Where is the cup in my reading?

You would think in a tarot reading the cups would show up at least once, like uninvited relatives at Chinese New Year. But when my friend laid out the cards for me in Melaka, not a single cup appeared. 2 times in the reading. And cups, as any tarot reader will tell you, represent water, and water runs deep which symbolises emotions. Apparently, I’ve either misplaced mine somewhere between samsara and my mum’s kitchen, or perhaps I’ve simply let them dry up quietly in the corner of the rack.

This friend, part of a lovely gay couple who came to visit, is a tarot reader by practice. Out of curiosity and kindness, he offered to do a reading for me. It didn’t shock me that the cards revealed what I already knew: I’ve been something of a lone wolf most of my life. Surrounded by friends but always returning to solitude, I tend to find my center in being alone. What did surprise me was how clearly the cards reflected it back — almost every card stood alone, with no people in sight, except for one that urged me to reach out. It was as if the deck itself was holding up a mirror to a truth I rarely admit aloud.

As hosts do, I played tour guide and took my friends around Melaka for food. It’s practically law here: if people visit, you must feed them well. The irony, of course, is that since last December, after being diagnosed with aspiration and fitted with a PEG tube, I haven’t eaten a single thing by mouth. Not a bite of fried tempeh, not even a nibble of cookie. Food has become something I observe but no longer participate in. My friends felt uneasy at first, guilty even, enjoying meals while I sat by. They asked if I was tempted, if it felt difficult to watch others savor what I couldn’t. The truth is, I felt nothing. No longing, no bitterness. It was as ordinary to me as watching someone brush their teeth or go to the loo. Mundane. Neutral. Nothing to see here.

That openness surprised me, a kind of untouched space where the usual stir of temptation never even arise, so I turned inward to see what was really happening. And in that quiet reflection, I realized I had stumbled into practicing upekkhā, equanimity, one of the Four Immeasurables in Buddhism. It wasn’t that I had shut myself off or grown cold. Rather, I was simply seeing things as they were, without layering on a narrative of “if only.” Nothing is really what it seems anyway. Food was there, people were eating, and I didn’t feel the need to create a dialogue about it. Why suffer by telling myself, “Oh, I wish I could eat that chee cheong fun again”, when the reality is that eating it now would just send it right back up through my nose in a most undignified fountain? That’s not dining, that’s slapstick. 

When my friend offered another tarot reading before leaving, once again the cups were nowhere to be found. It could be read as a sign of emotional emptiness, but I saw it differently. Perhaps the absence of cups was not a lack but a lesson. Maybe I had finally placed the immeasurable quality of equanimity into practice, no longer spilling over with unnecessary desires or drowning in the dialogues of “if only.” The mind, when still, doesn’t need cups—it has already become one.

So maybe the missing cups were not a warning at all but a cosmic pun, a wink from the universe. Not that I’m emotionless, but that I’ve stopped ordering endless refills of suffering. And really, why audition for a soap opera called No Fun in Chee Cheong Fun when peace tastes far better than any dish ever could?

In the end, perhaps the lesson was simple: when we stop clinging to what isn’t there, we discover the quiet richness of what is. And sometimes the best cup is the empty one, not needing to be filled, simply present as open space, quietly resting in peace.