The Saturn Diaries: A Modern Day Grimoire

By Cardsy B

Fashion bitch turned wellness witch, Cardsy B, shares her irresistibly witty and raw account of seemingly having, then losing, it all to redirect inward to find healing and purpose in unlocking her intuition.

 

Before becoming Cardsy B, Rebecca Szymczak was a rebellious outcast from rural Pennsylvania, determined to live the quintessential Manhattan life, landing high-level fashion jobs, celebrity friends, and even her own lingerie line along the way. But by age thirty-one, an astrological transit—known as Saturn's Return—gate-crashed her life, stripping away her self-identity and exposing a battle with depression, anxiety, and substance abuse, just beneath the glossy surface.

 

As she began to rebuild her life, Cardsy revisited her childhood hobby of pulling tarot cards. In doing so, she reconnected with her intuition in powerful and often unexpected ways.

 

The Saturn Diaries is the compelling record of that journey, involving everything, from a homemade Oprah-ator phone created to dial the universe to a solo trek through the Costa Rican Jungle to participate in an Ayahuasca ceremony.

 

Part memoir and part spellbook, each chapter features a spell, elixir, or ritual. The Saturn Diaries - intensely moving and often hilarious - chronicles discovery and remembrance. It reveals the magic that occurs when you acknowledge the seeker within and begin listening to your own inner guidance system.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cardsy B
• Release date: Dec 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215854846

Book preview

Prologue

We pushed through the doors, escaping the blustery November cold. I rushed past my mom and headed to the back of Waldenbooks, straight to the Occult section. Long before it was rebranded as Metaphysical, or even New Age, this section, tucked back in the far left corner, was almost always empty aside from the occasional solace-seeking Goth teenager. Paranormal activity books were my current preference, but I had also collected several astrology books, a few on ESP and two on astral travel.

My mom always said yes to books, even when they cost more than my allowance money. She was proud that I was an avid reader. I’d won the Book-It reading competition in my first grade class and finished Moby Dick when I was eight, but in fourth grade my TAG (talented and gifted) advanced studies teacher began to voice concerns about the subject matter of the books I was reading. Though not necessarily a student or practitioner of metaphysics herself, my mom was incredibly open-minded. When she was questioned by my teacher, she defended that I was reading constantly and eager to learn, which she thoroughly supported.

My mom followed behind me to my very favorite shelf, lowered the zipper on her burgundy winter coat, and adjusted the sleeves on her petite frame to adapt to the store’s radiator heat. I didn’t want to waste any time getting comfortable. Instead, I chose to leave my coat on along with my pleather backpack––the OG vegan leather––and begin immediately sorting through a pile of books while my mom casually tucked her chin-length blonde bob behind her right ear. Her arctic-blue eyes widened as she spotted the holes in the knees of my black leggings as I sat down.

Rebecca! Those have holes all over the knees. I threw those in the garbage two days ago! Did you change into them at school? I didn’t see them this morning.

I unsuccessfully tried to pull my coat back over my knees.

Ok. So, I dug them out, and I might have changed into them at school, but they look cool—I like the holes. And they’re soooooo comfy.

"I can’t believe you wore those to school. People will think we can’t afford clothes without holes in them! I went to Penney’s just to get you new leggings to replace those."

"Mom, who cares what they think? Do they think Madonna can’t afford new clothes? They look cool. Besides, you got me purple ones. And I REALLY like the black ones."

She shook her head, trying not to crack a smile at my rebuttal.

I sheepishly grinned as I continued to sort my pile of books. How to Meet and Work with Spirit Guides by Ted Andrews made its way to the top of my stack. I almost chose this one the week before because I loved the line drawings of the celestial-looking figures in royal purples and greens.

Oooh, that looks cool. Are you thinking you want that one? my mom asked encouragingly.

Yeah… maybe this one.

