As the Sun rises in the East, bringing relief from the coldest darkest hours of the night, it brings with it newfound hope. The morning dew rests on green leaves. Dew: one of the most important ingredients in that metaphorical cocktail, the Philosopher’s Stone, Orichalcum. On her head is the Crown of the Sun, the sunrise captured in her crimson locks. Symbol of masculine strength, she is Athena, the woman who has conquered the masculine energies, tamed them, and made them her own. With a war cry that would make Sherman’s rebel yell bow in shame, she erupts from the Sun’s skull with beauty and unbridled enthusiasm.

She appears young because she is Youth. Her breastplate is her naiveté. Her spear is the magician’s staff. She wields it deftly with all the power intuition can muster. No training here. Just what feels right. What feels right.

Here, in my Tarot, she erupts from the picture with unbridled energy. Surrounded by symbols that I know are hers. Her spear is in her right hand. In her left is a cup that holds a secret. A secret that heals me when I drink from it. She holds the same secret in her eyes and her lips. She is still young — and her secrets are young. The secrets of Youth. Her face is unblemished by age, by weary, by wear. Her heart still tender and unbroken, she is too strong to give it away just yet.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And at her feet is a golden apple. You know the letters carved on it.

She is freedom, for she has no rules. Too young for rules. Too young to know the limits of her own potential, her potential is limited only by her own doubts. When she touches her own soul, she cannot be held back, cannot be denied. Only her own symbols can trap her. Only her own secrets can restain her.

She is the Queen of the East. The First Queen in my Tarot. The Warrior Queen. Unbridled and bold, she reminds me that her rules are my rules. I am only bound by my own doubts, my own fears. And when she lets me drink from her cup, I remember the fire of my own youth. The Queen of Spring. Honeydew wine and mead fill her cup, and I drink it with my eyes closed and my tongue awake, ready to sip the vigors it contains.

Golden Queen, she is my Percival. She heals the wounds I earned moving through the seemingly endless night. And for that, I bow before her and beg her mercy that I might pay her proper tribute. She smiles, and bids me to rise. Puts her cup in my hands, and lets me drink.

And when I am done, she makes me drink more.

“Never enough!” is her battle cry.

“Never enough!”