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. 

Despair and Hope

The end of December can be fraught with dejection. My worst childhood Christmas came in 1960 when I didn’t get a Chatty Cathy doll. Mom said, too expensive. Instead I got a blue stuffed poodle (the previous year I had asked for a dog).

This Christmas, I looked for that doll on eBay, but soon realized it wouldn’t heal me. I had to live in the present. On my fridge, I taped up some notes I got from young piano students: “You’re a real light saber!” “I hope you get to see a lot of movies on your vacation.” “You’re so funny.”

I want to be hopeful. I look forward to a new year, new ideas, new gifts and new surprises. Who cares if I don’t get what I think I want? That blue poodle was more cuddly than a plastic doll, and since my mother was on the outside edge of the autism spectrum, I sure needed a good cuddle.

As we pass into the new year, appreciate what others might know about you that you don’t know yourself. Keep connections and make some new ones. Try to replace times of despair with hope.  

Time Travel at the Movies

Young Kate (maybe she’s thirty?) and I went to the matinee on Friday to see Brooklyn, an Irish period drama set in the fifties. When I taught Kate music as a teen, her mom Claire and I used to talk about movies and books. I laughed at Claire’s love of romance and she laughed at my lack of interest in the classics.

Claire died of cancer around the same time my mom died, so Kate and I have a bond we wish we wouldn’t. But I imagine it’s nice for Kate to have someone who talks about her mom. From the afterlife, I think Claire smiles at us, especially when we see the romantic flicks.

I love period pieces. They allow me to time travel to a different decade and to other countries. For two hours, I am someone else. This time, I was young and beautiful, with creamy skin and lots of angst.

I don’t know why so many people widen their eyes when I say I time travel. Isn’t that what all of you do when you read a fabulous book? Or tell a story from the past? Or smell the scents of your childhood? I love the future the most; it beckons. But the past definitely has its virtues.