When times get tough–and of course, that’s tough in the First World sense, because I don’t mean I regularly walk to a well barefoot and then there’s a drought–and I don’t know which way to go next in my very privileged life, I seek council.
One would think a person with reasonable reason would seek out a life coach, a therapist or a good friend. And I do. But I also will, under extreme duress, visit the occasional psychic. Thus, my new favorite television show: Long Island Medium. You’ve watched. Don’t pretend that you haven’t. Okay, if you’ve missed the bleached shag, fake nails and compulsive lip licking psychic, you’ve missed some good television. She says she communicates with the dead. She tells people things that make them cry with relief. A typical exchange goes something like:
“Has somebody recently lost a brother?” An entire deli turns to look at my favorite psychic. And then one woman, over by the bulky rolls clutches her chest and wells up. She lost a brother. Recently.
“He wants you to know that he’s fine. He wants you to know that it meant a lot to him that you were there when he passed. You were, right? You were right there. He tells me you told him it was okay to let go.”
At this point, the woman who recently lost the brother, who was stopped mid-shop by the bulky rolls, is crying. She is nodding yes, yes she was there, and yes, she told him to go, and yes, she’s so glad he came through. She’d been worried, but now that a complete stranger with a bleached shag has passed her a message from her deceased brother, she’s better.
I can totally relate to the bulky-bun buyer. Empathic filming has me inside her grief. The camera zooms in on her flushed face, her splotchy chest and shaking hands. She is so obviously having a physical reaction that I’m convinced. Yeah, I know I’d be easy to con. But seriously, unless you’re Naomi Watts, feigning that range of emotion on spot would be tough.
I want to believe The Long Island Medium can talk to the dead. Why not? Totems of hope. Easter bunnies and Santa Claus, why not. Fortune cookies and daily horoscopes promising encounters with new love.
Most recently, under the guise of doing a series on psychics (which I am hereby starting) I went to see an angel card reader. My cards showed work upside down, because I have a hard time focusing. I thought that was fair.
Then she told me things about my son and his future…all amazing. But I knew that. When she asked if there was anyone I’d like to talk to, I said, “My bubby.” The angel card reader cocked ear to shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut. When she released her ear and opened her eyes, she told me my bubby was on the other side but not talking yet.
Why I didn’t ask her what that meant, why some spirits cross and don’t talk, I don’t know. Did she take an oath of silence like a monk? I just accepted that my bubby, who was a jabberer, was not talking on the other side. Whatever. I would have liked to get her take on things but she wasn’t talking.
Instead I heard about my complicated relationships and my posse of guardian angels. Oh, and I’d pulled the card for love. She said women come to her year after year hoping to pull the card of love. She said they always ask if they need to do anything, like run around checking every man they meet for “new love” potential. I nodded. I wouldn’t have asked, but I was glad she was going to tell me how to activate the love card.
She said our angels bring people into our lives when we need them. I liked that too. I loath dating cites. But I’ve spent my share of time trying to make connections and I’ve written about them, here and here. Mostly, they make me anxious. So if my angel posse is in charge of my love life and all I have to do is organize my upside down work card, things might be about to get a whole lot better. As in, my walk to the well in a drought is about to change to a rain dance in a monsoon.
Across from the couch we sat on, was an overstuffed love seat with two lapdogs watching and listening to my private reading. In the dining room behind the couch the psychic and I sat on, was a mile of Easter decorations, individual place settings and bunny ears attached to the backs of the chairs. While the reading went on and I heard about my past lives and loves, I wondered who was coming for Easter and if she always decorated for holidays with such vigor. No matter how many issues of doubt I ran up against, like my mute bubby, or the wild success that awaits me, or my past life as an Indian princess (my personal favorite), I wanted to believe Santa ate the cookies and drank the milk and that weekend, when the angel card reader/psychic’s grandchildren sat at her mile long Easter table, they would believe the Easter bunny filled their baskets.
Bunnies come in all shapes and sizes and I’d just had an angel card reading with one of ‘em.
(Image: Thomas Hawk/Flickr Creative Commons)