Observers Use Intuition

I had a terrible cold for nine days, and when I spoke, I coughed. So I decided not to talk during the social events of the Christmas holidays. Instead, I observed.

One lunch involved a six month old baby, who like me, watched everything that was happening in the restaurant. Her intuition kicked in right before mine. She was the first of us to spot the person at the next table who acted like babies had no right to be there, and she reacted with a tightening of her entire body. When she spotted the man who looked like he wore clown clothes, she was the first to laugh.

All my life I’ve been an entertainer, so I often try to be funny at gatherings. With my cold, I had to listen and watch. The women at a small New Year’s Eve party accepted me as I laughed and nodded, and I observed close friendships and warmth.

Intuition is reception, which can formulate a deeper knowledge of other people. Gifts bubble below the surface of life, so take time to observe and explore the inner workings of the world.

Tarot Cards and the Evil Eye

In the past four months, I’ve worked most weekends at holistic expos and book fairs. My intuition soared, and my muscles strengthened as I carried signs, tablecloths, and books. I made friends, welcomed old clients and greeted new ones. What surprised me were the differences between holistic expos and book fairs.

At holistic expos, I’m thrown into the 60s hippie era. Vendors often arrive late and slowly set up colorful displays, with handmade signs and draped scarves. Patchouli and aromatic oils fill the air. Vendors wear loose shirts or long skirts, and talk about the paranormal, reiki, and healing. With ease, I lure people into my booth for readings, but it’s more difficult to sell my book. In that venue, I’m conservative.

Book fairs are different. Everyone enjoys words and loves to read. Vendors have plain booth displays, with little color and easy lettering, and it smells like a bookstore. When I arrive early to set up my booth, other vendors stand ready. Some look askance at my “buy a book, get a free psychic reading”, although most try to accept it. Instead of the paranormal, we discuss plot lines, sales, and our next work. In that venue, I’m one of the least conservative.

In November, I had a booth at a library book expo. Well organized, it featured genteel volunteers, many authors, and a mishmash of lovely things for sale. People stopped to talk about my book, and I sold a good amount. The only downside was a woman close to my age, who stared at me every half hour from her booth.

As she prepared to leave, she gave me the evil eye. When I was younger, I used to talk music in bars with band members, as their girlfriends perfected their dirty looks. But this was way worse, and if looks could kill, I’d be dead. I assume the book expo woman didn’t like the invasion of my psychic readings. In retrospect, I should have been intuitive enough to approach her, instead of minding my own business. It’s hard to know what to do, when my venue changes every weekend.

I like being a rover, so it’s been a wonderful autumn. Thank you to all who attended the holistic expos and book fairs.  

Psychic Info for Law Enforcement

When I went on the TV show, Psychic Witness, in 2006, I did it to heighten my credence with police detectives. I wanted to eventually train officers to use their intuition and make better use of psychic support. I thought it would be both instructional and fun.

Last week I got my wish. I gave a 1½ hour speech to criminal justice majors at a career institute. I can tell you right away what I did wrong. I should have prepared more exercises to promote interaction and self-awareness. With an off-the-cuff brainstorm, I told them to close their eyes and go back to grade school, to a favorite teacher or class, to the sights, smells, and sounds of their past. At the end of the exercise, I think they understood. They had time travelled to the past. When I had them think about their next vacation, they time travelled to the future.

The best part of my speech happened when I relived and relayed my work on murder cases. I discussed how to deal with a psychic (don’t say much, just ask a few important questions) and tried to explain to lay people where I get my information. I even had one woman push me about my source. She wanted to know definitively if it was God. I didn’t have that answer.

What I hated was….well…most of it. When I work on a case, it’s sickening and heart-wrenching. With police detectives, I state what I know and think, and be done. At the institute, when I talked about a murder case from the past, I again felt sick.

I might speak to classes again, but not as a regular gig. It was the right thing to do, but it didn’t feel so good.