I liked to take my time deciding. That little dusty occult section in Waldenbooks in the Carlisle, Pennsylvania strip mall was one of the few places where I felt at home. It was obvious that I was different from everyone around me. I felt like a tourist in my own hometown. It’s okay that you don’t belong here, a calm, reassuring voice echoed from somewhere inside. The voice felt familiar, but also bigger than me. I wanted to trust it, but I still felt like an outsider. Maybe it was the holey leggings, maybe it was the weird things I sometimes knew, but it was clear that I was atypical. I didn’t want to grow up and get married to some boy who played on the Varsity football team and, shortly after, have kids that would inevitably go to the same school. I wanted to live in New York City; I wanted to travel the world. Other girls my age had started to care about boys. Other kids belonged to after-school activities and played sports, but not me. Though I excelled academically, I didn’t really have any friends, except for one adorable fellow nerd in my advanced studies class. I wonder if Ellie would like this book too? I smiled as I thought of my one and only ally, who never judged my weird hobbies and interests.

While contemplating this, the coolest little orange box caught my eye from the shelf just above me. It had a window cut out of the front revealing a mysterious brunette lady on a black background.

To All Believers, the scripted white text read.

That’s me! I thought as I reached upward to grab it. I shoved my initial pile of books to the side and stood up, clasping the little box excitedly.

This one!! Can I get this one, Mom? It’s a little more than my allowance, I admitted, digging my single dollar bills out of my zipped coat pocket. "And I know it’s not technically a book, but it says there’s a book inside," I defended.

A booklet. My mom enunciated while smiling, clearly seeing through my negotiations. Ok, let me see.

She picked it up and glanced over the description of the Hanson Roberts Tarot deck and hesitantly said, Well, I guess so… but the leggings go in the trash when we get home, and permanently this time.

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I squealed, too excited about my first Tarot deck to mourn the loss of my favorite pants.

My dad walked in promptly at 6:15, just minutes after we got home from the bookstore. He set his brown leather briefcase down next to the kitchen entryway before sitting down at the table. His hand smoothed the top of his hair before loosening his necktie.

How was school today, Sweets? he asked while opening the newspaper to the stock section.

It was great! I beamed. I got the highest score on the math test. And I got my trophy for winning the invention convention last week. They engraved my name on it, so now I get to keep it!

I’m so proud of you, sweetie. He kissed me on top of my head.

But the best part, I said excitedly, as I dug out the new Tarot deck from my backpack,

is what I got at the bookstore!

Ooo, are you going to tell my fortune, like Miss Cleo? he asked with a laugh.

Yeah! I mean, I’m learning! I answered thoughtfully, readjusting the black scrunchie around my ponytail.

In all fairness, Miss Cleo, the infamous television dial-a-psychic, was the only mainstream representation of psychics and energy workers in existence at that time.

Why don’t you get your trophy to show me while Mom finishes dinner? he asked.

Sure! I said as I lept off the kitchen chair with my Tarot deck still in hand.

In my bedroom, I cleared a special place alongside my gold light bulb trophy to display my new Tarot deck before carrying them both back to the kitchen table.

Wow! Look at that! my dad smiled proudly.

The judges said she nailed the presentation piece: one of the only kids who didn’t use any notes or cue cards, my mom added while swirling spaghetti in a pot of boiling water.

You’re gonna make an amazing executive or lawyer, my dad said as he patted me on the head.

I was always rewarded for my academic accomplishments and those jobs were what smart people did to make money as far as I knew. No one else seemed to find much value in the metaphysical world I loved so much. But I couldn’t blame them, really. They didn’t know the lure behind the astrology books I pored over, tracing the patterns of the constellations, imagining the stories behind each one. They didn’t know that there was something magical about those books, something that made me feel like I belonged to something bigger than myself.

As my school years progressed, the scholastic trophies and framed awards began to crowd out my once-treasured mystical books. These achievements brought a different kind of recognition and sense of inclusion. My allowance was eventually spent on other things. Even though I remained a weird little bullied outsider, I continued to excel academically and discovered a love of art and design. The astrology books and tarot deck were gradually moved to less and less prominent places in my bedroom, until they were unceremoniously relegated to a Rubbermaid storage container that I wouldn’t revisit for decades.

PART ONE:

The Tower

The Tower: Upheaval, Chaos, Collapse

The dark night of the soul is when you have lost the flavor of life but have not yet gained the fullness of divinity. So it is that we must weather that dark time, the period of transformation when what is familiar has been taken away and the new richness is not yet ours.

— Ram Dass

Chapter I:

The Ten of Swords | A Spoonful of Intuition

Ten of Swords: Endings, Deep Wounds, Loss

I failed gay marriage! Like, mere seconds after it was legalized. RuPaul should sashay in here and beat me with a rainbow-studded baton, I groaned, as I woke up in my best friend’s hotel room in Midtown.

