The Tower
XVI
The Tower... Saint Louis Cathedral consumed by the flames of 1788.
The heart of our French Quarter, the anchor of Jackson Square, the spiritual center of old New Orleans—engulfed in fire. Look how the flames climb the spires that have guided sailors and sinners alike. In a single day—Good Friday, no less—our city lost nearly every structure. The cathedral, the Cabildo, the homes of the wealthy and the humble alike. Over 800 buildings reduced to ash in hours.
This is destruction that cannot be negotiated with, cannot be avoided, cannot be mitigated. The Tower is divine intervention, the necessary collapse, the sudden revelation that arrives like lightning.
New Orleans was barely thirty years old when this fire came. Still forming its identity, still finding its footing between French and Spanish rule. And in one scorching afternoon, the slate was wiped clean. What rose from those ashes wasn't the same city that had burned—it was something new, something that would eventually become the French Quarter we know today, with its Spanish colonial architecture, its iron balconies, its resilience forged in flames.
When The Tower comes in this form, it speaks of a fundamental dismantling that makes way for rebuilding. Something in your life—some structure you've counted on, some belief you've built your decisions upon, some relationship or situation you thought was solid—is about to be revealed in its instability.
This isn't a gentle lesson. The Tower never is. It's the sudden awakening, the floor dropping out from beneath your feet, the moment when illusions can no longer be maintained. Our cathedral burned on Good Friday—the day of sacrifice before resurrection. The timing itself carries meaning.
There's something in your life that must fall. Some false security that must be burned away so that something more authentic, more aligned with truth, can be built in its place. The Tower doesn't ask permission. It doesn't offer alternatives. It simply reveals what cannot stand any longer.
New Orleans understands catastrophe and rebirth better than most cities. We have burned, we have flooded, we have been broken by storm and plague and conflict. Yet we stand. The cathedral was rebuilt—grander, stronger. The city's heart continued to beat.
What structures in your life have become prisons rather than shelters? What beliefs have calcified into limitations rather than foundations? The Tower asks these questions with fire rather than words.
Remember this: After the flames died down, after the smoke cleared, our ancestors didn't abandon New Orleans. They rebuilt. They reimagined. They created something that would last for centuries to come.
The Tower promises that whatever falls needed to fall. Whatever burns needed to burn. The revelation, however painful, serves your ultimate freedom. The cathedral stands today, doesn't it? Different than before, marked by its history of fire, but still the heart of the Quarter, still reaching toward heaven.
Stand ready. When lightning strikes, don't waste energy fighting the inevitable. Instead, start planning what you'll build from the ashes.