overwork you can continue in The Crossroads, and in Money — explore the financial obligations you take on for your loved ones. The room Gifts can help you turn your attention to abilities and wishes you have set aside.

You can continue with the large Tarot spread “The Karmic File — Declassified”, and now with the symbolic regression journey “The Door to a Forgotten Life” as well.

Enter the Game of the Soul

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The Last Page of Your File — The Sea That Was Waiting

Many years after Elena's death, Giulio arrived with Sofia in a small coastal town.

He had been invited to a medical gathering, but for the first time he decided to stay a few days for himself as well.

Early in the morning the two of them left the hotel and set off towards the harbour.

The air smelled of salt, merchants and travellers passed one another in the streets, and the distant voices of sailors gradually mingled with the sound of the waves.

When they reached the shore, Giulio stopped.

Before him stretched the sea.

Sunlight sparkled on the water, ships could be seen in the distance, and people were strolling along the stone promenade.

Sofia noticed that he was moved.

— You're thinking about Elena, aren't you?

He nodded.

— She wanted so much to see the sea. I kept promising her I'd take her when I had more time.

— She told me — Sofia replied. — At school she loved telling the children about faraway cities and ships.

Giulio took the small yellowed sheet of paper out of his pocket.

He unfolded it carefully.

He read a few lines of his sister's letter and smiled.

— If she could see me now, she'd probably say I was a few decades late.

Sofia took his arm.

— And she'd probably want you to take her to the next harbour.

The two of them laughed.

They walked on along the seafront promenade.

They passed boats, little shops and cafés, and for the first time in many years Giulio was in no hurry to get back to work.

After a while Sofia suggested they sit down in a small place with a view of the water.

Giulio glanced at his watch.

She immediately noticed the familiar expression.

— Don't tell me you're already thinking about tomorrow's medical gathering.

He smiled.

— Actually, I've just remembered I have some notes to look over.

— Of course. The sea has waited so many years, it can surely wait a few more hours.

Giulio laughed.

Then he put the watch away.

— You know, I think the notes can wait until this evening.

Sofia looked at him in surprise.

— That absolutely must be recorded. Medicine has made serious progress today.

They sat down by the window.

They ordered coffee and cake and talked about books and places they wanted to visit.

At one point Sofia asked him:

— What would you like us to do tomorrow after the gathering?

Giulio looked towards the harbour.

— We could take a boat. I'd like to see the coast from the sea.

— What a lovely idea.

He smiled.

— Elena would have insisted on the same thing.

Then he added:

— Only she'd probably have wanted to find out first whether the captain was experienced enough, since she'd have had no intention of letting me examine the whole crew before we set sail.

Sofia laughed.

The afternoon passed pleasantly.

The next day Giulio took part in the medical gathering, talked with his colleagues and shared his professional experience.

When the official part was over, several doctors suggested continuing the discussion of difficult cases.

Giulio stayed for the most important part, then excused himself.

— I have an engagement.

One of the younger doctors looked at him in surprise.

— Won't you stay a little longer, doctor?

— Today I'm going to keep a promise on time.

He left the hall and headed for the harbour.

Sofia was already waiting for him beside a small boat.

When she saw him arriving at exactly the agreed time, she smiled.

— I can hardly believe it.

— I'm starting to acquire new abilities — he replied.

They climbed into the boat.

It slowly left the harbour, and the town gradually fell away behind them.

From the water the houses looked different. The light slid across the façades, gulls flew over the boat, and the distant shore took on the soft colours of the afternoon.

Giulio took out Elena's note.

He looked at it for a moment and carefully put it away again.

Then he looked out at the sea.

He could not turn back time and bring his sister on this journey. Her loss would always remain part of his life.

But now he could remember her whole story — the child who had once been afraid of being left alone, the young woman who loved books, teaching and jokes, and the sister who wanted her brother to have more time for ordinary joys.

Sofia came closer and took his hand.

— It's beautiful, isn't it?

Giulio nodded.

— Very.

Then he smiled.

— Do you know what I think?

— That the captain might need a medical examination?

He laughed.

— That I'd like us to travel again.

Sofia smiled, and the two of them went on gazing at the shore.

The boat drew further away from the harbour, and ahead of them more and more water opened up.

For the first time in years, Giulio was not looking for something he had to fix.

He was simply there, together with the person beside him, enjoying the day.

If you chose the old portrait, I wish you people with whom you can share both your joys and your worries, strength for everything that matters and the wisdom to accept help when you need it. May your memories of the people you love keep their laughter, your conversations and the good times you shared, and may your own life go on filling with friendship, love and new dreams. I wish you to find time for the journeys that have long been waiting their turn. And if one day you find yourself before a sea you promised to see many years ago, enjoy it. Just try not to start checking whether everyone on the beach is all right — most of them have probably come simply intending to rest.

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The File Is Open

While clearing out an old Venetian library, they find a heavy volume with a cracked leather binding, worn corners and two metal clasps. On the cover there is an almost obliterated inscription in Latin, and beneath it a circle surrounded by seven stars.

The book holds astronomical observations, geometric drawings and tables full of corrections. Almost every page is covered in notes added in different inks. In places whole sentences have been crossed out, and in the margins there are clarifications written so small that you begin to suspect the author meant to use even the space between the letters themselves.

The last third of the volume, however, is blank.

Between two leaves lies a small dried blue flower, and on the last page that was written on, these words have been left in a large hand:

“If someone is reading this, it means I have finally dared.”

Beneath them are several different hands. One person has written a dedication, another has corrected a calculation, and later someone has added a question with a date and a short description of an observation.

Who is the author of this unusual book? Why did he spend so many years on corrections before he let others read it? And what does the blue flower have to do with astronomy?

I confess that old books always awaken my curiosity. Especially if they are heavy enough to need a shelf of their own and have clasps, as if they were hiding information that must be guarded from every casual reader. And if I also find a great many corrections, I begin to feel a certain sympathy for the author. Clearly he, too, knew that peculiar state in which you decide just to look over one paragraph, and three hours later you have reworked half the book and are wondering why you ever started.

Your symbolic karmic file is connected with knowledge, abilities, the fear of other people’s judgement and the wish to be so well prepared that no one can find a flaw in your work.

Perhaps you write, paint, make beautiful objects or have professional skills that others value, yet you keep finding a new reason to put off showing them. It may be that you have long wanted to start something of your own, apply for a particular job or present a project, but you are still waiting to finish the next course of study.

The story will take us to Venice in 1577, when a bright comet draws the attention of scholars all over Europe. An astronomer will be given the chance to share his valuable observations, but he will be so afraid of a possible mistake that he will let the right moment pass. We will also meet his sister Beatrice, who collects the stories of ordinary women, and young Tommaso, who believes that knowledge must reach people without a university education too.

And the little blue flower will lead us back to the time when the future scholar was still a boy who loved asking questions without worrying how he looked in other people’s eyes.

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Regression Journey — The Library of Unspoken Knowledge

Before you read the story, I invite you on an imaginary journey inspired by symbolic regression practices. Through the old book you can look at your relationship with learning, with mistakes and with the abilities you still do not dare to show. The images that appear are creative associations and do not in themselves prove memories of an actual past life. You can change any scene or end the exercise whenever you wish.

Imagine a stone corridor in an old building. Maps hang on the walls, the air smells of paper and ink, and at the end of the corridor you can see a door with a small star on its handle. You open it and step into a spacious library. Among the shelves stands a table, and on it lie three books.

The first page — the curious child. Open the first book and imagine a child looking at the world with enormous interest. Perhaps the child collects pebbles, draws, asks questions, takes things apart or gets lost in stories. Who encourages them? What brings them joy? Picture them in those years when they do not yet worry whether others will think their questions silly.

The second page — the gaze of others. The child has grown up, and one day is given the chance to show what they have learned. During the presentation they make a mistake or receive a sharp remark. How do they react? What words do they remember? Consider whether after this they begin to prepare more carefully, or gradually decide that it is safer not to show their work at all.

The third page — the three books. Go back to the table. The first book holds everything the person already knows, the second is full of mistakes and corrections, and the third has blank pages. Which one would you show to others? Which one would you be ashamed of? What will change if you accept that all three are part of your experience?

The fourth page — the first reader. Imagine a person who wants to learn something from you. They open the book, ask a question and point to a place they do not understand. What do you feel? Can you explain to them how you arrived at what is written, including which questions you are still exploring?

