tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248158707610849802024-03-14T02:25:26.822-07:00JanHelenMcGeeAuthor, Psychic, EducatorJanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.comBlogger169125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-34672375519998707602024-02-17T10:18:00.000-08:002024-02-17T10:18:26.212-08:00Mom's Spirit<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">Every
weekend I want to tell my mom something, then I remember she’s dead, and I get
frustrated at how unfair that seems. Next, I laugh at how ludicrous I’m being,
or think through what I would say to her if I could call her. We definitely
wouldn’t talk about my psychic abilities, since my mom either ignored my gift
or stared at me like I had three heads. She never asked a question or commented
on things I told her, or made any reference to it. Was it the autism spectrum label
I attribute to her? Her lack of interest confounds me.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Mom
was born one hundred years ago. I loved her dearly, but I’m not sure she knew
who I was. She made me play outside when I wanted to read all day. As an adult,
she told me over and over to get a real job. She did encourage me when it came
to education and taught me to succeed where others might fail, and she loved my
children dearly. She hid her fears, and it was only when my dad died that I saw
how many things she was afraid to do on her own.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
will always talk to spirits, to friends and family who have died. I will stomp
around, pissed off that they aren’t still here. Talking to spirits isn’t as fun
as when they had bodies, but dead people do come to me in dreams, and that
feels wonderful. I guess it’s the most I can hope for.</span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-22309833963229207492024-01-09T08:06:00.000-08:002024-01-09T08:06:45.143-08:00So You Got Fired?<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve been fired
twice. The first time I was only twenty-five and it hit me hard. I knew I
couldn’t work with United as a flight attendant for too long, since it wasn’t
intellectually stimulating, only loads of fun. When I got fired, I didn’t have
a clue it would happen. Back then, I was a party girl, so premonitions weren’t
at the forefront of my thoughts. The firing wasn’t about my work ethic, but
about two people who didn’t want me around. My supervisor pushed me to have an
affair and when I declined, he became angry. On a month of layovers, a female
stew preached about religion and didn’t like my belief system. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">A year after my
sudden firing, with a high-powered lawyer at my side, I received a settlement
and was offered my job back. I said no. The thought of returning gave me more
nightmares than the firing, and I still have them fifty years later. The upshot
is that I started an informative job at a music store and played piano and sang
in restaurants and clubs in LA.</span><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">When I was fifty,
I started work at Harrisburg Academy as the school piano player and teacher of
music. Right away, I knew I’d be fired. By then my intuition was strong and I
didn’t avoid psychic thoughts that weren’t pleasant. Five years after I started,
the headmaster found out that I worked pro bono on murder cases and canned me.
I drove to the next town, rented a studio from a music store, and taught
private students there. One of my students was a board member’s daughter. Her
mother kept at me, why did you leave? I suggested she look at the books, and
told her I thought he feared my abilities. He was fired two months later.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The hardest part
about being fired was telling people, since they often assumed I had done
something wrong. My good name is important, and I felt wounded. It still makes
me want to cry. Only time and new jobs helped me move on.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">When you know
something is about to tank but you want it anyway, just do it. Preparation can
help a little, but to believe in destiny can help more. Those slammed doors
opened better avenues for me. It can happen for you too. <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-44343146328156828322023-12-13T04:29:00.000-08:002023-12-13T04:29:45.246-08:00Practicing Forgiveness<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">An old friend from
high school just wrote a book and I had a starring role. I felt excited to
revisit the past, but it was so filled with lies that I had to throw it in the
trash and put old spaghetti sauce on top of it. The biggest surprise was an
interview she did, where she said that I’m her nemesis.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I thought that
might have to do with jealousy, which I’m not prone to, so I looked it up. In
mythology, Adrastea was the goddess of divine retribution. Another meaning for
nemesis is an opponent or rival whom a person cannot best. Oh, my, I felt such
sadness for her.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Soon after the
sadness, I thought about her lifelong addictions, which cloud her judgements. I
did my best to remember the good times we had, outside of her troubled view. I
tried to put away pity and push compassion to the front of my brain.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white;">Forgiveness