My head was pounding from polishing off an entire bottle of Cabernet the night before. I was sweating, partially from the wine, and partly due to the thick gauge wool scarf I fell asleep wearing.

No one’s going to beat you, Lindsay calmly stated from the bathroom. She flipped her raspberry-tinted brunette locks behind her shoulders before applying her signature cat eye liner.

Lindsay had an even-keeled, emo, hipster-girl vibe that was incredibly comforting in a crisis.

We’d met in our first year of college, bonding over the fact that even though we were both majoring in fashion design, we were both equally challenged by our terrible sewing skills. As an awkward outsider who’d worked tirelessly to be the top of the class, win every competition, and gain people’s approval and affections while growing up, I was instantly attracted to Lindsay’s seemingly effortless cool girl attitude.

Saturn Returns are no joke, Lindsay noted in a motherly tone.

Huh? I asked as I attempted to focus my eyes.

When Saturn returns to the place it was when you were born, it will basically disrupt or remove the areas of your identity and lifestyle that are out of alignment. It occurs every twenty-seven to thirty-one years. Since we’re the same age, that means your Saturn is probably also in Scorpio. Scorpio highlights your relationship and understanding of money, power, and sex. It’s no joke, Lindsay reiterated.

Uggggh, I moaned. If that’s your way of telling me the cosmos hate me, thank you. That’s already pretty apparent. Anyway, should I just go straight to Bed Bath & Beyond or just go home? I mean, almost all the kitchen stuff was hers… And I don’t really know what my life is supposed to look like after she leaves, I thought, but that was too scary to vocalize; it was much easier to obsess over new espresso cups.

Lindsay walked out of the bathroom and sat down on the bed beside me, handing me a sad little paper cup of hotel coffee.

Let’s start with coffee and then, eventually, home. Probably better to assess the damage first, she said, reaching into her purse and pulling out a small container of cinnamon, tapping a few brown lumps into the cup.

Lindsay was part rockabilly badass and part Polish grandmother, and her purse was consequently filled with more random shit than the lost and found department at Penn Station.

What is that? I asked with an irritable growl.

It’s good for hangovers, she said calmly. From a medical standpoint, it helps stabilize blood sugar. It’s also said to heighten intuition. You could use a little of both these days, she explained as she tapped another little pile into my coffee for dramatic effect.

"You carry cinnamon in your purse?"

Hey, if Beyoncé can carry hot sauce, I can carry cinnamon, Lindsay said as she shoved the container back into her overflowing Marc Jacobs handbag.

I shook my head and took a sip. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, she was right. My now ex-wife had moved out the previous evening, and as a result, I was avoiding accessing my intuition and my apartment. She’d been living with a friend in Brooklyn for the past two months

since our relationship had deteriorated, and yesterday she texted to let me know she would be coming by to grab the last few boxes of her things and officially move out. I’d decided to sequester myself in Lindsay’s hotel room in order to avoid the entire thing. Thankfully, the Universe had sent my best friend from college to New York on a work trip at the exact time I needed an escape.

On the surface, my life had been picture perfect: Global Vice President at Playboy by age twenty-eight and married to a quintessential girl-next-door type who everyone adored. We had a fabulous apartment in a luxury high rise in the heart of Chelsea. We chose it because of my love of the downtown skyline view and Amanda’s excitement over the design of the kitchen. We hosted lavish dinner parties nearly every week. Amanda was an impeccable cook, who counted on me to bartend and create the perfect ambiance: murder mystery dinners in October and Easter parties with actual egg hunts. We were even photographed for an equal rights campaign and featured as one of NYC’s favorite lesbian couples. Friends and family simultaneously complimented and rolled their eyes at our modern-day fairy tale. But, after almost six years, everything was falling down around me, even though I proclaimed to anyone who would listen that my life was better than perfect. It was great, but the cracks below the surface were showing. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep piling concealer on a relationship that was admittedly in need of serious surgery.

