I hear voices. I see shadows. I see body parts walk briskly by and sometimes even whole bodies. I see wispets of energy. I feel spirits when they are swirling with frenetic energy but my favorite is being blanketed with their waves of warm, unconditional love. I get feelings about things. I recognize patterns, synchronicity, the big picture. I sometimes know what people are thinking but, more often, feel what they are feeling. If asked and given license to really “look”, I can plug into people, an imaginary extension cord of energy running between us, and then it’s blow your mind, snot-running time.
I wasn’t always like this, although They say I was. They say I am an Empath, and that makes sense as growing up I always seemed to wrap my arms around those that needed a little extra compassion. But seeing spirits, that switch was thrown when I was ill. I went to my surgeon and pleaded with him to rush the surgery as I was losing my mind. He joked that teenagers would do that to ya (Midwest accent firmly in place) then calmly, and with Boy Scout earnestness, went on to explain that as the body shuts down the veil drops. Before I could muster enough spittle to start an argument, he went on to say it happens all the time but the medical community just doesn’t talk about it. I thought “frickin’ great, my surgeon, another California whack job, albeit a transplant.
Born in the land of weird, weirder, weirdest, you would think I would take to this like a duck to water. Although most Californians love this stuff, they also exercise, eat healthy, and love their celebrity watching. I am a lazy lass, my thighs crave their fries and although I respect this gift, I wouldn’t have paid any attention to it at all if not forced to—if my little piggys hadn’t landed on the largest mound of mana in the northern hemisphere.
Magic brought me to the island—magic and love. God brought me here for a purpose. He brought me to my treasure of a man foretold 15 years earlier; the kind of love that poets write sonnets about, a love that is every woman’s deepest desire but most of us believe only exists in the romance novelist’s imagination. I would be gagging at this point too if I wasn’t living it. The comic in me would have had a field day with this sappy love stuff, trying to hold down my cookies, snorting in derisive laughter as milk shot from my nose. This kind of love isn’t possible, the cynic in me would have jeered sarcastically. Come on Karen, and seeing dead people is? But true, juicy, melt your synapses, knees quivering, love IS possible. I breathe it every day.
Happy ever after. End of story. One would think, right? I’m old, and shouldn’t have to get it up anymore. Oh wait, that’s a guy’s line. Well, whatever. Those fries may be taking their toll, but I don’t want to keep on truckin’. I want to veg. I want to spend all day the contented cat that I am, licking, basking, stretching, napping, playing, occasionally swatting at something as it passes by. Should I have to do more than that? Back to the purpose, God’s purpose. So I says to myself “Self, you are finally home in the arms of the man you love so what more do you want?” and I answer “Not a thing! I am well-pleased”… “Okay, if you want to throw in a winning lottery ticket for good measure but other than that I am truly and purely happy.” It’s time for a long winter’s nap but before that, what’s for lunch?
Once in my true love’s arms, I neatly boxed the spirits putting them up on a high shelf forgetting about them, thinking that they had completed their task by guiding me to my final resting place. Once in a while I would see a spirit, catch a shadow, but it wouldn’t even rattle around in my rat trap brain long enough to register before the memory disappeared. I stopped talking to them, and ignored them if they tried to talk to me. I stopped seeing signs. At one point I remember feeling the loss and actually mentioning that I had lost my “sight” to my husband, but then the subject was quickly changed and I didn’t give it another thought. Soon the headaches started, then the migraines, and then the unending little kid earache. Months of poke, poke, poke… “Pay attention to us!”
And finally I did.
I write this so that you will understand that I am you. I have just as much magic in me as you have in you, a lot. But more than our magic, which is how we love, how we treat each other, how we create, we all have the ability to “tune in” should we choose. Spirit delights in talking to us, wants to reveal our path to us so that we don’t have to stumble through this House of Mirrors blindly. I am no one special and every one unique. I did nothing to deserve this, nor did I seek it out. I did not spend years accumulating knowledge with a conscious purpose in mind. I did not give zillions of dollars to teachers or preachers who would show me the one true way to God, the Goddess, Shiva, whatever. I did from time to time listen to guidance but, for the most part, I was more inclined to tune out rather than in. The point is God wants to talk to you, Spirits want to talk to you, there are signs everywhere, and all you have to do is open your eyes and see, your ears and listen, your heart and believe. I’m a thickheaded bozo head so it took me longer than most.
Just like Forrest Gump, I chose the scenic route but it is my hope that I can get you to your destiny with a little more tread on your Nikes and hopefully without the Godspell-style facial hair. Taking one for the home team, I ended up with a few stray whiskers (gross) but hey, that’s what tweezers are for—that and splinters in your butt.
Journey with me and with the gentleness of a Gibbs’ slap I’ll be your GPS, offering warnings as to which turns are hairy and which roads are dead-ends—what to do and not to do to avoid the pitfalls and potholes.
As for me, this mule has learned to turn on a dime.