My First Visit to a Psychic

I was 30 years old when I visited my first psychic.  I was divorced, between jobs, and living at home again with my parents.  On the way home from the grocery store I passed a sign: Psychic--Walk-ins Welcome.  As I veered off the road I pulled into the driveway of a white clapboard house.  My hopes were high and I felt confident as I knocked on the paint peeled door.  I needed an adventure.

A woman's voice called out, "Come on in." 

In a seemingly normal room I stood alone.  A baby's cry and faint voices seeped from another room. "Take care of the children," the woman murmured, and a man mumbled in response.

My very first psychic swept into the room.  She had swept-up mousy brown hair and wore loose clothes.  Despite her tired and ordinary looks, I was ready to believe anything she said.  We sat on overstuffed chairs around a low table as she talked in monotone circles.  Within a half hour, I had been told almost nothing.

"You have a terrible curse over you.  You must come back soon and I'll help you," she warned in a low voice. 

"Do you know anything else about my future?" I asked.

"Don't worry, we'll talk of that later.  First we have to clear the curse.  These candles will help.  How many can you purchase?"

Concerned, I gave her $65 for the reading and two thin candles.  I left with a heart full of disappointment and trepidation.  I knew she was a scam but she frightened me. 

My fear and wasted money did not stop me from trying again.  Three more times I visited psychics who gave me nothing but frustration.  Caution replaced trust and my wallet lightened with greed.  Since then, I have met women who have lost thousands on scam psychics.  Worse than the loss of money is the lost belief in a hopeful future.  When I started seeing psychics I knew nothing.  I didn't know enough to keep my eyes and ears open.   

Restoring My Psychic Abilities

When I give readings to other people, I use all my energy to focus on their life with no distractions. When I read for myself it is quite different. For my own personal readings, I have to let the energy in and relax as much as possible.

In March I vacationed to Parma, Italy. The day I arrived I hadn't slept but I needed to stay awake and wait for nightfall, so I stumbled through the day. After I checked into my hotel, I walked off in search of food. Organ music soared out of a conservatory and a female opera singer's voice rang true. Their music opened my senses. Under arches throughout the city, accordion music lulled me as my intuition protected me. I travelled alone.

Most of the castles I visited were closed, but that did not stop Mario my driver. We ventured through huge metal doors and walked by small villages attached to the castles. I time-travelled to the past and saw playful children in kerchiefs and stony faced men. I felt the warmth of their bodies on the rock walls and heard their raised voices. To see spirits from the past did not frighten me.

Vacationing alone restores my energy. I felt lonely but I returned with heightened senses and more empathy.

My Lucky Flight to Italy in 1975

I flew Alitalia in 1975 because my flight attendant discount ticket cost $69 round trip. My seat was over the wing in the middle of the center aisle. I barely noticed the older man and woman who sat on either side of me.

Two hours over the Atlantic Ocean, I looked across the plane to the left and out the window. Flames shot from the engine. I worked for United, so I wanted to run and tell the pilots, but I wasn't working the flight and I didn't know the Italian words for fire and engine. We dropped altitude and the flames ceased. The plane banked hard to the left and the pilot made a long announcement in Italian. In English, he said we were headed back to New York City.

Passengers gasped and went silent. In time, conversation erupted. I started to write a goodbye letter to my family but realized if I died so would my note. I remembered the time I took a break in the cockpit and asked the captain about engines.

"If there are four engines and one gives out, can the plane fly?" I asked.

"Oh sure," he said. "You just have to keep an eye on your instruments."

"What if two engines fail?"
"Hairy," he told me, with a drop in his perky tone.

"And three gone?" Silence. His thumb made a downward turn.

Surrounded by Italians who spoke no English, my knowledge barely helped my despair. I observed how other passengers coped. The wild eyed woman to my left clutched her rosary. The row of women in front of me wailed. Suddenly one of the women leaned over her seat and waved her arms at me, then pointed to the man on my right. Smiling and calm, he nodded beatifically. Boom went the light bulb in my head. My seatmate was a Catholic priest. I felt lucky. I liked priests. Every one of them I have met has been positive and accepting of my psychic abilities.