The fifth page — meeting the child. The child from the first scene appears in the library again. They look through your books with interest and ask a question to which you do not yet know the answer. Imagine the two of you beginning to search for it together. What would you like to tell this child about all the years of learning?

The sixth page — the book with your name. A new volume lies on the table. On the first page is written a project, a talent or a wish from your present life. Look at what you have already done and what you keep putting off. Then write down one sensible step you can take over the next few days.

Bring your attention back to the present and note which scene made the strongest impression on you.

The question that remains: “Which of my knowledge or skills is still waiting for permission to be used, and from whom am I really expecting that permission?”

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The Story from a Past Life — The Manuscript Beneath the Seven Stars

Venice, 1577. Boats laden with goods and books passed along the canals, the printing houses were preparing new editions, and booksellers talked with scholars, merchants and travellers. Among the works in demand were books on mathematics, geography, medicine and astronomy.

In the evening hours, lovers of the night sky climbed onto terraces and rooftops with quadrants, astrolabes and other instruments. Disputes about the motion of the heavenly bodies often went on for years, because a single new observation could cast doubt on a conclusion that had long been accepted.

In a small house near the printing houses lived a thirty-eight-year-old scholar named Lorenzo Bellini.

His father was a bookbinder, and from childhood Lorenzo spent hours among books, leather, paper and ink. He watched how separate leaves turned into volumes that could reach people in distant cities.

But his earliest memories of curiosity were connected with his mother.

She had not had the chance of a long education, but she loved nature and constantly encouraged her children to observe the world. On fine days she would take Lorenzo and his younger sister Beatrice out of the city, show them plants and tell them how the seasons change.

When the children asked a question she did not know the answer to, she usually suggested:

— Let’s look for it together.

One spring Lorenzo picked a tiny blue flower and gave it to his mother.

She placed it between the pages of a book.

— I’ll keep it — she promised.

After her death, many years later, Lorenzo found the flower among the old family books and put it away among his own notes.

For him it was a keepsake of the time when every discovery brought him joy.

As a young man he went to study in Padua.

He was able, hard-working and proud of his knowledge. He especially loved mathematics and astronomical calculations.

But during a presentation before a teacher and a group of students he made a mistake in a table he had worked on for a long time.

The teacher spotted the inaccuracy and corrected him in front of everyone in a sharp tone.

Several students laughed.

One of them later began calling him “the great astronomer who can’t manage to count his own stars”.

Lorenzo felt humiliated.

The mistake was real and had to be corrected. But the way the teacher pointed it out left the young man with a painful memory.

From that day on he began checking every calculation of his many times over.

Gradually he became exceptionally careful. He found inaccuracies that others missed, and earned a reputation as a capable scholar.

But together with the skill of checking came the fear of showing his own work.

A conviction took shape in his mind:

“If someone finds a mistake in me, they will realise that I don’t deserve respect.”

Years later he returned to Venice and began working with printers and publishers.

He checked scientific texts, corrected tables and discussed mathematical questions with other scholars.

He dreamed of creating a book of his own with astronomical observations, explanations and methods useful to young people who wanted to study the sky.

Little by little he gathered a great many notes.

But every time he came close to finishing, he discovered a new question that, in his view, absolutely had to be resolved.

The manuscript grew.

The chapters became more and more detailed, the tables were corrected again and again, and the last pages remained blank.

His sister Beatrice also lived in the same house.

After her husband’s death she had come back to her brother and begun helping in a bookshop belonging to a relative of theirs.

She had a practical mind, loved conversation and rarely felt the urge to turn every simple question into a lengthy investigation.

When a customer asked about a book, Beatrice preferred to find out what they wanted to read rather than tell them the whole history of the art of printing.

She was convinced that her brother could have done the latter with enormous pleasure.

One evening she found him bent over the manuscript yet again.

— How many years have you been writing this book?

— The work needs a few more checks.

Beatrice looked over the pile of pages.

— I hope the stars will be patient. Otherwise they’ll set before you’ve finished the first chapter.

Lorenzo laughed.

— I’ll prepare the final text soon.

— Wonderful. That answer is starting to look to me like the most constant astronomical phenomenon in Venice.

But Beatrice had a dream of her own.

In the bookshop she met women with interesting stories every day — widows, teachers, tradeswomen, craftswomen and mothers who looked after their families in difficult circumstances.

Gradually she began writing down their stories.

She wanted to create a small book that would preserve their experience.

One day she decided to show the first pages to Lorenzo.

He took the manuscript, sat down at the table and almost at once began marking repetitions, inaccuracies and sentences that, in his opinion, needed reworking.

Beatrice watched him for a while.

Then she took the pages back.

— I asked you to read the stories because I wanted to know whether they were interesting. And on the very first page you started correcting me, as if I had muddled up the motion of the heavenly bodies.

— I’m trying to help you.

— I know. But you could first read what I want to tell.

Lorenzo felt hurt.

Accuracy mattered to him, and he sincerely believed that his sister ought to correct the weak spots.

But when she gathered up the pages, he remembered the expression of the teacher in Padua and the laughter of the students.

For a moment he wondered whether he himself had not acted in a similar way.

Soon after that, at the printing house, he met a seventeen-year-old apprentice named Tommaso.

The boy was the son of a poor craftsman and had no chance of a university education.

But he loved mathematics and astronomy.

After work he often looked through the books being prepared for printing and asked a great many questions.

Lorenzo gradually began to teach him.

He showed him how instruments are used, how observations are recorded and how calculations are checked.

Tommaso was diligent and was not ashamed to admit when he did not understand something.

One day he asked:

— Master, how long must a person study before they have the right to ask questions?

— Questions must be well thought through.

Tommaso thought about it.

— But how can a person who doesn’t yet know enough work out in advance which are the right questions?

Lorenzo was about to give a stern explanation.

Then he stopped to think.

The boy was actually right.

Tommaso dreamed of one day creating a small book with accessible explanations for beginners. He believed that people without a university education could also learn to observe the sky and check some basic facts.

Lorenzo liked his enthusiasm.

But when the pupil asked to read the great manuscript, the teacher refused.

— I’ll show it to you when it’s finished.

In the autumn of 1577 a bright comet appeared over Europe.

The celestial phenomenon aroused enormous interest. In the squares people argued over whether it foretold changes and disasters, while scholars tried to determine its position and motion.

Lorenzo began making observations every clear evening.

He went up onto the terrace with his instruments, recorded the comet’s position relative to the familiar stars and compared the results.

Tommaso helped him.

He carried the lantern and the notes and asked questions.

Sometimes Beatrice appeared with a warm drink.

— I hope the comet stays for a few more years, because you’ll probably need at least that long to finish your checks.

— A phenomenon like this demands attention — Lorenzo would reply.

— I couldn’t agree more. Just make sure you share the observations before the comet leaves for good.

A few weeks later Lorenzo received a letter from a scholar in Padua.

He wished to compare the data from different cities and asked to be sent Lorenzo’s tables and notes.

He specifically noted that even incomplete observations could be useful if they were accompanied by a clear description of the methods and conditions used.

Lorenzo felt enormous excitement.

At last he had the chance to take part in a serious scientific discussion.

He prepared the tables and wrote a reply.

But when he noticed differences between his own measurements and the data of other scholars, he began to worry.

He checked the calculations once more.

Then again.

Tommaso advised him to send the part he was sure of and to point out which places still needed checking.

Beatrice reminded him that the man in Padua probably wanted the data while the comet could still be observed.

Lorenzo, however, kept putting it off.

Every time he was about to seal the letter, he remembered the humiliation of his youth.

A few weeks later a new work arrived with observations of the comet, already presented by another scholar.

Some of the conclusions matched Lorenzo’s.

In other places he noticed inaccuracies that he could have helped to clear up.

For a moment he felt satisfaction with his own work.

Then he realised that he had missed the chance to take part in the discussion in time.

Tommaso asked him why he did not at least send his data now.

— The moment has already passed — Lorenzo replied. — I’ll prepare a more extensive work.

But the years went on passing.

The great manuscript filled up with new chapters and corrections.

Every new edition made Lorenzo check his old tables once again.

When a publisher showed interest, the scholar promised to have the book ready in a few months.

But that time was never enough.

Meanwhile Beatrice carried on working on her stories.

She found help from people with experience in printing and gradually prepared a small edition.

When the book came out, it contained a few printing errors and texts that could have been developed further.

But soon letters from readers began to arrive.

One woman thanked Beatrice for preserving her mother’s story.

When his sister showed him the letter, Lorenzo felt a strange mixture of joy and discomfort.

