I’m a 55-year-old accountant living out in a quiet Midwest town. My days are rows, columns, and balanced ledgers. When my last relationship imploded a few years ago, I didn’t run to traditional therapy—I grabbed a Rider-Waite deck. I never bought into fortune-telling. Tarot for me is basically structured journaling. But the more I sat with the cards, the more I noticed how they mirror Carl Jung’s work on the collective unconscious. Jung wrote in Modern Man in Search of a Soul that the artist doesn’t invent symbols from scratch; they’re a vessel for archetypes that already live in us. That’s why AI-generated imagery, no matter how technically flawless, feels spiritually flat to so many of us. It’s mimicking the output without the inner alchemy. There’s no shadow work. No lived friction.

I’ve been reading into the psychology of aesthetic perception, and researchers keep pointing out that perceived intentionality fundamentally shifts how we process art. We don’t just analyze the visual data. We look for the human struggle behind it. In tarot, that’s the difference between The Magician—pure focused will, channeling energy through conscious choice—and the hollow mimicry of a machine. Sacred spaces, whether a festival stage, a meditation circle, or a community altar, operate on shared human vulnerability. When we swap that out for generative efficiency, we lose the very thing that binds us. I’m not anti-technology. I just think we’re confusing convenience with meaning.

Has anyone else noticed this shift in how communities react to AI in ritual or artistic settings? I’m curious how you’re navigating it, especially if you work with energy healing or group ceremonies.