is something I now try to do daily. We all have deep pain inflicted by others. When
we forgive, the amygdala in our brain reduces signals to the hypothalamus,
which eases signals to the pituitary glands, which reduces excessive cortisol
levels. That results in lower levels of anxiety and depression.</span></p><p class="paragraph" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="paragraph" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">Practicing
forgiveness leads to better problem solving and decision making, and I surely
want that. The resulting kindness helps me grow in empathy. Like piano though,
practice makes me a better player. It all takes time. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt; letter-spacing: .3pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-71476976021043369432023-11-18T09:28:00.000-08:002023-11-18T09:28:33.000-08:00Give Thanks on Any Day That Works<p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">One of the definitions for psychic is,
marked by extraordinary or mysterious sensitivity, perception, or
understanding. This, and my ability to time travel, made me able to celebrate
Thanksgiving and Christmas on any day before or after. It started when I was a
flight attendant and had to fly. I felt so sad, but then relished the joy and
comfort of the crew and passengers who celebrated on different days.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">When my kids were young, they
preferred Thanksgiving with their dads and cousins. Why would they pick me? I
didn’t make any of the normal Thanksgiving dishes and didn’t invite people to
my house. After divorce, holidays are difficult for everyone. I missed my kids,
but sharing gladdens the heart. I give thanks on any day that both my kids share
a meal with me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">As an adult, my daughter has taken
over Thanksgiving in wonderful ways, with music and people, celebration and
laughter. I will have a blast at her house again this year, surrounded by love.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I’ll do Christmas on December 23,
same as always, with first dibs before exhaustion sets in. We’ll be eager,
hungry, and excited. They’ll leave early so my </span>four-year-old<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> grandson can wake
up in his own bed for the glory of Santa’s arrival.</span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">What I call movie moments arrive
unexpectedly all year. Let’s celebrate when the timing works. If you’re alone,
and I have been many holidays, enjoy anything your heart desires. As my son’s
father used to say, can’t have it all, where would you put it?</span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-35076303074462960022023-10-17T05:36:00.001-07:002023-10-17T05:36:07.995-07:00Why Can't I See Spirits?<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">On each October ghost
tour I lead, a woman laments, why can’t I see spirits? I wish I could.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Like love, spirits
can’t be touched or proven, but they’re heady and real. Love is a verb, so if
you walk the path of spirits, you’ll feel, sense, or hear them. Try to make
ghosts as real as possible. To connect with someone who has passed on, believe
that you can do it. Remember, it’s not a two-way bit of communication. They
can’t hear you. Somehow they sense you, but not with words that originate from
you.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Spirits talk to us,
so we need to be aware and listen, like we do for the sound of the birds that
herald spring. Keep your antennae up. Their voice or presence can come through
to you when you don’t expect it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">A smell can
trigger that the door is open and you need to walk through. To look at your grandmother’s
photograph can mean you hear her spirit advice, so analyze it and figure out if
it’s an old message, or quite possibly, a new one. If you miss a passed-on friend
and the nature walks that you took, then walk in the woods and listen. Pop open
your senses and your friend’s voice might come, if not that day, then another
one.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Oh life is hard,
and so is the connection with someone whose body has gone. Don’t give up. Don’t
spend so much time with regret and lament. Move forward with what you have.</span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-69282763239883237292023-09-20T06:24:00.001-07:002023-09-20T06:24:11.071-07:00UFO Sighting<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The “voice” I hear
in my head, God or Sky Daddy, told me to look up from the couch one evening
last week. A sphere of extremely bright light zoomed past my window, so close I
thought it was an old episode of Twilight Zone. I jumped up to look out the
other window, but it had disappeared. A helicopter? No, it moved way too fast
and looked too bright.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I think I’ve been
visited by aliens several times when I was asleep. I think they took blood and
examined me, but I have no proof, only my belief system. I haven’t told anyone,
but as a psychologist friend says, you’re only as sick as your secrets.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">That’s all I have.