Her work was already reaching people.

And his was still locked in the cupboard.

Tommaso was making progress too.

After finishing his training at the printing house, he began working on scientific editions and preparing his own book for beginners more and more seriously.

One day he again asked to look at the old observations of the comet.

— Some of them are more than ten years old — he reminded him.

— That’s exactly why I have to check them once more.

— But I also want to understand how you worked back then. Even the places where you made inaccuracies could be useful.

Lorenzo closed the book.

He was afraid that his pupil would find a mistake and lose his respect for him.

Some time later Tommaso received an offer to work at a printing house in Padua.

Before he left, he suggested to Lorenzo that they prepare a joint edition.

He wanted to combine Lorenzo’s experience with accessible explanations for people who were only just beginning to study astronomy.

Lorenzo refused again.

— The manuscript still needs work.

Tommaso looked at him for a long time.

— I’m grateful to you for everything I’ve learned. But I no longer want to wait for permission to use my knowledge.

The teacher frowned.

— Accuracy matters, Tommaso.

— I know. You taught me to look for the truth. But you never let me see how a person looks for it when they themselves aren’t sure.

Then he added:

— I learned so much from you, and yet the most important thing I had to discover on my own — that a person can carry on even after they’ve made a mistake.

The words stung Lorenzo.

He tried to explain how dangerous it is to rush into publishing.

But Tommaso had already made up his mind.

He thanked him and left.

Over the following months the library became unusually quiet.

Lorenzo went on working, but he often recalled his pupil’s questions.

After a while he received a letter from Padua.

Tommaso wrote that he was preparing his first edition.

He would be glad one day to receive his teacher’s observations, but he would no longer put off his own work.

Lorenzo read the letter several times and put it away without replying.

A little later Tommaso’s first printed book arrived at Beatrice’s bookshop.

Lorenzo took it and began to read.

Right at the start he found several inaccuracies.

He wrote a detailed letter pointing out all the mistakes.

Without noticing, he used almost the same stern tone with which the teacher in Padua had once humiliated him.

He expected Tommaso to feel ashamed or to start justifying himself.

But the reply surprised him.

The young author thanked him for the careful reading, acknowledged the genuine mistakes and explained how he would correct them.

He also said that he had already received letters from readers who were using the book to begin observations of their own.

Some of their questions had helped him understand which explanations he needed to develop.

Lorenzo looked at the letter in his hands for a long time.

For the first time he saw so clearly a person who had made a mistake, admitted it and was carrying on with his work without taking the correction as a humiliation.

Soon after that Beatrice again asked him to read one of her stories.

This time Lorenzo began with a different question:

— What do you want to tell, and who is the story meant for?

She looked at him in surprise.

She explained her idea to him.

Lorenzo read the whole text before he took out his pen for corrections.

When he suggested a few changes, Beatrice asked him whether he was by any chance feeling unwell.

— I haven’t seen you read a whole page before you start correcting in years.

He laughed.

And both of them felt much better after the conversation.

The years went on passing.

Lorenzo grew old, his eyes tired more quickly, and the great manuscript was still waiting in the cupboard.

One evening Beatrice again found him bent over the book.

— If you keep guarding it so jealously, you’ll soon have to leave a will with instructions on which great-grandchild will be allowed to read the first chapter.

Lorenzo laughed.

But this time her words made him think.

After she had gone, he began leafing through the old notes.

He reached the observations from 1577.

He remembered the nights on the terrace, the bright comet, Tommaso’s questions and his sister’s jokes.

Then he looked through the later chapters.

He found that some of the observations were still valuable, others had become outdated, and some conclusions needed to be reconsidered.

The book would never contain all the answers.

The more knowledge appeared, the more new questions arose.

As he was leafing through the pages, the little blue flower fell out from between the leaves.

Lorenzo picked it up carefully.

He remembered the spring walk with his mother when he was a child, and the way she delighted in his questions.

She had never been ashamed to admit that she did not know something.

Instead, she would suggest that they look for the answer together.

Lorenzo looked at the dried flower for a long time.

Over the years he had learned so much about the sky, but gradually he had come to feel more fear of other people’s corrections than joy in new discoveries.

The next morning he wrote a letter to Tommaso.

He invited him to come back to Venice, because he wanted the two of them to go through the old manuscript and decide which parts could be used for a future edition.

This time he admitted that he needed help.

A few weeks later Tommaso arrived.

He found Lorenzo in the library, and on the table lay the great book.

Open.

— So at last I’ll be allowed to read it? — he asked with a smile.

— Yes. But you’ll probably find mistakes.

— I hope so. Otherwise, how would I be of any use to you?

They both laughed.

Their work went on for months.

They went through the old tables, compared the observations and set aside the parts that could be published with clear explanations.

Some assumptions were dropped.

Others were marked as uncertain.

In certain places they left questions for future research.

At first Lorenzo felt uncomfortable every time Tommaso found an inaccuracy.

But gradually he began to enjoy their conversations.

One afternoon he took out the blue flower and told his pupil about his mother.

He explained how she had encouraged him to observe nature and ask questions.

Tommaso listened with interest.

— That’s exactly why I want to make books for people who haven’t had the chance to study at a university — he said. — Curiosity doesn’t belong only to scholars.

Lorenzo smiled.

In time the two of them prepared a small printed edition with selected observations, tables and explanations.

In the preface Lorenzo described the conditions in which the material had been gathered, pointed out the limitations of the methods used and thanked Tommaso for his questions and corrections.

The book did not bring him great fame.

Some scholars received the conclusions with interest, others disputed them, and still others used the data for their own research.

But when he received a letter from a young teacher thanking him for the clear explanations, Lorenzo felt a joy he had not known for a long time.

His knowledge was at last of use to people he had never met.

One evening he opened the old manuscript at the last page that had been written on.

He took up his pen and wrote:

“If someone is reading this, it means I have finally dared.”

Beneath the words he put his name.

Later he allowed Tommaso to add a note with a correction to one of the old tables.

He put the blue flower back between the leaves and closed the book.

But this time he did not lock it in the cupboard.

He left it on the table, where any of the people he worked with could read it.

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The Karmic Vow — If Someone Finds a Mistake in Me, They Will Realise I Don’t Deserve Respect

Lorenzo’s symbolic vow is born after the humiliation in Padua.

The teacher finds a real mistake, but the way he points it out makes the young student begin to link every inaccuracy with his own worth.

“If someone finds a mistake in me, they will realise that I don’t deserve respect.”

Gradually the wish for accuracy turns into a fear of being judged.

Lorenzo checks, corrects and adds, but less and less often does he let others see his work.

A pattern like this can appear after painful criticism, public humiliation or an upbringing in which mistakes were met with an overly harsh attitude.

Perhaps you, too, try to be so well prepared that no one finds a reason to correct you. Or you feel uncomfortable admitting that you do not yet know the answer to a certain question.

Accuracy and professional responsibility remain important, especially when the work affects the health, safety, finances or rights of other people.

But with creative and personal undertakings you can often begin with a small, well-prepared step and go on developing your skills through experience and feedback.

The new promise could be:

“I will learn, I will check and I will correct my mistakes without measuring my own worth by them.”

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How the Old Book May Show Up in Your Life Today

Gifts — when you play down what you can do

Imagine a woman who for years has helped her friends organise events, prepare documents or make beautiful objects.

Everyone tells her she is very good at it.

But when someone suggests she turn her skill into a professional occupation, she immediately starts listing the reasons why she is not yet prepared enough.

Another person may paint, write or play an instrument, yet compare their own first attempts with the works of people who have been working in the field for decades.

Little by little they collect folders of material that no one has ever seen.

If this is familiar to you, ask yourself what small part of your work you could show to someone you trust. Perhaps it is precisely another person’s eyes that will help you notice a value you yourself underestimate.

Work and money — the endless preparation

Imagine a person who wants to apply for a better job.

They have experience and meet most of the requirements, but when they look at the advertisement, all they see are the skills they have not yet fully mastered.

They decide to finish a new course first.

After it, they find yet another reason to wait.

Another person is preparing a business of their own, but keeps changing the website, the logo, the descriptions and the prices. They are afraid that if they show the project too early, customers will notice its shortcomings.

The preparation gradually starts to swallow money and time.

Some professions genuinely require qualifications, permits and careful checks. But with many undertakings it is possible to present a limited, well-checked part of your work and develop it according to real feedback.

Lorenzo’s story also shows the cost of putting things off — his useful observations of the comet stay in the drawer while the time for the joint research slips by.