I unwrapped myself from the scarf I’d been sleeping in. The charcoal gray Yohji Yamamoto scarf had belonged to Justin, my mentor and one of my very best friends, who had died of HIV-related complications a year prior to my waking up in Lindsay’s hotel room. I’d slept with that scarf every night since his mom gifted it to me as part of a package of his belongings. Aside from clinging to that scarf like a security blanket, I mostly dealt with the loss like a true New Yorker: through workaholism, alcoholism, and countless other isms that shaped the backbone of the city’s survival culture. Shortly after Justin died, my Global VP fashion executive job began to unravel. My marriage was also falling apart and I was unbearably lonely. Justin was the person who I’d leaned on to help navigate so many aspects of my life and career both emotionally and mentally, and he was gone. Instead of facing the darkness, I drank away most of my feelings. And when that wasn’t enough, I popped Xanax like Pez from a Valley of the Dolls pill case. If I made it campy and ironic, it wasn’t REALLY a problem, right?

At least that’s what I told myself.

Amanda was extremely patient for most of it. She tolerated my annoying habit of sleeping with my work phone under my pillow in order to answer emails from Asia at 3 a.m., but she slowly lost hope in our marriage when the drinking and pill popping reached a whole new level. Amanda refers to the last year of our marriage as the baby bottle & sweatpants times. I not only began consuming wine out of glass baby bottles so that I could drink in our bed without getting scolded for spilling, but also convinced several friends to take part. As an innate leader and trendsetter, I discovered the vin en baby bottle fad at a little bistro in Montmartre that was cleverly avoiding the French wine glass tax. I, of course, claimed it was all the rage in Paris and quickly developed a whole following of Chelsea fashionistas drinking their Pinot Grigio from baby bottles, allowing me to dismiss Amanda’s concerns entirely.

Amanda used to love that I could get people to go along with my most insane plans. She didn’t even shame me for the ridiculous Carb-balah movement I started years ago. When everyone was doing the Atkins and South Beach diet in the early 2000s, I began wearing a Tiffany blue, woven string on my right wrist to ward off the evil carb. I got at least twenty other people to jump on board.

My friend Travis looked at his blue string one day at my apartment and asked, But when do we get to take it off?

I rolled my eyes and tossed my hair extensions back and said, We don’t take it off, Travis! Unless you’re so skinny it falls off!

She’s kidding! Amanda comforted, smoothing over my outburst, as she would for many years when I acted destructively.

In the beginning of our relationship, she joked that I would have made a good cult leader because of my inherent ability to spot trends and convince others to join me.

Amanda and I met in our early twenties and had been inseparable ever since. I fell instantly in love with her infectious charm and quick wit. We met through a mutual friend, a men’s underwear designer by day and comedian by night. I often accompanied him to dingy stand-up bars where he provided me with complimentary martinis in exchange for my contagious laughter. Most of the comics were boring at best, and awkwardly offensive at worst. But Amanda was smart and witty, and she possessed the one quality I simply adored: she was GENUINELY funny.

We made plans as a group to have dinner one night at the restaurant where Lindsay’s boyfriend worked as a bartender. That night, Lindsay wound up leaving early, and Amanda and I ended up on a completely unplanned first date. Amanda had the crystal blue eyes of a true seeker and a beautiful infectious smile to match. More than that, I was drawn to her genuine kindness and complete lack of jadedness that I, and nearly every New Yorker I had dated, seemed to wear proudly. We ate edamame dumplings and discussed everything from the irony of our day jobs—she was a censor at ABC while I was the Creative Director of Playboy—to our shared love of Madonna and our belief in the law of attraction. I felt like I had always known her, and she was finally reappearing after being gone for the first act of my life. I never wanted to spend a moment without her again.

Amanda was attracted to my blonde ambition, but she also saw—beneath the gloss veneer I’d created for myself and loved—the nerdy girl from rural Pennsylvania who still lived deep inside of me. She never shamed me for telling everyone I met that I was Dutch-Canadian, even though I’d only spent a few years in both Amsterdam and Toronto. Amanda was my best friend, and the only person who truly knew me. I didn’t want to acknowledge that our marriage was over. I couldn’t lose my best friend, and I didn’t want to admit to myself that I was letting down the person who had been the kindest to me. I especially couldn’t stand the thought that I was destroying the perfect image of our highly public, seemingly enviable, very gay marriage.