No depth of knowledge, only experience and belief. Let me know if you’ve had sightings
or contact. We are not alone.</span></p><br /><p></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-12448082592846064322023-08-23T03:56:00.006-07:002023-08-23T03:56:56.886-07:00Creativity, Music, & Love<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: justify;">I’m
not exactly sure what’s going on that I’m so intuitive. A watchful child, I
escaped into my imagination, and throughout the day, listened to bouts of inner
chatter with those who talked to me inside my head. At the time, I thought the
voices came from above the clouds. I knew my brain didn’t originate them.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">When
I tell fortunes, my brain goes on active, nonstop, improvisational flights. I
talk without hesitation in a magical, not logical way. It feels like a high level
of spontaneous creativity and my reality is altered. It’s heady and
interesting, but not always pleasant when I have to share uncomfortable truths.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Some
people seek a reality with alcohol or other mind changing substances. Their
truth is altered, but I know it’s their right and their choice. A friend says,
your circus your monkey.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">As I
get older, it’s even more important that I push aside my inhibitions in order
to be creative. On Saturday, I sang three songs with a country band at a
private party. Before I joined them, my mouth felt dry and I thought I wouldn’t
find my pitch. As I stood in the middle, the band leader strummed a C chord. I suddenly
felt comfortable and part of the magic. Ecstasy filled me as I sang, listened,
and moved my body to the rhythm.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">When
the party wound down, the band members ate burgers and chilled. The guitarist
leaned down to me with a soft kiss on my cheek, and in a low voice said, thanks
for joining us on the battlefield.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Five
of us, who will never join together again, had a spiritual connection of music
and love. That’s intuition. My own battlefield of troubles, euphoria, and the
love of making music.</span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-71141256122950851632023-06-17T09:29:00.006-07:002023-06-17T09:29:51.341-07:00Make the Most of Your Gifts<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It’s Father’s Day
and my dad was a D-. He did tell me one thing that has been marvelous. He said,
study what you love. This is the opposite of my mother, who told me many times,
get a real job. I decided to pay attention to dad. Over the years, I’ve wondered
why I worked the jobs I chose. I think it’s because I had gifts that I could
share.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">One job I admire
is garbage collector, a skill set filled with bravado. I’m a super sniffer so that
job would kill me. My ex-cheerleader knees would yell at me, and I dislike the
sun. In my twenties, I ran a cash register all day and liked it, and I enjoyed substitute
teaching for middle schoolers, despite their angst. My friend is a personal
trainer, and that one would be impossible for me. Any job with physicality would
knock me out, although I do like physical movement with my fingers as I write
or play piano.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Therapist? How
wonderful they are to listen and help solve personal problems. Lawyer? Read the
law rules for research. Politics? Get bashed and keep your head up. Nope,
couldn’t do any of those jobs.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I worked in a snack
bar and was a flight attendant because I was good with calm in response to demanding
people. I teach music because I love all the notes, whether they are right or
wrong. I directed twenty musicals because I love choir singing but hate to make
children stand still to sing. I do psychic readings because I can see through
walls and time travel to the future. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Please, each of
you, pat yourself on the back. Intuitively you know what you can do, and that
you can do it. You have found your niche, and happiness should come from the
fact that you are able to do a job that many other people can’t. This is
marvelous. Give yourself a prize. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-90661476434901625702023-05-23T04:49:00.003-07:002023-05-23T04:49:41.269-07:00A Murder Case from Decades Ago<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m trying to
decide whether or not to talk about a murder case that I worked on as a
psychic, pro bono. I’ve only talked about one case, ever. With that one, I received
threats from a family member of the murderer, who blames me as the reason their
relative is in jail. That murder happened here in Lebanon. The second case
occurred in another Pennsylvania county, so it’s bound to stir up news
reporters, and possibly family members of the victim and the murderer. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Contact with a
victim’s family is horrible and even worse than my “seeing” the murder. In this
second case, decades ago, I met with a parent of the victim, who cried with pain.
The coroner knew my work and begged me to visit, and I have regretted it ever since.
The case is now adjudicated, with the killer in jail, so I’m free to discuss it.
I didn’t solve the case at the time, it was solved decades later, but I presented
important clues. The original detective taped my information, then retired,
took it home, and never gave it to the detectives after him. I worked on it
again years later with a different detective, but I couldn’t get much of the
info back. The vicious enormity of it meant I had refused to store one bit of
it in my brain. If I decide to speak about this case, I have to hope it heals a
gentle soul.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">All of us are
asked for advice and feedback. We want to help but sometimes it stirs up more
pain. With a good and open heart, we follow our instincts and say what we think
is best. Healing comes in many ways.</span> </p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-20372100358344181982023-04-18T04:26:00.003-07:002023-04-18T04:26:46.399-07:00Health Issues & Moral Dilemmas<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When I do readings, I start with health issues, pinpoint
problems and give ideas. Sometimes they take it to heart, other times they are
already aware. The worst is when a client dies without being able to adapt to