Love — when you want to become perfect first

Perhaps you want a serious relationship but believe that you first have to reach certain goals.

You want to improve your financial situation, develop your career, change your appearance or become much more confident.

Some of these wishes may be important.

But if a new condition keeps appearing, love gradually turns into a reward that you believe you have to earn.

In another person the fear shows itself through keeping feelings unspoken.

They rehearse a conversation in their head, search for the perfect words and keep putting off the confession because they are anxious about the possible answer.

And once they do have a partner, they may feel uncomfortable saying “I don’t know”, asking for advice or admitting that they were wrong.

Lorenzo’s story is a reminder that closeness also grows through the ability to be seen in moments of hesitation.

Family — when a mistake turns into shame

Imagine a child who usually gets excellent marks.

One day he does less well, and his parent reproaches him in front of the others.

The boy feels ashamed and gradually begins to worry more about possible mistakes than to enjoy learning.

As an adult he may go on over-preparing, avoiding new undertakings and taking every criticism as proof that he is not capable enough.

Another person may have grown up in a family where the adults rarely admitted that they did not know something. Every conversation quickly turned into an argument about who was right.

Lorenzo’s mother shows a different example.

She encourages her children to observe the world, and when she does not know the answer, she suggests they look for it together.

Think about what you learned about mistakes from your family, and which of those ideas you wish to keep.

Friendships — the fear of showing your true interests

Imagine a person who has been studying a particular subject for years and knows a great deal about it, but when their friends start a conversation about it, they prefer to stay silent.

They worry that if they make an inaccuracy, the others will begin to doubt their abilities.

Someone else may write, paint or play music in secret, without any of their loved ones knowing about it.

Gradually they begin to feel that the people around them know only a small part of who they are.

If you have recognised something of your own here, think about whom you could share an interest with that you have so far kept to yourself.

Perhaps you will not receive only praise. Someone may ask a question or suggest a change.

But that can be the beginning of a good conversation rather than a reason to put everything back in the drawer.

The Most Important Trace — knowledge that has a future

The most painful moment in Lorenzo’s story is the day Tommaso decides to leave, because he no longer wants to wait for permission to use what he has learned.

The teacher has knowledge that could be useful to many people, but his fear gradually begins to limit his pupil’s development as well.

Only when Tommaso publishes his own work, accepts the corrections and carries on working does Lorenzo see a different way of relating to mistakes.

And the blue flower reminds him of the earliest reason he loved knowledge — the joy of discovering the world.

Think about your own abilities.

What have you long wanted to develop? What preparation do you really need? And which condition do you keep setting only because you are afraid of being judged?

Sometimes the most valuable next step is to let another person read the first page.

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Practice for Working Through It — The Seven Pages of the Unfinished Book

I offer you a seven-day practice devoted to knowledge, talents and the way you receive mistakes. Choose a notebook that will gradually become your personal book of growth.

Page one — the first curiosity. Write down five activities you loved as a child. Which of them still bring you joy? Choose one you would like to return to.

Page two — the gaze of others. Recall a painful criticism. What mistake did you actually make, how was it pointed out, and what did you begin to believe about yourself after that?

Page three — the crossed-out line. Choose an old mistake from which you learned something useful. What would you do differently today? If it affected other people, is there a way to put right some of the consequences?

Page four — the hidden manuscript. Describe a project or skill that you still do not dare to show. What is already finished, and what genuinely needs more work?

Page five — the first reader. Show a small part of your work to someone you trust. Ask them what seems clear to them, what is most interesting and what could be improved.

Page six — the open book. Look over the comments you received. Which ones are useful? Which do you disagree with? Correct one genuine weakness and write down what you have learned.

Page seven — the next chapter. Choose a concrete action for the next thirty days — publishing a short text, presenting a project, applying for a job or starting a new activity. Decide what checks are needed and when you will take the step.

End the practice with your personal promise:

“I will learn, I will check and I will correct my mistakes without measuring my own worth by them.”

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The Symbol You Take with You — The First Blank Page

Choose a small notebook.

On the first page write the name of a project, talent or wish that you want to develop.

Beneath it add three things you already know, one mistake from which you learned something useful, and a question to which you are still looking for an answer.

Leave the following pages blank.

If you wish, place a small dried flower between them as a reminder of the curiosity with which you once began to get to know the world.

Let the notebook remind you that every new piece of knowledge can lead to the next question, and that some of the most valuable discoveries begin precisely when we admit that we do not yet know everything.

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Continue Your Karmic Investigation on FatedWays

If the old book has reminded you of a talent you still do not dare to show, or of a professional opportunity you keep putting off, you can continue on FatedWays — the Game of the Soul.

In the room Gifts you can ask: “Which of my abilities do I keep underestimating, and how can I develop it?” In Karma you can explore the belief that you must be flawless in order to deserve recognition, and in Letting Go the painful memory of criticism or humiliation that still influences your decisions.

If you are considering a new job or a venture of your own, in The Crossroads you can look at your options, and in Money at the financial fears that make you put things off.

In The Lineage you can look for your family’s ideas about success and mistakes, and in Love, Compatibility and Friend at the relationships in which you are afraid to show uncertainty or express your own opinion.

You can continue with the large Tarot spread “The Karmic File — Declassified”, and now with the symbolic journey “The Door to a Forgotten Life” as well.

Enter the Game of the Soul

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The Last Page of Your File — The Book That Stayed Open

Venice, the beginning of the seventeenth century.

The afternoon light came in through the window of the small library and fell across the wooden desk, on which lay books, astronomical instruments and old notebooks.

Lorenzo was an old man now.

His hair had turned white, his movements had grown slower, and his eyes tired more quickly over small calculations.

But he was still interested in new books and astronomical observations.

Tommaso, too, was now a grown man with pupils of his own.

One afternoon he arrived at the library with a young boy who showed great interest in mathematics and celestial phenomena.

Even before he sat down, the pupil began looking at the instruments and asking questions.

Lorenzo watched him with a smile.

The boy reminded him of Tommaso in the years when the two of them had met at the printing house.

After a while the pupil noticed the great manuscript with the leather binding and the seven stars.

— May I look at it?

Tommaso laughed.

— That’s a special book. Once it was guarded so carefully that even I had trouble getting permission to open it.

Lorenzo shook his head.

— I admit I had some rather strange ideas about readers.

Then he took the volume and set it in front of the boy.

— Have a look. There are observations in it, old calculations, corrections and questions we are still looking for answers to.

The boy began leafing through the pages.

Soon he came to the tables for the great comet of 1577.

He studied the drawings and the dates, and then asked why in some places there were question marks and notes in a different hand.

Lorenzo explained to him how the observations had been made and which conclusions had been refined later.

The boy listened attentively.

Then he pointed to a table.

— Master, I think this number should be different.

Lorenzo looked at the page.

For a moment he felt the familiar old irritation.

Then he took a sheet of paper.

— Show me how you arrived at your result.

The boy began to calculate.

Tommaso came closer, and the three of them compared the calculations.

After a while they found that the old table did indeed contain an inaccuracy that had gone unnoticed in the earlier checks.

The boy looked at the old scholar anxiously.

— May we mark the correction?

Lorenzo smiled.

— Of course. Just write down how you arrived at the result as well, so that the next person can check it.

He handed him the pen.

Tommaso watched the scene with a smile.

Beatrice appeared from the next room with a tray.

When she saw the boy bent over the book with a pen in his hand, she raised her eyebrows.

— Lorenzo, I hope you’ve noticed that someone is correcting your great work.

— I’ve noticed. And this time I intend to listen to him.

— That deserves to be recorded as a historic event. It’s only a pity there’s no comet over Venice to mark it fittingly.

Everyone laughed.

A little later the pupil reached the last page that had been written on.

He read the words:

“If someone is reading this, it means I have finally dared.”

Then he noticed the dried blue flower.

— Why do you keep a flower in a book about the stars?

Lorenzo picked it up carefully.

He told him about his mother, who had once taken him out into nature and encouraged him to ask questions.

— She wasn’t a scholar — he explained. — But she had enormous curiosity. And when she didn’t know the answer, she would suggest we look for it together.

The boy smiled.

— And that’s why you became an astronomer?

— Perhaps partly for that reason. She taught me to love the searching itself.

Then the pupil came to the blank pages at the end of the book.

— And why haven’t you filled them?

Lorenzo thought about it.

Once he had believed that he had to write everything himself before the manuscript deserved to be read.

Now the pages no longer looked to him like proof of unfinished work.