How to Raise a Son

When my son turned from a baby to a boy, I didn’t know how to help him become a man. So for ten years, I researched the mothers of great men. They gave me advice from the grave, as my grandmother used to say.

When Flora Disney had no money for paper, she praised Walt’s toilet paper drawings until she had to use them. Pauline Einstein sometimes didn’t understand Albert, who the neighbor kids called Father Bore, but she tutored him and forced him to join her on piano and violin duets for hours each day. Music later helped him make intuitive leaps with his theories. Abiah Franklin’s young son Ebenezer drowned in a tub of boiling fat for her husband’s soap making. Her grief and fear probably forced Benjamin to stay outside and find adventure on Boston’s wharf.

Rose Gershwin laughed when her son, George, pretended to be a cripple on the street so he could get money for the movies. She told him the rich and famous would do him good, and it served him well in the music industry. Allene Hughes loved Howard almost too fiercely, but his forced isolation developed his mechanical abilities. Another hovering mother, Nancy Rockwell, came from a family of male artists. She steered Norman in the same direction.

Mattie Slye taught Roy Rogers harmonies and guitar, and Mittie Roosevelt instilled a love of history in Teddy, as she encouraged his crippled sister, Bamie, to help raise him. Walt Whitman developed his love of words and stories from his mother, Louisa, and Anna Lloyd Wright steered and praised young Frank’s abilities in the building field. In an unusual move for that time frame, Ann Astaire managed Fred and his sister’s dance careers. Orphaned George Carver had a series of black and white substitute mothers who encouraged him to follow his educational path.

All the mothers I studied gave their time and their love, their brain power and their skill set. As I took pages from their life books, I raised my son, and he’s now a fine young man. A mother’s influence shapes a son.      

excerpts from my book: Carriers of Genius: Conversations with the Mothers of Twelve Famous Men

Hired Help for an Old Lady

People in their eighties don’t like to hear me call myself old. But I am old. Now, when health problems arise, I ask my doctors “why?”

“It’s age related,” they say. That’s the only proof I need.

Except when I look in the mirror at my face, I like old. The kindness of strangers, my patience, intellectual clarity, and confidence all work in my favor. Being old justifies a lot of fun things for me. I like that the boy next door mows my lawn, and my Monday piano student shows up every week to weed and help me clean. At my age, I have friends who are in their 30s and 40s, but a teenager rarely wants to hang out with me. When I pay them, all that changes.

My mower leaves for college tomorrow. He taught me to have a sense of calm, even when the snow became higher than my knees. My weed gal, now called a Turf Engineer, starts her senior year in high school at the end of the month. She taught me to stick by my principles and be myself. Even at my age, that can be difficult.

Hired helpers become real friends. They enter my home, accept my foibles, then wait patiently for their gas money. They don’t care that I’m a bit of a hermit. They don’t care if my hair is a mess and I wear stained clothes around the house. Their intuition takes them through life, and will steer them through the perils of college and freedom.

I embrace old. At some point, maybe in another thirty-seven years, I’ll make way for the babies, as my mother did five years ago. But for now, as Ann Margret (and I, in high school) sang in Bye Bye Birdie, I “Got a Lot of Livin’ to Do.”

Medium or Psychic?

The official name for my profession changes. Now it’s Medium. I looked up the word in my enormous Webster’s dictionary from 1983, and found the tenth definition: a person serving as an instrument through which another personality or a supernatural agency is alleged to manifest itself. How about that word, alleged? No wonder I kept my abilities a secret in 1983.

I prefer Psychic. Here’s the first definition from that dictionary: of or pertaining to the human soul or mind; mental. What I don’t like about that definition is the word human. I guess I should get over it, since I gather it came from: in the hue of a man. All of us came from women, so I prefer huwoman. I doubt I’ll see the day that the word is changed. Dust to dust.