my cautionary tales. All of us watch friends and family do unhealthy things, yet
we try to accept difficult choices as they do their best. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As a child, my father was abusive and unhappy most
days. His damage unraveled for me in my 20s, with twice a week therapy that helped
me face my demons and saved me from a life of destruction. I spent decades with
more therapy, but I didn’t speak of my psychic abilities. I figured my
therapist didn’t have it, so how could he or she help me? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now, when I tell people I’m psychic, they usually say
one of three things. What can you tell me, they ask, without offering me a
cookie or advice from their own line of work. Or they ask, aren’t you scared? The
other thing I hear is, I wish I had your gift. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If I have the energy, I tell them something about
their life. To the second question, I ask, why should I fear what I’ve always
had? Other people should be scared, not me. When they say they want my powers, I
wish I could pass it on.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When a friend is sick, we all have moral dilemmas. Do
we tell them they look awful and talk about negative stuff? Or do we spread
positive thoughts, which might lead to happiness or contentment?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">For my master’s degree, I took a lot of philosophy
courses. What surprised me was that we had discussions that were like a volley
of tennis balls without keeping score. We each decided who was the clear
winner, and each of us was correct.</span> </p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-20633180593069700912023-03-27T07:33:00.000-07:002023-03-27T07:33:32.338-07:00Mystical Scotland <p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The strongest
spiritual experiences I’ve had happened last week in Scotland. On my drive through the northern Highlands, I swooned at steep mountains, deep lakes, wild rain
intersecting bright sun, rainbows, and waterfalls. My favorite sight was Clava
Cairns, a 4000-year-old burial site, in woods near rolling hills of green. As I
stood at the first stone circle, I “saw” a gorgeous young woman morph into a
old matriarch, then swoop into the burial site, under ancient rocks from the
Neolithic era. It was the oddest psychic experience of my life.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I visited Edinburgh
Castle, built in 1103, and set on a high rock made from a volcanic eruption
millions of years ago. I loved the god and goddess gargoyles, although I felt
most moved in the King’s Inner Hall. The windy and rainy weather kept tourists
away, and alone in the hall, I began to dance, surrounded by lords and ladies
from the past. Ghosts to be sure, but I felt safe. I can’t imagine what the person
behind the security camera thought.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">My second favorite,
Blackness Castle, sits on a spur of land that juts in the Firth of Forth. The 15</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">
century fortress held spirits of guardsmen who fought and defended, and a few
women who worked with them. I loved the grey black, mystical rocks. My body
felt as if I were preteen. Again, I swooned.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">At every encounter
with a Scott, I heard lilts that sounded like singing. Even the food felt
spiritual. Mussels from a group of islands way up north called Chetland, Cullen
Skink soup of smoked cod, potatoes, cream, and onions, and the smoothest ice
cream anywhere.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">On the plane back,
I met an excited couple on their way to NYC “like we see on TV”. They leaned
over to quietly ask me, could you live in Scotland? I wanted to tell them the
libraries might be inadequate, how too many people had rotten teeth and bad
breath, and what would I do about work that give me purpose? But I honestly said,
I’d love to live there for a month every year. But then, I thought the same
about southern Ireland.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Travel is hard, fraught
with hair pulling hassles and speed bumps, but it enriches my life. Scotland seared
my soul. A lasting love affair. <o:p></o:p></span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-35613585298915579212023-02-15T03:54:00.000-08:002023-02-15T03:54:03.327-08:00Fear<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Every night until
I was ten, ghosts or bad men hid under my bed or in my closet. Fear ruled me
and made me hate bedtime. We had no nightlights in the 50s, just buck up and
shut up. By day, I knew I had strange abilities, and I felt reticent about
talking so I had no real friends. Fear made me boring. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">At eleven, I
decided to eradicate my fears. Each day at school, I picked a girl to study,
then copied her communication habits. On the weekend, I mimicked my older
sister’s friends. I joined cheerleading and learned to shout, then joined the
musical ensemble and sang from the back of the stage. At church, I volunteered
for everything and at the YMCA I took every class. In high school, I joined clubs
and set boundaries as I fell in love with lots of boys.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In college, I
stayed a loner, but I sang, swam, and explored. Instead of parties, I studied
actors in movies on little TVs in dorm halls. I rode my fat wheeled bike alone
in the countryside and looked at how people coped outside my bubble. After
college, I took a job as a flight attendant. Every month for three years I
vacationed in different states and countries, and pushed myself to have
adventures.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">You get the
picture, but let me tell you, eradicating fears never totally stops. I’m proud
it doesn’t cripple me, but now my old lady bones and odd sudden worries want to
hold me back. Youth and beauty no longer grease the wheels of travel, but I map
out my itinerary and go anyway.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Fear is tricky and
it’s not fun. In the dentist chair last week, I discussed vacations with the
hygienist and how things might go wrong. She agreed that things happen but we
should try to recover. My last trip, a year ago in Ireland, found me stuck for
an extra week in a Covid isolation hotel.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">This year I wonder