— Because after me there will be people who know more — he replied. — And some of them will probably find answers that I didn’t manage to discover.

The boy looked at the blank page.

— May I write down an observation of my own?

Lorenzo nodded.

— Of course. Give the date, the method you used and everything that will help another person check what you have written.

The pupil began to write carefully.

Beatrice sat down by the window and talked about the new stories she was preparing.

Tommaso discussed the latest scientific editions with Lorenzo, and the young boy now and then interrupted their conversation with a new question.

The old scholar smiled.

The library, once so quiet, was now filling with voices, questions and laughter.

At last the boy put down the pen.

— Done.

Lorenzo came over and looked at what he had written.

Then he asked:

— And what will your next question be?

The boy thought for a moment and began explaining what he would like to observe on the next clear evening.

Lorenzo listened to him with interest.

On the table the old book stayed open.

After the last written line there were still many blank pages.

And for the first time that seemed wonderful.

If you chose the old book, I wish you curiosity to lead you towards new discoveries, people with whom to share ideas, and the confidence to use your knowledge when you are ready for the next sensible step. May you meet teachers who encourage your questions, and people to whom one day you yourself will be able to pass on what you have learned. I wish you enough courage to begin new chapters, even when you do not yet know exactly how they will end. And if someone finds a mistake in your great book, offer them the pen and check it together. I suspect that this way you will save quite a lot of time, and you will also have someone to drink a coffee with while you argue about the stars.

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The File Is Open

While restoring an old house in Porto, the builders discover a tall window hidden behind wooden panelling. Its iron hinges have darkened with time, the panes refract the light, and the inner shutters are painted a faded blue. On one shutter a small sailing boat has been painted, ready to leave the shore. Beneath it an old date can be made out, and on the other shutter, hidden under several layers of paint, they discover a second boat. This one is already on the open sea, among broad waves, and beneath the picture there is another date and a woman’s initials. More than thirty years separate the two paintings.

In the room they also find a leather sketchbook, almost entirely empty. On the first page is written: “For the journey we will most certainly make.” Among the few drawings there are harbours, plants and decorative ornaments, and a sprig of lavender has been kept between the pages. Who painted the two boats? What happened in all those years? Why was the promised journey put off for so long, and who finally found the courage to set sail?

Windows are remarkable inventions. Through them we can watch the world, dream of faraway places and, in the meantime, learn a remarkable number of details about the neighbours. Especially if across the street lives someone who believes the whole street needs to be kept informed of the latest events. But the window in Porto witnessed a different story. Through it, for years, a woman watched the boats on the Douro while she herself kept finding reasons to stay at home.

Your symbolic karmic file is connected with the end of an important period of life, with the roles you have played for so long that you gradually began to see them as the whole of who you are, and with the wishes that are still waiting their turn. Perhaps your children have grown up, you have been through a separation or a loss, you have left a job to which you devoted decades, or you sense that your daily life no longer brings you the satisfaction it once did. You may even have more free time now, yet not know what to do with it, because for years you have been used to caring for everyone else first.

The story will take us to Porto in the eighteenth century. We will meet Teresa, who runs a family bookbinding workshop and guards the memories of her late husband Manuel. We will get to know her niece Leonor, who dreams of Lisbon, her daughter Maria, who finds it hard to accept the changes in her mother, and the practical Miguel, who will remind her that even the most beautiful memories cannot by themselves mend a leaking roof. And when we return to the two boats, we will understand why the second painting matters so much.

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Regression Journey — The Three Windows of One Life

Before you read the story, I invite you on an imaginary journey inspired by symbolic regression practices. Through the images of the old house and the three windows you can look at your relationship with the past, the roles you play and the wishes that are gradually beginning to seek a place in your present life. The pictures that appear are personal associations and do not in themselves prove memories of an actual past life. You can follow the scenes with your eyes closed or simply read them as a story, and if any experience feels unpleasant, you can change it or end the exercise.

Imagine an old house with stone steps, a heavy wooden door and a small courtyard where fragrant plants grow. As you enter, you notice the smell of wood, wax and old books. You climb a staircase and find yourself in a spacious room with high ceilings. Against the wall stands a bookcase, a sketchbook lies on the table, and before you are three tall windows with closed wooden shutters.

The first window — the life you have built. Open the shutters and look towards the past. A person appears before you among the family, the work or the pursuits that once filled their days. What did they love to do, and with whom did they share their joys? What did they create over the years, and which relationships made them the person they became? Notice, too, the decisions they made of their own free will, because there was far more to this life than duties.

The second window — the life that carries on out of habit. The years have passed. Some of the people are gone, others have grown up and gone their own way, and certain circumstances have changed. Even so, the person carries on with the same duties and lives by the familiar rules. Which belongings and habits do they hold on to? What do they do only because they have long been used to it? Perhaps they cook dinner for more people than will actually sit at the table, or keep turning down invitations because of obligations they could by now share with others.

The third window — the possibility that draws you today. The last window is fastened with a small latch on the inside. Through the gap an unfamiliar view can be seen — a sea, a mountain, a garden or a town that awakens your curiosity. What draws the person to what lies beyond the window? What would they like to learn or experience? Perhaps they want to paint, to travel, to study or to form new relationships. Let them decide for themselves whether to open the shutters a crack, to throw them wide or to consider the possibility a while longer.

The old room — what you wish to keep. Turn to the objects on the table. Choose one that carries a precious memory, and another that no longer serves the same purpose. Think about what the person would like to do with them, and which belongings, relationships and traditions still have a place in their life. They may keep the object, give it away or find a new purpose for it. What matters is that the decision is theirs.

The sketchbook — the person you are today. Open the almost empty sketchbook. On the first page you see the person in their youth, and on the next — the same person after all the years they have lived. What have they learned? What abilities have they acquired, and which dreams still draw them? Imagine them picking up a pencil and beginning a new drawing that matches the life they would like to create with the means they have now.

Before you finish, return to the third window and look at the latch. Think about which small step would help you learn more about the possibility beyond it. Then bring your attention to the present and write down the most important images.

The question that remains: “If I stop playing the role in which everyone is used to seeing me, which part of myself would I like to get to know again?”

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The Story from a Past Life — The Woman Who Opened the Windows

Porto, Portugal, 1784. The city grew up along the river Douro, down which merchant ships sailed out towards the Atlantic Ocean. From the harbour came the voices of sailors and merchants, carts passed through the narrow streets, and the façades of the houses were adorned with decorative tiles, balconies and handsome wooden windows. In an old house overlooking the river lived a forty-nine-year-old widow named Teresa de Almeida, who ran the family bookbinding workshop. The merchants knew her as a sensible, hard-working woman, able to choose the right materials, calculate the costs and organise the orders in such a way that even the most impatient customers rarely managed to catch her out. When someone insisted on an impossible deadline, Teresa would politely suggest that they find a craftsman who could make the glue dry faster by the sheer power of persuasion. Then she would explain when the order could actually be ready.

Few people knew, however, that in her youth Teresa had dreamed of becoming a painter. As a girl she loved drawing the boats on the Douro, the faces of the merchants, the plants in the little courtyards and the decorative tiles on the façades. She had a feeling for colour and detail and often spent hours with charcoal, ink and paints. What she wanted most was to travel, to visit unknown harbours and fill her sketchbooks with pictures of the places she was seeing for the first time.

When she married Manuel de Almeida, the two of them began to build up the small family bookbinding workshop. Manuel was a hard-working, sensible and practical man who loved Teresa and valued her talent. He often asked her to paint decorative motifs for the bindings — flowers, birds, landscapes and geometric ornaments. The two of them complemented each other well and enjoyed their successes, but Manuel had one habit that gradually came to shape their shared daily life. He always found one more reason to put off their personal wishes. When Teresa talked about travelling, he promised they would go once the season’s orders were finished, and when she suggested setting up a small studio of her own, he explained that first they needed to improve the workshop’s finances. The reasons were often sound, but the years went by and the promised free time never came.

One day Manuel gave her a beautiful sketchbook with a leather binding he had made himself. On the first page he wrote: “For the journey we will most certainly make.” Teresa was moved and began looking through the blank pages, imagining all the sea views she would paint. Manuel promised that when the autumn orders were done they would go to the ocean, and she laughed and warned him to hurry, before all the boats on the Douro had sailed without them. That same afternoon she sat by the window of the small room where she loved to paint, and on the inner wooden shutter she painted a boat with a tall sail, ready to leave the shore. When her husband asked her why she was painting straight onto the window, she replied that until they found time to travel, at least she would have a ship of her own. Then she put the sketchbook away in the cupboard, convinced that she would soon begin to fill its pages.

