I think what’s happening isn’t an abandonment of the sacred. It’s a migration toward something you can hold in your hands. In those mountain monasteries, the teachers never handed down ironclad rules. They offered mirrors. A cup of bitter tea, a breathing exercise, a moment to sit with your own silence. That’s what astrology and tarot have become for a lot of kids: pocket-sized shrines. When you pull The Tower, you aren’t being scolded. You’re just watching an old scaffolding finally collapse so fresh air can move through. It’s loud, and it’s messy, but it’s theirs.

From a psychological standpoint, it lines up with what Carl Jung wrote about archetypes and the collective unconscious. We aren’t actually asking the cards to forecast tomorrow. We’re under the quiet gravity of our own becoming. When a Saturn return arrives, it doesn’t knock like a stern landlord. It settles in like a long winter, asking us to prune what no longer bears fruit and to tend the roots that have gone deep. The young ones aren’t fleeing faith; they’re learning to read the slow, celestial tides that move through their own bones. They’re trading the echo of a bell for the whisper of an orbit, finding holiness in the patient work of growing into themselves. And if you listen closely, past the clatter of espresso machines and the rustle of paper cards, you can hear it: the soft, steady rhythm of a generation learning to pray in the language of the sky.