if the fairies in Scotland will hold me hostage. But hey, I’ve never seen a
fairy. Oh, and by the way, look for me on the news because I plan to record the
Loch Ness monster. The reporters will eventually leave me alone, and I’ll
return to find Big Foot. This should be fun. I’m not afraid of either of them.</span> </p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-10556107406174420332023-01-17T05:17:00.003-08:002023-01-17T05:17:45.703-08:00Forgiveness in My Soul<p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I have a hard time forgiving some people. I pity them so I’m halfway there, but the meter’s stuck. I try to forgive all the men and female friends I’ve loved, who haven’t been able to love me in return, and the broken people who can’t rise above their own inherent anger, addictions, lies, and distrust.</span></p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">My struggle with forgiveness led to research. One blog claimed it’s torture and we should combat it with love. Yeah, sure, but let me sing the Essex’s song from 1963, Easier Said Than Done (#1 in the charts for two weeks). Many days it’s just about me, and I have to absolve myself for my own wayward choices.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I want to forgive myself for screaming and begging God/HigherPower/Aliens to stop sending me the horrible information I received about murders. The pictures that detectives showed me will forever sear my brain. My plea worked, since I haven’t done much of it for sixteen years.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">After long discussions and the sharp mind of a gal pal, I strive to understand hurtful behavior, but I only get bits of clarity. </span><em style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Why</em><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> might not be part of the story. If I stick to the facts, I realize most people are kind to old Jan. They help me, love me, trust their children to my care, and make me feel like a million bucks.</span>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-26076146919579264972022-12-13T04:44:00.000-08:002022-12-13T04:44:01.724-08:00Bad Things and New Directions<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">So many good
things have happened that started out bad. A custody dispute that led to my
second child. A husband who took a powder after only a few weeks of marriage but
left a kind stepson who sticks with me to this day. A headmaster who fired me
for doing pro bono psychic work for police in my free time, and that misjustice
led me to be fully self-employed. An elementary teacher who had us write about
a famous person, and since I could only think of men, I was driven to write a
book about famous men’s mothers when I grew up. The high school English teacher
who didn’t encourage those of us who started out as unskilled writers, so that
every day for ten years as I wrote and researched my book, I said, I’ll show YOU.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">As a senior in
college, tired of a lifetime devotion to music, I felt lost until I met a
stewardess who spun tales of her world travels. That led to my adventurous job
with United Airlines. At forty, my lifetime murder nightmares led to my work
with police. A bankrupt music store thrust me into my own business location. The
heart-wrenching pushes I gave my children to leave the nest now mean sweet,
distinctive visits to their New York City homes.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">We all have them,
the rough times that lead to good times. Holiday missteps that we vow never to
repeat, and walks that we cherish. Disagreements that in retrospect are only
splinters easily removed. New directions outshine the troubles, as mysteries
and puzzles come to completion in marvelous ways.</span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-36126317035603783872022-11-15T04:22:00.003-08:002022-11-15T04:22:54.540-08:00Can't See the Back of My Head<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Remember the first
time you heard your own voice in a recording? How we’re perceived is different
from how we see ourselves. It’s important to believe in yourself and try to
lessen any negativity.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I test on the edge
of the autism scale. I’m clumsy and have to remind myself to have eye contact. An
introvert, I do stimming with my arms and hands. I’ve worked hard, like others
use a mirror to see the back of their head, to circumvent any issues that I
can. On the plus side, my brain is quick and concise and I have a few wild
skills. One problem I have is that people argue and say I’m an extrovert. I
learned in junior high that I got more of what I want if I spoke up.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m in the last
third of my life, when I think people revert to who they were originally, and
the masks they have worn to get by fall away. I was a sensitive child, and I
still feel awful when those who are damaged express jealousy or envy. I haven’t
outgrown my worry about everyone’s near misses and full stops, or about their
misguided anger, but now I’m better able to feel pity instead of frustration. I
say, ever onward for those who live with their own demons that no one else can
understand. Let’s all have hope, forgiveness, and thanksgiving. <o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-56552273275309836492022-10-11T08:08:00.002-07:002022-10-11T08:08:22.107-07:00Ghosts Are Not Harmful<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Movies and books
portray the spirit world, or ghosts as I’ll call them, in a negative way. I know
that conflict sells, but it leads to misunderstanding. My favorite cartoon as a
kid was Casper the Friendly Ghost, maybe because I’ve always seen ghosts. The
friendly ones hang around places where they were most happy, and might be seen or
sensed in an old building. If you want to connect with the spirit of a loved
one who is gone, be open to it with all your senses. Believe and ye shall find.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Some spirits are
full of mischief. Those are the ones who slam doors or knock things over. That
can seem scary, but it’s just the unknown, so laugh or be fascinated or ignore
it. Disgruntled ghosts make their presence known. It can be a flash seen out of
the corner of an eye, or maybe a wavy presence. Some ghosts hang in packs of
two or three, and they are the ones you might hear going WHOO. But is it really
a sound you hear, or do you smell something odd, or do you feel a change in temperature?
