Make the Most of Your Gifts

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.

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.

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.

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.  

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.  

A Murder Case from Decades Ago

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.

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.

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. 

Health Issues & Moral Dilemmas

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.

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?

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.

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.

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?

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. 

Mystical Scotland

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.

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.

My second favorite, Blackness Castle, sits on a spur of land that juts in the Firth of Forth. The 15^th 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.

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.

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.

Travel is hard, fraught with hair pulling hassles and speed bumps, but it enriches my life. Scotland seared my soul. A lasting love affair.

Fear

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

Forgiveness in My Soul

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.

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.
 
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.
 
After long discussions and the sharp mind of a gal pal, I strive to understand hurtful behavior, but I only get bits of clarity. Why 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.

Bad Things and New Directions

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.

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.

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.