My favorite monikers would be Angel: a messenger (third definition) or Prophet: a person who foretells or predicts what is to come (sixth definition). Both have connotations that don’t sit well with a lot of people, but when I’m ninety, maybe I can switch to one of them.

I used to be called a teacher, now an educator. I used to be called a stewardess, now a flight attendant. I used to be called a singer, now a musician. In high school, the jocks called me Shoulders McGee. What does it matter? I’m still me.

Listen to the Voice Inside Your Head

I pulled into the parking lot of abc27 in Harrisburg, PA for my live broadcast on Author Spotlight. The voice in my head said, “You’ve been here many times.” I put on my silk blouse and dress shoes, and saw it as a good omen.

The associate producer of the TV show Good Day PA herded three women and me into a conference room with a television. With almost an hour until on-air, I knew we had to talk or become paralyzed by fear, so I coaxed stories out of them. A sweet gal worked for the Red Cross and was there to talk about how the blood supply had dropped. An author sat quietly next to a library director. In time, the women asked me questions, but I could see that only the Red Cross gal felt comfortable with my psychic profession.

“How did you know you heard the women from your book talking to you? Are you sure it wasn’t your own voice and thoughts?” said one of the two non-believers.

“It definitely wasn’t my voice, and it wasn’t one of three voices I normally hear. Most often, I hear an older man’s voice, sometimes a younger man’s voice, and once in a while, one woman,” I said.

The director leaned forward, obviously provoked. “It’s God talking to you, right?”

“Do you think it’s God?” I asked. She gave a slight nod, but acted even more unsettled as I continued. “How am I to know? I’m not in charge of that, but I doubt God has time to tell me all the things I hear. I think the three voices are messengers, and since angels are messengers, they might be angels,” I said, even though I never know what to say when people ask where my abilities originate. It’s not my call. I just don’t know.

Back home after the show, a dormant memory rushed forth, and I made sense of the voice that told me I had been at that station many times. In 1982 when I had bigger hair, I did an internship there for my master’s degree. Now renovated, only the parking lot remained the same.

Yoga Calms My Soul

Intuitive vibes come from yoga, which frees and opens my mind. In the 1950s my sister, brother, and I were taught to do yoga poses by my grandfather, Homer. After he explained the proper way to do them, he called out poses and commended our skill. It took me fifty years to realize that not everyone did yoga as a child back then.

In the late 1920s, Homer jumped trains to get a free ride. One day he missed, and the train ran over his legs. After his amputations below his knees, he wore heavy wooden prostheses

Fast forward to my new yoga instructor.

“How long have you done yoga?” she asked.

“My whole life,” I said.  

Her puzzled face made me wonder how my grandfather knew yoga. After some research, I found out that during WWI in Europe, wounded American men were taught yoga to improve strength and focus. Homer probably learned it at the local Veteran’s Hospital after he lost his legs.

Being psychic makes me anxious and yoga helps. I do yoga stretches before I get out of bed, and later, when perils appear, I calm myself with the lotus position.

Thanks Papa. Long dead, you will be remembered for the healing power of yoga.

As Dad used to say, “It’s good for what ails you.”

Psychic Secrets

When I stand in long lines, I usually vibe on the woman right in front of me. Maybe I’m bored, but I think it’s the physical proximity that does it for me. I don’t have to touch someone to be able to read them, but I like to either hear a voice or be less than a foot away. I’ve done email readings, but they are more difficult for me, like pulling gum off a shoe.

Back to the woman in front of me in line. In the old days, twenty years ago, I used to just blurt things out. Now I’m more polite. When they shift with impatience at the wait and look around, I say, “Do you want me to tell your fortune?”

Some laugh and turn their back to me. I wait, since the ones who laugh usually turn back around and ask, “Can you DO that?” Some get a stony look, or a frightened one, and say no, and then I feel badly for the intrusion. Others get excited and stand way too close for comfort. When they do say yes, I’m spun into another pickle. How do I tell their intimate secrets with all the people in line nearby? So I tone it down and speak like a person does when they don’t want a child to hear sexual facts or swears.