Don’t fear. Ghosts feed on fear.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">This is just my
belief system, so choose to ignore or adopt it. The winds of autumn bring
questions about the spirit world. So much of it remains a mystery to me too.</span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-51381831627345819822022-09-21T08:56:00.003-07:002022-09-21T08:56:26.059-07:00Talking with the Dead<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Thirty-five years
ago, a psychic told me two shocking things. That I would have a big blond son
(I did) and that dead people talked to me. That was too bizarre to contemplate,
but then a few years later I started my work on murder cases and it happened.
Here is a little Jan tutorial on talking and listening to dead people.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It’s not like a
streaming service. You can’t summon people you love who have passed. It’s best
to wait, and be aware. That means keep an open heart and mind all day, listen,
and watch. You might hear your departed loved one talking and think it’s a
memory, but if it hadn’t been said in the past, then it’s a voice from the
present. Take notes of what was said. My mom talked to me in my closet during Covid
isolation, and I didn’t do this, and then I forgot the message. If you smell
them, recognize that they are in your presence. If you see them fleetingly,
accept it as real.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Vocal contact with
the dead is more like a letter than a conversation, because one person talks at
a time. There can be a long wait in between, since it’s not a cause and effect.
While I wait, I say to myself, the powers that be are helping someone else or
somehow busy.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It’s tricky. I’m not
sure seeing a cardinal means your mom is there, but it’s possible. Synchronicity
and signs abound.</span> </p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-27427571535638816512022-08-23T06:22:00.000-07:002022-08-23T06:22:00.765-07:00Connect with the Sweetness of Others<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I love local
fairs, with funky smells, flashing lights, and odd performers. As I waited on
shaky metal seats for an equine show last month, I yearned for a low-paying job
I once had as a reporter. This time, I didn’t use my words, but I used my
psychic ability to delve into the life of this little family who traveled with
props, horses, and wow outfits.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">
I actually become each person in the show, like when I worked on murder cases
and had to almost become the murderer and the victim. This fair experience
didn’t make me feel sick though. The equine family made me happy.<br />
<br />
The dad played ringleader. Short, with a prominent belly and pants that needed
a wash, he had a warm and corny manner that roped me in. My favorite was his
sweet ten-year-old blond daughter who rode in on a beautiful pinto and held an
American flag. As we stood at attention to a tinny version of the Star-Spangled
Banner, my heart soared with love for the good old USA. Later, the girl’s dad
mentioned how pretty she was, and I saw her sweet, shy smile. She clearly loved
her part to play.<br />
<br />
Mom was lithe, thin and strong, the real ringleader in the family, the
nurturer, the glue. Junior, a perfect miniature of dad, was about eight. An
infectious imp, he seemed to be a true man as he hung upside down on the side
of a cantering Percheron. A little man, unlike the big man, with no money
worries and little fear.<br />
<br />
The hot night had a cool breeze. Old guys in t-shirts sang country songs in the
bandshell behind us. Big eyed children stared. The audience acted as one as we
oohed and admired. It felt like a big circle of love.<br />
<br />
Little things become big memories. We don’t have to talk to connect with the
sweetness of others. We only need to experience.<o:p></o:p></span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-90871881370186118952022-07-21T04:36:00.002-07:002022-07-21T04:36:33.305-07:00Fools Rush In<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">During my 20s
adventures, I pretty much lived by the words of the song, Fools Rush In. I
threw caution to the wind in Rome, Florence, London, and cities all over the
US. I took risks in cars and bars. I sang and danced, dated strangers, and
floated from one enriching or entertaining job to another. My luck held. Maybe
even then, I used my intuition.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Intuition can be
confusing though. A little voice tells us something is going to happen, and we
ignore it. One person acts cold and we think they don’t like us, but then it
turns out they were just lost in thought, attending to the problems of their
day.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Most of the time,
we know so much, like who can be trusted and who can’t, but we sometimes act
like a fool and rush in. But wait, let’s examine the fool card in the tarot
deck. In the 1950s, most of the kids in my neighborhood couldn’t afford a deck
of cards. My siblings and I had multiple decks, since our parents played cards
with friends and hated bent edges. As kids, if we had a noticeably bent card,
we’d take a joker and write on it, Jack of Diamonds, and use it for a
replacement</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Adaptable, that’s
the fool, like in Fool on the Hill, a song by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. The
Fool tarot card means trust and let go. Johnny Mercer, my favorite lyricist, who
I adore even more than Ira Gershwin and Lennon-McCartney, wrote the lyrics to
Fools Rush In. The last line is…open up your heart and let this fool rush in. <o:p></o:p></span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-17949936203558343572022-06-21T03:39:00.002-07:002022-06-21T03:39:34.888-07:00Live Your Best Life<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">My pal says “live
your best life” whenever I teeter on the edge of two choices. With one choice,
I’ll please myself and might disappoint friends. With the other choice, I’ll be
in the midst of a personal sacrifice. This makes it hard to be intuitive. When
I know other people are hurt, I hurt inside myself.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">On Saturday, I
went to a church yard sale to look at trucks for my grandson. The people with
tables seemed sad when they didn’t make a sale. It hurt, but the old trees and
bucolic scene made me happy to live in the boonies.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">
I understand sadness, but I don’t understand older people’s fearfulness. From a
young age, I set out to banish my fears. I think the problem arises with my
peers’ desire to be careful of their bodies and its limitations. It’s harder to
let their brains fly and accept that change is the one thing to count on.
