I’ve put out the shingle. I’ve asked the spirits who want to speak to you to nudge you toward me. If you’re looking at this, thinking wistfully of one who is gone, and feeling tempted to call, CALL!
Okie dokie. Drew these cards to post a couple days ago, felt like it was something for me I didn’t want to hear, and distracted myself with other projects.
The question was, “What does someone seeing this blog need to hear?”
Let’s see what it says…
Ah, an excellent example of what I have been speaking of. I hoped she’d be out of the hospital and good as new. I said so.
But the truth did not arrive from my prognosticated hopes. The truth arrived from my pets. Even after she came home from surgery, the puppy told me she was dying. The hound said so and the cat said so. Certainly they could smell the beginnings of her systemic breakdown.
Warnings like “she won’t even be here when this cute pit bull t-shirt you just ordered arrives” (from the middle of June before she was ill) and “you only need one bag of dog food” and “don’t buy the new collar yet” (last week) became more frequent and undeniable.
And here we are. The puppy is dead. Her little spirit did a sit-and-shake to please me, since I was so upset. She was confused seeing me cry over her carcass because “that thing got broken; it hurt.” Then she floated into her afterlife, with a tendril hanging back to keep an eye on us.
Something about being a psychic. I don’t know everything. I don’t see the my own future very well. I often see a trail of breadcrumbs in the spiritual clues I perceive, but the pattern doesn’t make sense until I see that witchy gingerbread house. I don’t look past barriers people have for themselves without permission. Sometimes information comes to me freely. Sometimes I have to ask.
There’s young woman who I’ve seen grow for the last eight years, first as part of a community of worship, then as a student in my class, then as a family friend. She passed away after being struck by a car late Thursday night. She was 22.
If I look back, I can see moments when I sought a little peek into her future and didn’t see anything. Sometimes that means a life cut short. Sometimes it means the information I seek is not for me. I’m beginning to tell the difference between those two “flavors” of non-information, but not reliably. Frankly, I’d rather not get enough practice to master the difference.
Psychics like me do have special knowledge that others’ don’t have. But it doesn’t make life any easier, it doesn’t prevent tragedy among those I love, it doesn’t assure that the warnings I *do* get will be heeded. It is soothing to know love and identity can persist after death. I love how my skills can help people feel better. I enjoy the stories that whisper from objects, locations, and time.
But never assume that a psychic is somehow protected from the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”. If anything, we suffer our own troubles; experience the sufferings of those we love more directly; and perceive suffering in strangers past, present, and future. It takes conscious practice to resist absorbing all this to create depression, and conscious practice to absorb all the joy and wonder that’s handy to create balance and happiness.