Sometimes life gives us the best lessons when we’re backed into a corner —
Or in my case, tucked into a tiny wagon lit only by candlelight. I’ve learned that when you’re brave enough to improvise, the universe often meets you halfway with a little magic.
Every year, I used to work a Halloween party for one particular client — a lovely, well-to-do family who truly went all out with their celebrations. But this story isn’t really about the party itself. It’s about the night I learned how to read tarot cards… without having a single card with me.
The family owned a Vardo, an authentic old gypsy wagon — the kind that looks like a tiny house on wheels, once drawn by a horse. Inside, there was barely enough room for a person to sleep, a tiny stove, and just a bit of space to move around. But oh, it was charming. They had decorated it in full bohemian style: lace curtains, velvet cushions, embroidered fabrics, and candles everywhere — which was a good thing, because that was the only light in there.
That wagon became my reading room for the night.
For hours, I sat in that candlelit cocoon, waiting for guests to step up the narrow wooden stairs and join me for their fortunes. The seats were cramped, the air thick with candle wax and perfume, and I always had to choose which side to sit on based on which bench was least uncomfortable.
But there was a catch: the family didn’t want me using tarot cards.
They thought it might make guests uneasy — and truthfully, there wasn’t even room for a deck on the tiny table already crowded with candles. Palm reading was out too; it was too dark to see a single line. So I had to improvise.
That’s when inspiration struck.
When guests sat down, I asked them if they’d ever played poker. Almost everyone said yes. So I said, “Perfect! Then you already know the suits — clubs, spades, diamonds, and hearts — and the ranks from ace through ten, plus the face cards.”
They’d nod along, curious where I was going with this.
Then I’d tell them, “Okay, imagine you’re shuffling a deck of cards. Which one do you pull first?”
They’d name a card — say, the Queen of Hearts — and I’d jot it down Q on a tiny notepad with a little heart beside it. Then I’d ask for a few more cards until we had four or five.
And from that, I’d give them a full tarot-style reading — all from the imaginary deck they’d created in their minds.
People were amazed. They couldn’t believe how accurate it felt, how the story fleshed out by the “cards” seemed to reflect exactly what was happening in their lives. I structured the readings just the same as with real tarot cards, covering the next three to five months, so they had something clear and meaningful to hold onto.
That’s how I learned to do tarot readings without any cards at all.
Each year after that, I returned to the Vardo for the family’s Halloween party. Every year brought its own twist — one time it was so hot I nearly melted; another, it was so cold I could see my breath. Once, an evening thunderstorm poured rain and the little wagon started leaking, so I had to scramble for help to keep things dry.
And always, those creaky, narrow wooden steps made me nervous — especially as the night wore on and the guests became a bit… tipsy. I’d silently hold my breath and cross my fingers that everyone made it up and down safely.
The wagon was always parked near a wooded area where the neighborhood hosted a haunted trail where older teens would create some safe but scary fun for their younger siblings. As I gave readings, I’d hear the sounds of distant screams and laughter echoing through the trees. It added just the right touch of spookiness to the night. I would joke with my guests that the spirits were affirming what I was saying if we heard a high-pitched scream during their reading.
Looking back, those evenings in the little Vardo were some of my favorites. They taught me how to trust my intuition, think on my feet, and connect deeply — no props required.
This was also the event where I realized the power of guest engagement.
By asking people to imagine the cards themselves, I invited them into the process — they weren’t just receiving a reading, they were co-creating it with me. That simple act of imagination pulled them into the moment, made them more present, and helped them feel more connected to the information from their reading.
Sometimes, the best magic happens when everyone in the room — or wagon — becomes part of the story.
✨ Your Turn:
Have you ever had a moment when improvising opened up a whole new way to connect with others? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.
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