“Your (whisper: sister) is having a lot of trouble dealing with the loss of her boyfriend. Are you aware he keeps coming around? Try to talk to her about it. And your (whisper: husband) hates his job so maybe you can help him find another one. Or tell him to wait until the (whisper: long-faced red-headed guy) leaves. It shouldn’t be longer than a year.” And so we go until we get to the front of the line, or until I’m exhausted.

You don’t need to be a psychic to experience something similar. Just be friendly and start a conversation with a stranger. Your warmth, empathy, and advice could bring pleasure to an otherwise dull day.

See Like a Psychic

Many times, I’m asked about seeing through walls. It seems almost impossible to me that other people can’t. What I have trouble seeing sometimes, is the positive side of life. For sure, I’m an optimist, but life’s quicksand can get to each of us. The death of a family member or a friend feels like a pit of putridity.

 

I’ll bet there are times that you can see (better than I do) what will happen, what can happen, and who will be affected. You know how to garner your intuitive abilities, which we all have in some form, and you know what to do when a friend needs help.

 

Oh, I don’t need help right now, because just sharing my words with you today has projected me into a better mood. Now, this minute, I’ll join you and see what’s good. The sound of birds in my yard and the new babies shared on Facebook. The ocean’s roar at a favorite beach and the delight of a vegetable or flower garden.

 

A student older than I am arrived for her lesson and showed me the nickel sized cancer on her leg. “If I come in next time with a peg leg, you’ll know they got it all, " she said.

 

Through our laughter, I asked how she could joke. She answered with positive words and a wry smile. “What else can I do?”

Words and Perception

As you might know, my book Carriers of Genius has a release date of June 14, 2016. Joanna is one of my early readers, so she bought a copy in advance. When she held up my book, she said, “These are ALL your words.” I felt such a thrill that I almost spun around in circles like the head of the gal in the Exorcist movie.

Joanna is a mother and a good one. She talks to her son and blocks the rest of us out. Her comment reminded me of my favorite new mother line: use your words. But words are art, and interpretation fluctuates. Norman Rockwell’s mother, Nancy, told him to be noble and valiant. In his illustrations, he might have portrayed the opposite, with his mischievous characters and everyday heroes. Or maybe that’s how he understood her words.  

With regards to work, my dad advised me to do what I love, while my mom wanted me to get a job with good benefits. I followed Dad’s advice, and I think I followed Mom’s. She meant retirement and health benefits, while I pretended she meant my lowered blood pressure from twenty hours of piano and singing each week.

With my book, I am most happy that after fifteen years, it’s done. Now, with Joanna’s input, I can switch to the joy of the words I share. Sharing is caring. But don’t ask to borrow my sheet music.

The Things You Think You Want

George Gershwin is my favorite songwriter. His mother Rose wanted him to be an accountant, but at sixteen, he dropped out of school to play music. “How wrong can a mother be?” she said.

At five, I was asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” A shy child, I looked to my mother. “I’m a nurse. It’s a good job.” So I answered, “Nurse.”

At eleven, I wanted to be an Olympic track star. I ran faster than all the boys, but in 1962, my school had no girls track team. I switched to years of cheerleading and loved it, but I didn’t make the varsity team. That night I cried, my dream shattered.

The next day at musical try-outs, the drama teacher made an announcement. “Is there anyone here who plays a sport? Any cheerleaders? You can all leave now.” My cheering loss led to leads in the musicals and a chance to sing the National Anthem with the band at a football game. Way better.

On Thursday, my ten year old piano student Sarah said, “I have to tell you a two minute story. I didn’t make the A team for soccer. I’m on the B team.” I told her I thought she didn’t really want to grow up and play soccer for a living, and it might have opened a spot for someone who did. She admitted she loved acting and singing, but only a little more than soccer.