But after the autumn orders came the winter ones, new customers appeared, and soon their daughter Maria was born. The home filled with children’s voices, books and work. Teresa loved motherhood and the life she shared with Manuel, was proud of the workshop and felt satisfaction in everything they created together. Gradually, however, she began to set aside less and less time for painting. She told herself she would come back to it when Maria grew up, the work eased off and there were more free days. When her daughter started school, Teresa sometimes taught her to draw flowers and birds. The two of them would sit by the window and watch the boats on the river, but the girl gradually came to know her mother mainly as the person who organised the home, the workshop and all the family’s obligations.

Over the years the work increased, and Manuel’s health slowly declined. Teresa took on even more responsibilities and almost stopped thinking about travelling. When her husband was already gravely ill, the two of them often talked about the years they had lived through. One day Manuel asked her whether she still kept the sketchbook he had given her, and she admitted that its pages were hardly filled at all. He grew sad and told her he was sorry that they had kept putting off the journey. Teresa took his hand and reminded him what a good life they had had, how they had made a home, brought up Maria and done so many things together. A little later Manuel asked her to look after the house and the workshop into which the two of them had put years of work, and she promised him she would.

When he died, Teresa was forty-two. In the first months she hardly allowed anything in the house to be changed. Manuel’s armchair stayed in its usual place, his tools were carefully put away, his books were kept, and some rooms gradually came to be used less and less. At first this helped her feel close to the memories, but in time she began to see every change as a threat to what the two of them had created. A conviction gradually took shape in her mind: “If I change the life we built, I will lose the last thing I have left of you.”

Maria grew up, married and started a family of her own. Teresa was happy for her, helped look after the grandchildren and went on running the workshop, but when her loved ones left, the old house seemed unusually quiet to her. One evening, after she had seen off her daughter and the children, she was left alone at the big family table. The orders were finished, the assistants could manage the next morning, and Maria had gone home. For the first time in many years Teresa realised that the evening belonged to her alone and that she did not actually know what to do with that time.

Her gaze fell on the old cupboard. She took out the sketchbook she had been given, opened the first page and read Manuel’s inscription. Then she took a pencil and tried to draw a boat. Her hand was unsteady, and the lines were quite unlike the ones she had once drawn with ease. She looked at the picture, smiled sadly and put the sketchbook back. But over the following days she found herself remembering more and more often the pleasure she had felt in drawing again.

A few weeks later her eighteen-year-old niece Leonor arrived at the house. The girl’s family was in financial difficulty, and her parents hoped that working in the bookbinding workshop would help her learn a trade. Leonor was inquisitive, stubborn and at times rather impatient. She loved drawing and dreamed of one day going to Lisbon to study decorative techniques. In her very first week she began asking questions about colours, ornaments and tools, but she also had a habit that regularly tested Teresa’s patience. When asked to tidy the materials, she could spend half an hour looking at drawings and then explain that she had been doing extremely important preparation. Only the tools on the table had apparently not been informed of this.

One afternoon Leonor noticed the closed shutters on the window in the old painting room and asked her aunt why she never opened it. Teresa explained that the room was hardly used and that the river could be seen from the other windows too, but the girl had already gone up to the shutters. When she opened one, the hinges creaked, light poured into the room, and a broad bright stripe appeared on the floor. Leonor noticed the faded painting of the boat and asked who had made it. Teresa looked at the wooden shutter and for a moment went back to her youth, to the sketchbook she had been given and the promised journey. When she admitted that the painting was hers, her niece looked at her as astonished as if she had just found out that her aunt had secretly sailed around the world.

Teresa laughed and told her about Manuel, about the beautiful bindings they had made together and about the dream of seeing the ocean. Leonor listened carefully, and then asked whether she still wanted to paint. Teresa was about to answer that she had no time, but suddenly stopped. For the first time she realised that some of the circumstances that had limited her free time for so many years were now different. Maria had a family of her own, the workshop had assistants, and some of the duties could be shared. She admitted that she did not know whether she still wanted to paint, and Leonor immediately suggested they try together.

Over the following days the two of them cleaned the old room and found brushes, paints and yellowed drawings. Teresa began showing her niece how decorative motifs are made, and gradually she herself remembered the movements and the pleasure of the work. One day she painted a small blue flower, looked at it carefully and sighed that once she would have done it much better. Leonor answered in all seriousness that in that case she would obviously have to practise more. Teresa raised her eyebrows and asked whether the girl really intended to give her lessons in her own workshop, and her niece replied that she would have to if her aunt kept neglecting her homework. The two of them laughed, and little by little the old room filled once more with drawings and conversation.

One evening Leonor admitted that she dreamed of going to Lisbon, but her mother expected her to take a secure job and, in time, to marry. Teresa advised her not to rush, because she could always find time for painting later. The girl looked at her seriously and told her that this was exactly what she was afraid of. “You also told yourself you would paint later. And I don’t want to be telling someone in thirty years why I never found the time.” The words stung Teresa, because for the first time she realised that her own decisions could become an example the young girl would repeat. She really had had many duties and difficulties, but she had also, more than a few times, chosen of her own accord to put her wishes last.

Just then a serious problem arose. Miguel, a cousin of the late Manuel, arrived with worrying news about the state of the house. The roof needed expensive repairs, some of the beams had been damaged by damp, and the workshop’s funds would hardly be enough. Miguel suggested that Teresa consider selling the property and living somewhere smaller. The very thought of strangers walking into the family house filled her with horror. She reminded him that this was Manuel’s home, and Miguel replied that he knew that perfectly well, but memories would not repair the damaged beams.

His words were harsh, but Teresa knew the warnings were justified. After the conversation she walked through the rooms for a long time, looking at the things she had kept for years, and gradually began to understand how much money and effort it took to look after rooms that hardly anyone used. The hardest thing for her was to think about Manuel’s belongings. A merchant offered a good price for his old armchair, but she refused. A few days later she sat in it and remembered their conversations after work, the jokes and the evenings when he read by the window. She decided to keep it, but sold other things she had long stopped using. She let one of the rooms and began organising the repairs in stages. For the first time in many years she allowed the house to change according to her present needs.

Then Leonor suggested that one of the rooms they had cleared could become a small studio for decorative drawings and book decoration. At first Teresa hesitated, because their finances were uncertain, but the two of them went through the materials and calculated the costs. They found that they could start with small orders, using the tools they already had. They prepared a few samples and showed them to the bookbinding workshop’s customers.

The first customer said no, because he preferred more austere decoration, and Teresa’s drawings seemed to him too lively and colourful. She was so upset that for several days she hardly touched her brushes. She began to wonder whether it was sensible at all for a woman of her age to take up a new occupation. But soon another customer noticed the pictures. He was preparing an edition about trading voyages and was looking for drawings of ships, harbours and coastal towns. It was precisely Teresa’s style that he liked, and he ordered several pictures. She accepted with excitement and began once again to watch the boats on the Douro, talk with sailors and make sketches of the harbour. Gradually more orders came in.

The new studio, however, created tension at home. For years Maria had relied on her mother to look after her two children several days a week, and when she asked her to take the grandchildren for several days in a row, she was surprised to be refused. Teresa explained that she had an order she needed to finish, and her daughter asked, offended, why everything had suddenly changed when her mother had always been there for them. Teresa looked at her for a long time before answering: “Because I have changed too, Maria. And I would like someone to notice.”

The conversation was hard for both of them. Maria really did need help, and Teresa felt guilty, because she loved her grandchildren and did not want to disappoint the family. After a few days, however, they began discussing in concrete terms how they could organise their time. They agreed on days when Teresa would help with the children and others set aside for work in the studio, and Maria gradually began looking for additional help as well. Later she brought the grandchildren to the studio, where their grandmother gave them pencils and paper and Leonor taught them to draw little boats. Maria watched her mother among the drawings, the brushes and the pupils, and for the first time realised how little she knew about her dreams. Gradually she began to accept that Teresa could go on being a loving mother and grandmother while also having pursuits of her own.

Miguel, too, kept an eye on the house’s finances. At first he was sceptical about the studio, but Teresa went through the accounts carefully, kept expenses down and scheduled the repairs according to the income. The first months were difficult — some orders were late, others brought in less profit than expected, and the new obligations required good organisation. But gradually the work began to grow. One evening Miguel came round to discuss the next repair, looked over the busy studio and admitted that he had not believed things could develop like this. Teresa smiled and told him that she herself had had doubts too, but this time she had decided to test the possibility before giving it up.

