Why the Fool Became My Lifelong Companion

Western cultures often misunderstand this archetypal symbol of courage, resilience, and connection to the mysteries of life.

“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” William Shakespeare

I woke up from a lucid dream, twisted in bed sheets and dripping with sweat. I was on a space voyage with a benevolent, intergalactic navigator. She steered us to a desert planet with a vast terminal where we shifted ships.

We boarded a small vessel and rapidly skimmed the surface of golden, shimmering sand before reaching an exceptionally stunning structure.

It was crafted from turquoise stone and similar to an armoire closet in size and structure. It stood alone. The vastness held no other object for your eyes to settle on.

I had no idea why I had been brought there, but I did know I was looking at a sacred object. My star companion spoke to me telepathically in a language I understood.

“I will show you the keys to multiple universes. You are not yet ready to touch them. You must learn their codes by yourself.” She held up her hands, palms facing the doors, and they glided open smoothly.

Brilliant bars of colored lights were pulsing and emitting sound frequencies, immediately moving me into a state of awe. A celestial toning was taking place.

One sentence was uttered before my eyes opened and I shifted back to third dimensional reality. “You will find what you’re looking for today.”

I was not one to discount dreams. I understood right away this particular dream was a rare ‘gift’ dream. One emerging from untapped regions in my consciousness.

It was 1965, I was fourteen years old and living in the middle of nowhere desert without any kind of mystery school, Wizard or High Priestess in sight. The navigator’s last words filled me with hope nonetheless.

I dressed and ate a peach straight off the tree. It was so sweet and juicy I was momentarily distracted from my mission. Even though I had no idea what it was.

I slipped my payment for weeding a neighbor’s garden into the pocket of my cut-off jeans and hopped on my bike. I pedaled vigorously through heat waves already wafting off the street until breaking in front of a bookstore.

A voice prompted me once again. “Go inside.”

I walked into the store with heightened curiosity and entered an aisle with board games. I cruised it slowly, then spotted a strange deck of cards. A Magician was on the box cover, drawing me in right away.

When I picked up the deck my hands began to feel hot in the air conditioned store. A sure sign I should buy them. “Do you know what Tarot cards are?” I asked the woman at check out.

“Those cards have been sitting there for ages, honey. I have no idea what they are, but I’m glad someone’s finally buying them. Have fun playing around.”

They were not for playing around. That I knew. They would help me, just as I had been guided in my dream. I biked back across town so fast I ended up startled in our front yard. What was happening?

I raced into my bedroom, shut the door and spread the cards out on top of the bedspread. A small pamphlet was included with descriptions of the symbols and meaning of each card.

They were the same symbols that had been appearing in my dreams and visions since I was six years old and received a spiritual transmission. My hunger and thirst for esoteric knowledge was finally being fed.

The Tarot became my summer obsession. I pretended to be sleeping when my parents checked on me before going to bed. As soon as I heard their bedroom door close, I flicked on my flashlight and studied the cards.

The deck was composed of 78 cards divided into two groups. There were 22 trump cards in the major arcana featuring well-known archetypes. The remaining 56 formed the minor arcana with four suits representing the elements of fire [wands], air [swords], water [cups], and earth [pentacles].

My focus was on the major arcana and the archetypes they portrayed. I read about the Tarot in an encyclopedia and discovered the cards were believed to have originated in Italy during the late 14th or early 15th century. I was holding a lot of history in my hands.

Although all of the archetypes intrigued me, I kept returning to the Zero card, embodying the Fool. I knew this symbol held special meaning in my life, and I was determined to plumb its depths.

More light began to shine when my mother brought Carl Jung’s partial autobiography, “Memories, Dreams, Reflections” home. l found it on the coffee table the very day it first graced our home.

Jung was an archetype authority who spent years exploring unknown regions of the human psyche and subconscious patterning. The Fool was part of his original list of twelve major archetypes. I had hit the jackpot and found more gold in the mystics lair.

I read his descriptions of a Wise Fool. A person who comes across as a Fool but actually knows what they’re talking about.

A Fool’s objective is to share truth through the lens of humor whenever possible. This encourages nondefensive reactions and opens the door to a wider connection with others.

Fools shed light onto societal and cultural issues needing more illumination. A Fool’s desire is to live life as it arises and to find some small shred of joy in everything they do.

Fools live life on their own terms and have no problem challenging the status quo. They tend to see the bright side no matter how dark and obscure their subject may be.

They are transformative agents on a path of self-actualization. They operate from their own belief system, regardless of cultural norms.

They consistently take calculated risks and are not afraid to make mistakes. They have a resilient nature and bounce back rapidly with an eagerness to try again.

They are unconventional, creative, and unpredictable as well. They follow the wisdom of their developed intuition and determine their own path in life.

In other words, Fools are alchemists. Capable of moving beyond the aspirations of the Magician and High Priestess since they are all-inclusive.

Their most powerful tool is a direct connection to the innate joy in the core of their being. We all have a Wise Fool inside.

I realized how deeply entrenched the Fool had become in my psyche during a conversation with my father the night before I left home after graduating High School.

I had been working a summer job in a bank until an older friend I hadn’t seen in a year walked in, and I leaped up to assist her.

We shared an over-the-counter hug. “Hey girlfriend, I’m leaving for San Francisco in two days with a couple of friends. Do you want to join us?”

My Fool started doing cartwheels. Yes! It was 1969 and one of the last summers of love. I was more than ready to jump on the hippie bandwagon and start life rolling without further obstructions.

I quit the job at the end of the day. No more bank matrons staring at the hemline of my dress with disapproval. Their eyes boring into my back when men flirted with me at the teller’s counter.

Who did they think I was? A Fool, that’s who. They were right.

I was packing in my bedroom when my father knocked on the door and entered. He started off with questions about my ability to defend myself in perilous situations. He offered a few tips I was already well aware of by necessity, then shifted the subject.

“You had a good paying job and left it without any consideration for your future funds. Don’t you think that was a foolish decision? I thought you had a level head on your shoulders.”

“I know you’re concerned for me dad. From your perspective I’m being a fool. But this is something I feel compelled to do.”

“You’re aware of your Achilles heel, right? You tend to give others the benefit of the doubt beyond what they merit. You seem to think life is a bowl of cherries, and nothing can hurt you.”

I waffled for a minute. Should I tell him a few truths that would dispel his notion of my naïveté? Or should I let the details slip away so he wouldn’t feel more concerned?

Fool showed up with intuition hot on her heels. She coined a nickname for me over the past four years we’d been hanging out. “Zip the lips, Honey Child. You’re flying out the door tomorrow and entering a brave, new world. Keep your own counsel.” Noted, thank you.

“Well, you’re wrong and right at the same time, Dad. It’s true; I think life is a bowl of cherries. What’s wrong with that? I happen to love cherries, and life is pretty cool as well.”

“I’m aware sour cherries are going to pop up in the bowl, and I know I overextend the benefit of the doubt. For some disturbed reason, I want to believe everyone is good at their core.”

We left it at that and his Fool of a daughter roared off to Haight Ashbury early the next morning. A grin plastered on her face and bells on her toes. Fool made sure to put some flowers in her hair.

Fifty-five years have passed since the summer my wild, young Fool rode away. It was her first big adventure in a lifetime of explorations to come.

Constantly shifting from one side of the scales to another in search of a middle ground. An occasional sour cherry mixed in with the sweet.

Did those sour bites stop me from feeling delighted by something as simple as hummingbirds sipping nectar at the feeder?

Not a chance. Not with the Fool steadily by my side.