We all have a list of what we think we want. It’s a fluid list, so the best thing is to stay fluid in our desires. “Take what comes,” my grandma used to say. Or as I say, “Take it easy…or any way you can get it.”

Fear and Intuition

Sickness and death surrounded me these past few weeks. I’m 65 so it’s to be expected that friends will pass through this life into another. As those I love disappear off the earth, I will be brave. The weight I lost from worry means more ice cream and cheese, and I will eat. When someone I admire gives up the fight and commits suicide, I must accept.

I cut some daffodils from my yard and put them into a gorgeous cut vase, and this morning my throat tightened from their pollen. I should have let them be. They would have lived longer to enjoy.

It shouldn’t be so hard to let go, but it is. I need to work at a wave goodbye and a sense of acceptance.

I’m still happy, so don’t worry about me. My firm belief in optimism and in the flower shoots that spring from the earth will carry me through. Negativity is now behind me. Pessimism is fleeting and I won’t be afraid, since fear is a trapdoor that stands in the way of intuition. I won’t fall down that rabbit hole and neither should you. 

Do I Tell My Dreams?

Last night I had a dream about a woman I’ll call Kasey. It seemed significant enough that I wanted to share it with her. If it had been bad news, I probably would have kept it to myself. Since it concerned another woman with romantic overtones, a scruffy male friend, and a surprise announcement that her roommate was going to move out, I decided to write to her.

It could have gone badly. Maybe it wasn’t my business, even though she’s a client. I tried to figure out my ethical stance on it, and I even tried to research how I should react. I found nothing to guide me but my own moral code: when in doubt, help a friend out.

She was pleased to hear my dream-take on what had been happening in her life, so my information was well received. The next day a bit of heartbreak arrived for her, and she asked if I could recall any more details of my dream. Void. My memory had flown like a new wind.

I dream every night, often two or three times, but I usually remember one. I seldom talk about them since I think dreams are truly personal. Last night I had a dream about a warm and inviting cabin. The interpretation in my dream book is that I can look forward to happiness in domestic affairs. Was that a portent that I would find those three pairs of jeans at the second hand shop this morning? Or did it mean I’d find the energy to spring clean my house? Dreams are perplexing. Decisions concerning friends are perplexing. Ice cream selection is not. I guess I’ll have chocolate.   

Be Who You Wanna Be

Everyone has an artistic bent. Jeannie paints, Judy cooks, Denise connects as a volunteer, and Pat sewed her granddaughter’s wedding dress. The last time I sewed and painted was in middle school. When I cook for my grown children, I keep my fingers crossed that it’ll be one of my rare, good result days. When I volunteer, I’m in action mode rather than connection mode.

 

All my life I’ve felt like everyone else knows how to act but I lost the map. In elementary school, I studied the popular girls to glean what to say and when to laugh. With no pets, I couldn’t mimic Walt Disney, who lost himself in the world of his farm animals. He gave them names and said each one had a distinct personality all its own. Every day, he talked with them and made up stories about their lives. That’s the way he fit in.

 

It’s possible that many of you wonder how you fit in. On Wednesday, I had an answer to my own question when three year old Annie came for a piano and voice lesson with her mom Jo. Annie nudged her mom.

                                                                                                     

“What’s your name?” Jo asked. She writes my checks, so I thought it might be a game.

 

“Jan,” I said.

 

“See?” said Jo. Annie looked stricken, ready to cry. I got down low so we’d be face to face.

 

“You thought my name was Princess, right?” Annie nodded.

 

I explained to Jo that young children don’t understand the word introduction, which is when I play the opening notes before my voice students sing. I always tell the little ones, “Now remember, the princess goes first and I am the princess.” It’s the only time I feel like a princess, and I enjoy it. I decide who I am, and I am her. I even imagine the beautiful dress I have on.

 

So anytime you feel like it, you can be the princess, the chef or the high fashion designer. Go on. Just be who you wanna be.