Two hours of ocean gave way to asphalt. We waited a few hours and 2/3 of us boarded again. I stretched out on the empty seats to my left and fell asleep.

My Third Psychic Memory

I am maybe five or six. I must have been in kindergarten, since I have a real sense of myself. Every weekend I beg my mother to let me go alone into the front yard, which borders a boulevard with rushing cars. I have to go without her, since she likes the back yard with its privacy and noisy birds and a line to hang wash. Her front porch visits are limited to a sweep and a wash.

I keep asking to go out front alone. When she finally lets me, I hide behind our big old elm tree with my back against the rough bark. I think about two of our three neighbors, the ones my mom calls widows. I don’t know what that means, but I want to see what they do in their homes, so I stare through the tree and into their lives. One lady slouches in a chair to read and the other one is busy in her kitchen. They are boring to watch.

The house right next to ours is different. Inside lives one crazy family, and their intrigue and my shock equals fun. I stare into their house and watch the mother pace back and forth from the kitchen to the living room. The drama begins as she throws her arms in the air and runs to the bottom of the stairs, where she yells at the husband and children who are hiding upstairs. When she exhausts herself, she throws her body on the stairs and breaks out in a sob. In the yard, through the tree, I see her but I cannot hear every word.

After her final outburst, the husband storms down the stairs and bawls out his anger and
frustration. He stops to check on her as she lies prostate, then he stomps through the house and out to the garage. If he is only a little angry, he sits in his car inside the garage with the garage door open. When he gets really mad he drives off and doesn't return for the rest of the day.

Their ritual stays the same every weekend. The kids hide in their rooms, the parents fight. Their passion and pathos enthrall me. These are the days before we had a television, so their antics provide me with my own personal soap opera. As far as seeing through walls, I assume everyone has my abilities. I figure it’s like underwear, private. I certainly do not talk about it.

In second grade I make a new friend, a tow-headed tomboy. To impress her I take her to my secret spot behind the tree. I tell her about my fun as I watch the neighbors act crazy. She stands behind the tree with her back straight against it. Time passes.

“This isn’t working. I have to face the tree to look through it,” she tells me, as irritation creeps into her voice.

Silent as stone, she waits with her nose pressed against the bark. Within minutes she gives up.

"What are you STUPID?” she screams at me. “People can't see through walls!"

Our friendship collapses as she marches off for home.

My Second Psychic Memory

My baby brother John arrives and inhabits my crib. Mother's attention is taken by him and I have become a watch dog. My big sister Judy is allowed to play outside in the alley next to our row home, so I love to stand at the window and watch her.

When my mother gets sick of the smudge marks from my nose, I sit on a kitchen chair and watch Judy through the wall of the house. When she leaves for school I cannot see where she goes, and that frustrates me.

My First Psychic Memory

I wake, ready to cry for my mother. I am in a crib in our first house, so I am younger than two. I pull myself up by the bars to stand, and fight off the urge to scream for attention. When I find her I will feel safe.

My "inner eye" scans the second floor. Nothing. I look through the floor to the living room. No one. I push to get my inner eye through the floor and the wall shared by the living room and kitchen. I float through the house but my body is still in the crib. At last I see her in the kitchen making food. Now I feel secure, so I sit down and wait. Mama will come and get me when nap time is over.

Playing Music and the Psychic Float

People like to ask how I do my psychic work. I sometimes call it my psychic float, which means I drift to another place in my mind, almost another dimension. Today I realized it is a bit like playing music.

As many of you know, my Mommy died last August. Holidays are hard right after you lose a loved one, so on New Year's Eve I promised myself a prize. First I made a bucket list of things of what I can do in my 60's that I might not be able to do in my 70's, and on that list was to play music as a solo act (should I call myself One Band Jan?). I bought a new keyboard and speakers and a mixer, and now I spend a lot of time with practice and song selection.

Singing is right brained and piano is left brained. It's quite difficult to do them at the same time. but it does strengthen the connections between both sides of the brain. My psychic work is the same. I use my right brain, my intuition, to float to a place of concentration, but my advice to clients and friends need to be carefully chosen, which is left brained.

I believe each of you has a similar story. Try to notice when you float to another zone to think creatively. Make use of your best gifts.