I tried the quick fixes of booking us yoga classes and meditating together at Canyon Ranch. More accurately, Amanda meditated while I made to-do lists and beat myself up for sucking at meditation. Eventually, Amanda suggested we try marriage counseling. The first counselor we saw asked us to fill out a happiness in the relationship survey, which had questions that included such gems as: Has your partner ever caused physical harm to you? Has your partner ever pulled a gun or knife on you?

My score came out to a solid eight. I mean, I wasn’t ecstatic about things, but no weapons were drawn on either side.

Amanda? She gave us a three. Her somber score should have told me everything I needed to know, but at the time, I was too oblivious and self-centered to read the writing on the wall.

We tried another, highly reputable—aka EXPENSIVE—therapist, a middle-aged psychologist with a severe, angled bob and a perfectly trained, neutral expression who reminded me of an annoying librarian. She proceeded to ask us both what the ideal future looked like for each of us. Amanda said she pictured a stable and secure relationship: a Range Rover with a matching pair of car seats already installed. That image, plus the previous night’s liquid supper made me want to vomit in my mouth. I, on the other hand, wanted the glamorous Candace Bushnell-esque life I came to Manhattan to claim as my own: the high-powered career, the parties, the fancy friends.

Annoying Librarian then asked us to describe what we thought the other person’s life would look like if we stayed together and what it would look like if we split up. We both concluded that staying together looked pretty much like how things were, which I was okay with—I could stay at an eight out of ten—but Amanda clearly was not. When she asked what we thought the other person’s life would look like if we separated, I looked up from my watch; I’d been busily calculating exactly how much Librarian was costing me.

Oh, my turn? I stammered, flashing Amanda the smile that usually fixed everything, at least momentarily. Um, without me… Yeah, Range Rover and car seats… and like every weekend in New Jersey.

Amanda loved to spend the weekends at her parents’ home in New Jersey, whereas I struggled with even the occasional holiday trips to my family’s home in suburban Pennsylvania.

Amanda rolled her eyes and continued.

If Bec and I went our separate ways? She’d probably end up in an expensive Upper East Side apartment, most likely with an older woman. Surrounded by luxurious things, but… kinda lonely… and kinda sad, Amanda said as she looked off in the distance and fidgeted in her chair.

I remained silent while I mentally calculated the pros and cons of this scenario. It sounded like my new lady had great taste and no kids, which struck me as far better than lugging a pair of screaming babies to New Jersey. Pro.

No Amanda. Con.

What? Amanda prodded, knowing my silence carried more weight than most of the words I had spoken in the therapy session up until this point.

Her questioning tone pulled me out of my mental exploration of my fictional Upper East Side apartment.

Nothing, I said. That’s… interesting.

Amanda gave me the side eye and crossed her legs to shift her body away from me and toward the door.

In those therapy sessions, it became clear we had grown too far apart from one another, and as a result, our futures just couldn’t align. Though we loved each other deeply, we ultimately concluded that the kindest thing we could do for ourselves and each other was to go our separate ways.

Apparently, in the end, having the restraint to not pull weapons on each other wasn’t enough to hold the marriage together.

I sighed out loud, still clutching the worn down, under-stuffed pillow, forgetting for a second that Lindsay was still there as I recounted the past few months in my mind.

I have to head to a 9 a.m. meeting, but stay as long as you like.

Lindsay, perfectly poised in her burgundy sweater dress and kitten heels, looked at me, attempting to smooth my disheveled hair with a mixture of pity and genuine love. She hugged me goodbye before heading for the door. Before her hand had even touched the doorknob, she stopped midway and turned back to look at me.

Maybe add cinnamon to your shopping list, Lindsay said with a smirk.

Right, for the Saturn Return supplies section of the list, I retorted.

Pour Myself a Cup of Intuition Latte:

For divorces, hangovers, and other times when coffee alone won’t cut it.

+ Medicinally: blood sugar stabilizer/digestion aid

* Magically: increases intuition

+ Medicinally: antioxidant

* Magically: increases luck and well-being

+ Medicinally: digestion aid

* Magically: amplifies personal empowerment, mental clarity

Froth milk, cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla together and pour over espresso or matcha.

If you don’t own a frother, you can add the spices and milk to a saucepan and heat on medium for 2 to 3 minutes, whisking occasionally.

If you don’t own a working stove (see Chapter VIII for why I know what that’s like), you can heat the milk and spices in