 

A Psychic's Oath of Secrecy

My first good psychic loved to gossip. When he did readings for me, he bled juicy facts about his clients. Who slept around, who shoplifted, and who spent way more money than her husband realized. At first, I thought I was part of his inner circle, but later I realized he just had a big mouth. He put those confidences out on the table, along with his beat-up Waite-Rider tarot cards. I vowed I would never be a read-and-tell psychic. No blabber mouthing for me.

Once in a while when I do readings, something comes out of my mouth that shocks me and I remember it, but most of the time I have no recollection of what I say to my clients. My brain doesn’t generate the information I give. It just facilitates it.

Two women came for a consult yesterday. They said they’d been to see me twice before, but I remembered nothing. Only one of them even looked familiar. I have a quick brain that recalls a lot, but in this case, nada. Maybe my vow of secrecy wipes out sensational or sad disclosures. I believe I’m just a radio, a conduit with my brain as the motor.

I’ve always taught music to children and I keep their little secrets safe. I guess I follow those same rules with my intuitive readings. It’s just not my business to share their intimacies. I wouldn’t want them to share mine. 

Kindness in the Big Apple

Earlier this month I spent three days in New York City. Back in 1973, when I finished United’s flight attendant school in Chicago, I was almost assigned Newark, New Jersey as my home base. I was happy to get D.C. because I had been to NYC in the early 70’s and I found it rushed and unfriendly. I know now it was me, not the people.

This visit I went into a shop to buy a loaf of gluten free bread to take home. The young Hispanic man asked if I wanted a plastic bag. The bread was wrapped in plastic so I felt confused, like I couldn’t hear him.

“Maybe it’s my age, but I tend to drift off sometimes and I don’t hear,” I told him.

“I can’t ever hear my mom, so I don’t think it’s your age. She calls me and I actually don’t hear her. I don’t know what it is,” he said.

I decided to use my intuitive skills. “Maybe you were meant to have another name, and you would respond to that one. Something like Jim Bob. That would get your attention.”

We had a laugh and off I went, only to return for lunch. As he handed me my take-out, he leaned forward and smiled. “Have an amazing life,” he told me.

Oh how wrong I was about New Yorkers. From the helpful girls on the subway, to the tourist family by Rockefeller Center, to the older man who told me the city was covered with elm trees until the blight, to the maintenance man who leaned on his broom and laughed when I told him I’d been walking in circles. Their friendliness enveloped me like a warm coat. And with 40 mph winds and temps in the low 30’s, I needed it.

Love and Intuition

I often wonder, “Who loves me?” I don’t have a pet, but I do have a caring family and a bunch of sweet friends. Outside of that, I have to think long and deep.

At the beginning of my pro bono work with police, before I had a plethora of contacts, I had to convince skeptical detectives of my skill. I had a set question for them, “Do you love your wife or girlfriend?” Yes, they’d say, and I’d say, “Prove it.” Every time they were stumped.

I felt stumped yesterday when a record snow fell into my life and onto the long lane that starts outside my front door. I didn’t think about how the only sounds I hear on this hill are a distant train whistle or bird songs. I didn’t think about how much fun I have when I drive in my yard and no one cares, and the thrill when wild turkeys come to visit. I only felt sorry for myself, alone at the end of the world. Or rather, my world.

My pity party lasted through cocktail hour and Netflix. As I sipped my potato vodka, I heard the roar of a snow blower. Low and behold, my three strong neighbors came to my rescue. I bundled up, gave them tissues for their snow tears, cheers for their bravery, and a bunch of cold hard cash. They would have done it for free but luckily, I had money to spare.

Today my tunnel of shoveled snow felt like love. A phone call from an old friend and bright sun through my new windows felt like love. Plans for spring felt like love.

I need to work harder to see my friendly encounters as love. Friendship is love, and stuff can’t matter because it all gets old and worn out.

My new year’s resolution was to not use so many swears, as the kids call it now. I added another resolution today. I will use my intuition to feel love, and love feels young.