Santa's Psychic

I just took the girls to their first psychic, my Christmas gift to my daughter, my niece, and my daughter’s best friend.   But let’s dispel any misconceptions that the trip started in some sacred way, complete with Enya music and New Year’s affirmations shared blissfully while passing a carved ceremonial totem.  Instead, the day began trying to roust three teenagers way too early on their last Saturday of vacation.  (Laurie went to bed at 2:00 am, Maddy and Lindsey even later.)  Maddy’s last-resort jeans (“Why can’t someone do laundry in this house!”) were evidently so baggy her “whole ass” showed if she bent down, which precluded her from cleaning up the mocha latte she accidently dropped to the floor.  Lindsey said breakfast was the second worst omelet she’d ever eaten in her entire life.  Laurie later complained I was asking her to get way too many things from my disorganized bag, that I should’ve pulled them all out before I started our two-hour drive.  Evidently, I took the mountain curves too fast, making them all nauseous.  Which made Maddy’s jeans feel too tight …

Thank god they fell asleep.

Of course, they turned angelic once we arrived: polite, interested, engaged, a bit nervous and eager at the same time.  As I suspected, despite their adolescent bitching they were genuinely into this. 

I’ve been doing the psychic thing for about a decade, always with extraordinary results.   (I know “psychic” is not the correct term; these folks rightfully prefer to be known as spiritual guides or channels.  But, frankly, “psychic” offers shorthand efficiency – everyone knows exactly what I mean.) I’ve had sessions across North Carolina with Deborah, Craig, Nana, Colby, and Barbara ... there’s Tarra in Sedona, Vivienne from Rhode Island, a woman in Belize who’s name I can’t remember, and years of cross-dimensional conversations with Joanne here at home.  For fun, I even purchased a session off eBay once.  (That was the only one sort of off; she offered information that seemed to have nothing to do with me, but a week later virtually everything she described unfolded for a client of mine instead.  Kind of like getting a wrong number, but chatting for an hour anyway.) 

While each reading has been unique, the results are the same:  all offer a broader and deeper perspective on my life, one that either explains my current dilemmas, answers my most confusing questions, or transforms some ridiculous personal drama into something that makes sense.   Why am I obsessed with this guy who’s obviously not into in me?  Why does work I usually love feel like torture?  Why do I suffer from chronic back pain?  Why can’t I make up my mind?

I recognize that spiritual guidance requires a gigantic leap from what our culture considers normal and sane, especially since I’m avowedly anti-religious and spend my day job in the mental health field.  To accept spiritual channeling I also have to accept numerous things that shimmer way beyond the fringe: 

·      That I’ve had at least a couple of lives before this one.

·      That I have parts of my Self that exist in some other form, some other time and space, some other – dare I say it – dimension.

·      And that these other parts have something worthwhile to say.

·      That other folks ... folks I know or I knew or I’ve never heard of … folks alive and dead … are paying attention, even to things I thought were secret.

·      That reality is way more complicated than I ever imagined.

Admittedly, I’ll happily entertain just about anything as long as the person seems passionate, loving, and sincere.  So I rarely need the tangible proof required by skeptics.  Regardless, an early reading opened like this:

“Who’s Molly?  Did you know a Molly, someone who’s passed?” Tarra asked within seconds of my arrival. 

“My maternal Grandmother was Molly, and she died years ago,” I replied.

“Oh, thank god.  Molly’s been trying to talk to me for two days, and I had no idea which client she was attached to.”

Seems my Grandmother hovered constantly throughout the next hour.  “Oh wait, Molly has something else to add,” Tarra kept saying before passing along more observations and advice.  At the hour’s end Molly admonished me about not wearing a ring she gave me as a child.  “It always brought me good luck,” she used to tell me, which Tarra eerily repeated.  “But clean it first,” she said, my dead Jewish Grandmother scolding me from beyond the grave …

I did clean the ring, needless to say.  And ever since I have abided by most of my spiritual messages.  I’ve sought forgiveness for heinous past lives, made amends for luring others down washed out roads, and surrendered whenever instructed. I’ve found surprising and indescribable relief to learn other-worldly details (Ah-Ha!) about my most confusing relationships here on earth.  And I’ve enjoyed getting previews of upcoming events.  

But mostly I love the rich vistas these psychic trips offer.  I’m always hungry for better ways to make myself useful, so learning in detail that four past lives screwed up my ability to link work with joy gave me something specific to fix.  And gaining a spiritual map about my obsession to write has led me down paths completely unplanned, yet surprisingly perfect.  I’m a huge fan of self-reflection, and truly appreciate every traditional workshop and therapy session I’ve attended.  But memories, dreams and reflections only got me so far.  Insight only a bit further.  The rest of my image didn’t take shape until I looked beyond my immediate story, beyond what I could understand.  Beyond my own reality, in fact.  Some may question my sanity, but my sojourns with the psychics have added the rest of Me I was looking for. 

The girls liked it, too.