Everything will change.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">After three years of
concern as I reshaped my business with a physical space, I’ve found success.
That means opportunities to travel. What a wonderful feeling, to choose a spot,
then let opportunities pull me in new directions.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">We don’t pick our
age, but we can pick to live our best life. As time slips by, embrace and enjoy
all of it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-83813581142457540092022-05-24T04:36:00.003-07:002022-05-24T04:36:27.395-07:00Regrets & Mistakes They're Memories Made<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">When my mother
expressed her litany of regrets, she used to end with something good. One of my
big regrets is not having a PhD, but I get more satisfaction and joy from my
two kids and my book. I sometimes regret all the fooling around I did in my
20s, but I learned so much from my adventures and I rid myself of a lot of wanderlust,
instead of carrying it with me to old age.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It’s best, when we
ruminate and feel remorse, that we forgive our young selves. As my body turns
into an old car with parts to repair, my brain turns too often to the past. I remind
myself that the past is now larger than my future, but it really bugs me to
have all these shoulda coulda wouldas.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Regrets and
mistakes, they’re memories made is from Adele’s song, Someone Like You. I use other
songs to restore my faith in the future. Put on a Happy Face! I Feel Good!
Girls Just Want to Have Fun! Summertime! (and the living is easy), and even my
least liked song, (the sun’ll come out) Tomorrow!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">One of my favorite
old timey sayings is, If You Can’t Take a Joke. I used it for my week in the covid
isolation hotel in Ireland in March. It helped. So get your mantras ready and
use them. Party Like It’s 1999.</span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-14664233535373751132022-04-27T05:21:00.004-07:002022-04-27T05:21:34.452-07:00The Good, Bad, & the Ugly<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I watch a lot of
detective shows that sometimes remind me about my experiences in that field.
From age 40-55, from 1991 until 2007, I worked almost daily, pro bono as a
psychic on murder cases. A few times, I helped find a killer. The work often
made me sick and upset, as I expect it does for other police officers. My joy came
from leading a detective down a path of thinking that he hadn’t pursued.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Except for one female
detective, they were all males. The camaraderie between them was more profound
than is shown in movies. Like many jobs, they had an almost secret language of
looks and words. The best part was that I was treated like an equal part of a
team. No job prior to that felt the same. As a teacher, I never found that other
teachers banded together as a whole. Instead, it sometimes felt like little
middle school cliques.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The worst part was
when detectives would insist that I look at murder victim pictures. I tried to
avoid it, but some guys were tricky and thrust them in front of me. I’ll never
forget those haunting scenes. At the time, my psychic mind was more concerned
with what happened and not the finality of it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Right before I cut
way back in this work, I starred in a half hour show, Psychic Witness, which
played on the ID channel all over the world and on Netflix for a year, and made
me mini-famous. Reliving the murder during the four days of shooting the show felt
beyond horrible, since I had seen it in my mind’s eye the first time. The
capper came when the man playing the murderer asked me the killer’s motivation
and I had to explain it to him, all the while wishing I could have prevented
it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I made a decision
to not be famous. During that mini-famous time, my thoughts were so jumbled. People
wanted to be my friend and it wasn’t about me. Others stared at me in stores. I
didn’t want to leave my young son and spend my life on the road as a psychic.