One day a neighbour stopped her in front of the house and asked whether it was true that she was painting again. When Teresa confirmed it, the woman remarked that at her age a person usually ought to be thinking about more serious things. Teresa smiled and replied that painting ships was quite a serious occupation, especially when one intended one day to board one of them. The neighbour was taken aback, and Teresa went on down the street with a smile.

Some time later she took one of her finished drawings and turned it over. On the back she wrote her own name — Teresa de Almeida. In her life she had signed hundreds of bills, orders and documents, but it had been a long time since she had put her name to something she had created because she wanted to. She remembered how Manuel had once encouraged her to sign the decorative motifs she painted for the books, and she smiled. Later that same evening she opened the old sketchbook, read the promise of the journey once more and began looking into real possibilities of seeing the ocean.

Over the following months she talked with merchants, studied maps and gradually saved up money. Leonor watched the preparations with interest and often asked her when she finally meant to go. Teresa usually replied that she was waiting for the right moment, and the girl would laugh, because by now she knew that answer perfectly well. But this time Teresa really was looking into the options and gradually beginning to understand how she could organise the journey.

About a year later an order arrived from a merchant who was preparing an edition with descriptions of journeys and wanted a series of drawings of coastal landscapes and harbours. The work included visiting several places along the Portuguese coast. When she read the offer, Teresa felt enormous excitement, but almost immediately began writing down the reasons why it would probably be more sensible to refuse. The roof still needed repairs, there were unfinished orders, and the studio depended on her.

Leonor came into the room and noticed the sheet full of objections. She examined it carefully and remarked that the preparation looked impressively detailed, and then asked whether her aunt had also written down the reasons why she wanted to go. Teresa fell silent, because she had become so used to thinking about every possible difficulty that it had hardly occurred to her to write down her own wish. Leonor put a clean sheet in front of her and suggested she start there.

Teresa took up her pen and wrote that she wanted to see the ocean, to paint unfamiliar places, to talk with the people in the harbours and at last to fulfil the dream she had carried since her youth. Then she looked at the two sheets, and together with Leonor she began to talk through the difficulties. They agreed on deadlines for the orders, spoke with the assistants and set aside the money needed. At first Maria was anxious, but when she understood how carefully the journey had been organised, she began to be glad for her mother, and the grandchildren asked for drawings of all the ships their grandmother would see.

On the day of departure Teresa rose early, packed her clothes, brushes, pencils and her beloved sketchbook, and then went back to the old painting room. Both shutters of the window were wide open, and outside could be seen the rooftops of Porto and the boats moving along the Douro. Teresa touched the faded painting of the little boat and remembered the day Manuel had given her the sketchbook, their conversations about the journey and all the years they had spent together. It saddened her that the two of them would not be able to see the ocean together, but she also remembered his laughter, the beautiful bindings they had made and the way he had sometimes insisted that she put her name on her own drawings.

When Leonor appeared in the doorway and asked whether she was ready, Teresa smiled and admitted that she thought she had packed everything she needed. Her niece remarked that, having prepared for this journey for almost thirty years, at least the luggage ought to be ready. The two of them laughed, and Teresa picked up her bag and went out.

At the harbour the air smelled of water and wood, and boats with wind-filled sails were passing along the river. When she boarded the vessel, Teresa looked back at the city, whose rooftops were gradually beginning to recede. Then she opened the old sketchbook at the first blank page and began to draw. The lines were careful but confident, and before her stretched the waters of the Douro, leading out to the Atlantic Ocean. This time she had no need to imagine what the journey looked like. She was already part of it.

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The Karmic Vow — If I Change the Life We Built, I Will Lose the Last Thing I Have Left of You

In Manuel’s last days Teresa promises to look after the family home and the workshop. After his death she gradually begins to take this promise as a duty to keep everything unchanged. This is how her symbolic karmic vow takes shape: “If I change the life we built, I will lose the last thing I have left of you.”

A belief like this can appear after a loss, a separation, retirement or the end of a long period of life. Perhaps you keep up old habits because they connect you with precious memories, or you carry out duties that were once important but no longer fit your present life. You may be afraid that if you start something new, you will devalue everything you built over the previous years.

For a long time Teresa believes that changes in the house will erase part of her shared life with Manuel. But gradually she discovers that she can keep his armchair, the old books and the good memories while giving part of the house a new purpose. She goes on loving her past and valuing the years she has lived, but now she makes decisions according to the needs and possibilities she has today.

The new promise could be: “I will keep my love and my memories, while allowing my life to change along with me.”

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How the Old Window May Show Up in Your Life Today

Love — when past relationships still shape your daily life

Imagine a woman who has gone through a divorce after a long marriage. She still lives in the family home and keeps up habits that were once part of their shared daily life. When she meets an interesting person, she begins to worry whether the new relationship might change her life too much. For someone else the theme may be connected with the loss of a partner. Even years later he feels guilty at the thought that he could have new interests, friendships or relationships, as if that would lessen the meaning of the love he has known.

Teresa’s story is a reminder that each of us decides for ourselves what we wish to keep and what we are ready to change. For some people a new love may be part of the next stage of life, while others may choose an entirely different way of filling their lives with joy. What matters most is that the decision answers to your present feelings and wishes, rather than being shaped solely by fear of other people’s judgement.

Family — when everyone still relies on you

Perhaps for years you have been the person who organises the holidays, helps the children, looks after the parents and sorts out the family’s difficulties. When you ask for time for your own interests, your loved ones may be surprised, because their daily life has long been bound up with your help. Imagine a mother whose children have grown up but still rely on her for almost everything. She loves them and wants to help them, but she begins to feel that her own days are once again being filled entirely with other people’s obligations.

The conversation between Teresa and Maria shows that a change like this can be difficult for both sides. Maria really does need help, and Teresa wants to be part of her grandchildren’s lives. But she now also has work of her own for which she needs to set aside time. Gradually the two of them manage to talk more concretely about their needs and to find a way of sharing the responsibilities according to what each of them can actually do.

Work and money — when the familiar now costs too much

Imagine a person who runs an inherited family business. They put a great deal of effort and money into preserving the old way of working, even though it has been clear for years that changes are needed. They are afraid that if they change the business, they will devalue the work of earlier generations. Someone else may have worked in one place for decades and want a new professional direction, but not dare to look into it because of the security that the familiar job gives them.

Teresa, too, has to make real financial decisions. Miguel’s warnings are justified, because the roof really does need repairing and the money is limited. So she goes through the accounts, lets a room, sells certain belongings and starts the new venture on a modest budget. If you are considering a change, think about what costs, knowledge and obligations need to be taken into account, and how you can reduce the risk before you take the next step.

Friendships — when you want to meet new people

After a separation, a loss or the end of a long professional period, a person may find that their social life has gradually become narrower. Perhaps their friends have got used to inviting them less often because for a long time they turned down invitations, or they themselves now want different pursuits. Imagine a woman who, after years devoted to her family, decides to take painting lessons. Some of her old friends do not understand her interest, but among the other participants she gradually makes new acquaintances.

Teresa goes through a similar change through the studio. The old room fills again with people, conversations and ideas, and she finds a chance to socialise outside her family obligations too. Perhaps in your life, too, there is a pursuit that would allow you to meet people with similar interests and form new friendships.

Age — when you begin to believe it is already too late

Teresa is almost fifty when she starts painting again. A neighbour reminds her that at her age she ought to be occupied with more serious things, but Teresa already knows what she wants. Perhaps you, too, have long been thinking of learning a language, travelling, taking up music, creating a project of your own or trying a new professional direction, but you are afraid that others will be surprised, or that your progress will not be as quick as that of younger people.

Teresa does not try to become again the girl she was thirty years before. She uses her experience of running the workshop, dealing with customers and making financial decisions to build a new studio. It is precisely the knowledge accumulated over the years that helps her fulfil the old dream in a new way.

The Most Important Trace — the life that still belongs to you

The most important change in Teresa’s story begins when she realises that she now has possibilities she did not have before. Maria has started a family of her own, the workshop has assistants, and some of the duties can be shared. Even so, Teresa goes on for a long time living by the old limitations, because she has grown so used to them that she hardly notices how much the circumstances have changed.

Only when Leonor opens the window and discovers the painting does Teresa begin once again to pay attention to her own wishes. But the change requires far more than a single decision. She has to talk with her daughter, see to the house, accept refusals from customers and find a realistic way to travel. That is exactly why the story is so human. Teresa keeps her love for the life she has had, and gradually makes room for her new dreams.

Perhaps changes have already come into your life, too, that give you the chance to do something different. The question is whether you have noticed them and what you would like to do with them.

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Practice for Working Through It — The Seven Windows to a New Life

I offer you a seven-day practice that will help you look at your past roles, your present wishes and the real possibilities for change. You can use a notebook or a journal and set aside time according to what suits you.

Window one — the old room. Recall three important periods of your life. What did you create during them, which people were beside you and what abilities did you develop? Write down what you value from those years and which experiences helped you become the person you are today.

Window two — the empty chair. Think of a person, a role or a pursuit that is no longer present in your life in the same way. What do you miss most? Which memory do you want to keep, and which old habit no longer has the same meaning?

Window three — the forgotten sketchbook. Recall a wish that was once important to you. Does it still draw you? If so, how would you like to develop it now, using the knowledge and means you have today?

Window four — other people’s expectations. Write down three things you believe people expect of you. Which of them have actually been voiced by your loved ones, and which have you turned into an obligation yourself? Think about whom you could talk to about the change you want.

Window five — the cost of change. Choose one wish and write down the money, time, preparation and help it needs. Which risks are real, and how can you limit them? If you are considering a professional change, look at your financial security, and if you dream of a journey, think about how to organise it within your means.

Window six — the window left ajar. Take a small action over the next few days — have a conversation, visit a new place, sign up for a course, look into a job opportunity or take up a creative pursuit again. Then note what you have learned and whether the wish still draws you.

Window seven — the two boats. Draw two boats. Let the first be close to the shore, and the second out on the open sea. Under the first write what you still keep from the previous period, and under the second how you would like your next chapter of life to look. Between them add three concrete steps towards the change you want.

When you have finished the practice, look at the two boats and consider which of the steps you have chosen is already possible for you.

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The Symbol You Take with You — The Two Boats

Keep the drawing from the seventh day and place it by a window or in your journal. With every important step towards the change you want, you can add a small detail — a date, a word or a symbol of what you have experienced. In time the two boats will remind you where you started, what you chose to keep and what you have actually managed to bring about.

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Continue Your Karmic Investigation on FatedWays

If the old window has reminded you of a period of life that is coming to an end, a forgotten wish or a family role that no longer fits your life, you can continue your exploration on FatedWays — the Game of the Soul. In the room Letting Go you can ask: “Which old role do I keep playing, even though the circumstances are now different?” In Karma you can look at the symbolic promise that makes you afraid of change, and in The Crossroads at the possibilities for the next stage of your life.

If you wish to develop an old talent or interest, visit Gifts. In The Lineage you can explore your family’s expectations, and in Money the financial questions that are worth weighing up before you take a new step. The rooms Love, Compatibility, Friend and My People can help you look at the relationships you wish to keep or to develop in a different way.

Enter the Game of the Soul

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All the rooms await you on FatedWays — the Game of the Soul

You can continue with the large Tarot spread “The Karmic File — Declassified”, and now with the symbolic journey “The Door to a Forgotten Life” as well.

Enter the Game of the Soul

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The Last Page of Your File — The Two Boats

Porto, a few months after Teresa’s journey. Afternoon light came in through the wide-open windows of the studio. Drawings of harbours, boats and coastal streets were scattered across the table, and on the shelves lay beautiful bookbindings and painting materials. Teresa had come back with a full sketchbook. For the first time after so many years, Manuel’s gift held more drawings than blank pages.

During the journey she had visited unfamiliar harbours, talked with fishermen and sailors and painted the sea at different times of day. On some pages she noted the colours of the buildings, on others she wrote down funny incidents or conversations with the people she met. Leonor looked through the drawings with enormous curiosity and kept asking questions about the places her aunt had visited. When she exclaimed how much she had managed to see, Teresa smiled and admitted that there were now more places she wanted to visit. Her niece immediately suggested they buy a new sketchbook, but Teresa replied that first she would use every page of this one, because she had kept them blank for long enough.

After a while Maria and the children arrived. The grandchildren at once began looking at the ships in the drawings and asking whether the sea was really as big as it looked. Teresa laughed and assured them that it was even bigger, and that she would probably need a great many more sketchbooks if she decided to paint all of it. The children insisted that she tell them about the boats, the harbours and the people she had met, and Maria watched her mother with a smile. Over the last few years she had begun to discover so many things about her that she had hardly thought about before. She admitted that she had never guessed how much Teresa loved to travel, and her mother replied that for a long time she herself had forgotten it.

The afternoon passed in conversation and laughter. When the guests had left, Teresa stayed on alone in the studio for a while. She opened the old sketchbook and looked at the first page, on which Manuel’s handwriting was still clear. She ran her fingers over the letters, smiled, and then went over to the old window. Both wooden shutters were wide open, and outside could be seen the rooftops of Porto, the waters of the Douro and the boats that still went on passing along the river.

On one shutter her first painting could still be made out — a small boat close to the shore, its sail ready to catch the wind. Teresa gently touched the faded lines and remembered the day she had painted it. She had been a young woman then, full of dreams of distant harbours and journeys shared with Manuel. More than thirty years had passed since, in which she had lived through love, motherhood, a great deal of work, loss, difficult decisions and new encounters. She had been happy in many of those years, while others had brought pain she would never wish to live through again. But all of them were part of her story, and she did not want to lose the memories of the people she had loved.

Teresa turned to the table, took a small brush and a few colours, and then stood before the other wooden shutter. She began to paint straight onto the wood. First the line of the horizon appeared, then a small boat with a tall mast, and around it broad sea waves like the ones she had watched during the journey. Leonor came into the room, saw her working and asked what she was painting. Teresa smiled and replied that it was the boat that was finally setting sail.

The girl came closer and watched the new picture gradually appear. When Teresa had finished, she wrote the date of her return and added her initials. Then she put down the brush, and the two of them looked at the paintings for a long time. The first boat was close to the shore, and the second was already sailing among the waves of the sea. Leonor asked why her aunt had decided to paint another one, and Teresa smiled and replied: “So that I remember that I have set off once already. And next time I won’t need thirty years to decide.”

The two of them laughed, and Leonor went back to the table and took out a letter she had just been meaning to show her. It was from a master craftsman in Lisbon, with whom she might have the chance of a short training in decorative techniques. Teresa read it carefully and asked whether her niece wanted to try. The girl admitted that she wanted to very much, but was worried about the money, about the work in the studio and about her mother’s reaction. Teresa heard her out, and then took two sheets of paper and put them in front of her. She suggested they write down all the real difficulties that needed to be resolved, as well as the reasons why the training mattered to Leonor. The girl laughed, because she immediately recognised the same approach with which she had once helped her aunt prepare for the journey to the ocean.

They sat down at the big table and began to talk. On one sheet they wrote down the money needed, the deadlines and the possible difficulties, and on the other what Leonor wanted to learn, why the training mattered to her and how she could use the knowledge she gained. Teresa talked about her own experience, her niece shared her worries, and gradually a plan began to take shape between them. Neither of them could know in advance how events would unfold, but now they had enough information to consider the possibility seriously.

After a while Leonor got up and went over to the window. She looked at the two boats, then glanced at the river and smiled. “Perhaps one day I’ll paint mine too,” she said. Teresa laughed and replied that of course she could, but first they would have to decide where all these boats were going to sail, because if they kept adding new ones, they would soon need another window. Leonor suggested that perhaps they would need a whole wall, and the two of them burst out laughing again.

Outside, a boat with a tall sail was passing along the Douro. Teresa followed it with her eyes and remembered how, many years before, she had watched the same sight, imagining the unknown harbours to which the river led. Now she knew some of them. She had gone away, seen the sea, come back home and discovered that she still had wishes she would like to fulfil. And on the window the two boats stayed side by side — one keeping the young woman’s dream, the other telling of the journey of the woman who had finally made it come true.

If you chose the old window, I wish you to keep with love everything precious from the life you have lived, and to find joy in what still awaits you. May you have people who understand your changes, opportunities to develop your abilities and the courage to pay attention to your own wishes. I wish you to open the windows you have long looked at with doubt, and to find your own way of reaching the places you dream of. And if one day you wonder whether it is already too late, remember Teresa. More than thirty years lay between her two boats, but when she finally set sail, she discovered that the world still had something to show her. And that for the next journey she could pack her bags a little earlier.

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