I’m a teacher, writer, and musician and I didn’t want to be pigeonholed as just
a psychic. I think about this decision often, with some pathos but little
regret.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">My respect is huge
for everyone in law enforcement. It’s a difficult and dangerous job for low
pay. My heart goes out to every single one of them.</span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-91069402109678779642022-04-02T03:42:00.005-07:002022-04-02T03:42:52.656-07:00Loss & Gain<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I started life as
an athlete. By age eight, I gleefully ran the four safe blocks that my mother
mapped out. The next year, I rode my bike. By sixth grade I was the fastest
runner in my elementary school and one afternoon, I rode forty-two miles and
wasn’t even winded. I excelled as a fast and furious basketball guard, but quit
because of the rule that I had to stop at half court and watch my target make
baskets. For fun, I practiced the long and the high jumps, but our school had
no girls track team. Fie on that, since my conservative parents refused to get
a lawyer to try to put me on the boys’ team.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In seventh grade, I
followed my older sister into cheerleading. A quiet child, I discovered all the
yelling helped me find my voice. By tenth grade, several grown-ups involved in picking
new cheerleaders told my father that I was the best for squad tryouts. Once in
my thirties, one of those men even expressed his deep regret over the
unfairness of what happened. The girls on the varsity squad convinced the coach
to let them help pick the new squad. They outnumbered the adults and didn’t
chose me. I’ll never know why, but I think jealousy. I felt devastated and shock,
and I cried all night.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Weeks later, I attended
the first meeting for the school musical. The director boomed out, any people
in sports, leave now, cheerleaders leave now. Destiny had paid me a visit. In my
junior and senior years I had the lead in the musicals and senior play, and to
this day, I’m a performer. I thank my lucky stars that those girls ruined what
I thought was my future path. Although I don’t know any adult cheerleaders.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Horrible things
happen, and then wonderful things happen, and we are forced to follow newly
opened paths. In the midst of horrible it’s hard to hope for wonderful, but it
comes.</span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-71346876292212454402022-02-16T05:51:00.002-08:002022-02-16T05:51:21.728-08:00Trouble: Avoid It or Dip In?<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Part of my psychic
ability is knowledge of trouble before it happens. That keeps me a bit protected
and safe, but I’ve had my share of bad luck. Sad but true, I knew it was
coming. Instead of adapting, I’d forget I was forewarned and then have to face
it like a big wave, with a last-minute choice to swim under it or flip over it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Every decade a
horrible thing has happened that I thought I might not live through. But here sits
a happy old lady, a cockeyed optimist. That’s from South Pacific, my first
Broadway show, and my daughter took me. But let me get back to trouble. When I
hear the word, I think of River City and the Music Man. I planned to buy a
Broadway ticket for the revival but it’s $600 and crowded, so I’ll go to
Vermont instead. Anyway, Music Man is a holdover from my youth, so maybe it
should stay there.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Conflict is
present everywhere. In writing classes, I learned the necessity of it. Every
story, every joke, and most days of our lives contain conflict and resolution.
How we face the resolution part is what divides the optimists and the
pessimists.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Someone asked me
again last week, do you predict bad things? I tell them it’s a matter of
whether they want to know everything. I also explain that it’s like voice
lessons. I don’t tell my students that they’ll never be as successful as Adele
or Justin Bieber, but I do lay out the improvement strides that will occur.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">When bad things
happen, if you can’t swim under or jump over the problem, get to the other side
with optimism. It’s good for your cells. </span></p>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-624815870761084980.post-12797242796890047452022-01-19T05:49:00.001-08:002022-01-19T05:49:15.583-08:00Longing<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">If I played that
Facebook game where I oddly explain what I do for a living, I’d say I address
longing. In music lessons, I help with a desire to capture the beauty of making
music to find rapture. In psychic readings, longing is omnipresent. Love, health,
work, and coming to terms with the past, that’s some of what I discuss. This
week, at the end of a reading, a woman said, you’re a medium, tell me more
about the people who have passed. Meanwhile, I had spent most of her session as
her mother. She saw me in that room, but the voice coming from my mouth was not
mine. Why can I not remember to explain that as it happens?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The most important
things in life are not things, but stuff you can’t touch or prove. Yearning,
love, frustration, and yes, desire for your next experience. As a child, I
longed to be grown up and free. As a teen, it was romance, in my 20s,
adventure. In my 30s, 40s, and 50s, I wanted to be a good mother and enjoy my
work. Now I long for serenity, a continuance of my lovely career, and a whole
bunch of trips thrown into the mix. I live for the future. When I think about
mistakes, I ponder the longing that took me in that direction.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Today is my
once-a-week ice cream day. What will I long for when I’m 90 and decide to eat it
every day? Maybe it’ll be new friends to replace those who have passed, a
driver who makes me laugh, and the continued ability to move my body. I wonder
if psychic people with dementia can still predict?</span>JanHelenMcGeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01128278543516565206noreply@blogger.com0