Second Sight, page 19
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Sitting up in bed, I could still hear the angels singing. “I just saw Jesus,” I told her. “I was with Grandpop, in my dream.”
“Jesus?” she exclaimed. My mother shook her head and gave me a look I'd seen before, one of bemused tolerance, as if she didn't want to hurt my feelings by disagreeing. “I knew something was going on. I'm just glad to see you're fine.” Smiling as she tucked me in, she gently whispered, “Your grandfather loves you very much. Now go to sleep.”
My mother didn't make any more of my dream that night, but the next day she seemed to cringe when I started talking about how wonderful Jesus was. Exasperated, she sat me down and asked, “Where did you get this from? I've raised you to be a nice Jewish girl. All your friends are Jewish. We never taught you anything about Jesus.” I'd just encountered this incredible being, but now I felt I had done something wrong and was treading in dangerous territory. I didn't understand. Why did my response to Jesus make me any less Jewish? I just saw him as a loving friend and guide.
Not surprisingly, I didn't mention this again to my mother or anyone else. But neither did I speak about the many other dreams throughout my childhood that communicated the same message of love, though with different characters and settings. I sensed that this entire domain was in some way off limits. As for Jesus, he appeared to me from time to time as only one part of this nocturnal continuum. I now consider him my first spiritual teacher and my first exposure to the love I later sought in working with Brugh Joy and others, and then discovered in my own meditations.
My early psychic dreams, I have since realized, were preparing me to see. They were my initial encounter with the fact that the form our faith takes is less important than the love it imparts. Of course I couldn't articulate this as a child, but I did know that the goodness and rightness I felt were indisputable, even if I had to keep these dreams to myself. Years later, after a decade of meditating, searching, and studying with teachers from a variety of backgrounds, I was able to put into words this childhood knowing: The bedrock of spirituality is to learn about love.
When we approach the psychic in this spirit, not as a means to accumulate power but as a vehicle for right action, clarity, and service, our intentions remain pristine. It is possible to be psychic without any spiritual orientation: You could view this ability as the expression of a trainable, human skill. But to do so, you would be assigning it a very limited role. On the most basic level, the psychic is a means of gathering specific information. It also possesses, however, a spiritual impulse that makes it a potent vehicle for healing, a poignant force readily contacted by our belief in the mystical, even if simply defined as love.
While growing up, I knew none of this. Frightened by my psychic experiences, I had no context in which to place them, was afraid of my abilities for many years. Later, as I became an adult, my teachers imparted a message true for any and all wishing to open themselves up to seeing: To proceed, we must feel safe, we must know there is a net beneath us.
Clarifying and strengthening spiritual beliefs, I've found, is a way of providing that net. It may not be your way—and that's fine. But to prepare yourself to see, you'll need a path that is compassionate, and not based on power. My approach is through the spiritual, and I urge you to give this a try. It helps not to think of “spirituality” as some rigid concept with procedures and rules. The form of spirituality is a matter of choice—it can be religious in a traditional sense, or not. After all, through the ages spirit has had numerous faces and names: God, Goddess, Jesus, Buddha, Adonai, Tao, Father Sky, Mother Earth, or love. For some of us, however, it might be nameless, the quiet place inside. Whatever the form, through our connection with this sublime, compassionate presence our awareness begins to expand. We become more open, psychically receptive. Our capacity to see is often born of an inner pilgrimage. The quest for spirit, our focused listening within, fine-tunes our sensitivities, bringing us greater insight.
By nature we are all seers, though our ability may remain latent. Also, the impetus to explore the psychic can vary. For some it may be a choice, a gradual unfolding. For others, like myself, it may be thrust upon you, compelling you to begin. Suddenly you have a dream, a premonition, an overpowering hunch. Maybe you have never thought of yourself as psychic, even doubted the reality of such things. Still, you can't argue with the clarity of your experience. You're at a crossroads, being pulled forward. Do you deny yourself? Go on with life as before? Impossible. Something tells you to stop guarding some rigid idea of who you are. For those so compelled, pursuing the psychic is nor a choice: It is a calling.
For one patient of mine, it came like a bolt out of the blue. Sophie thought she was crazy. She found me by flipping her television channels one Saturday night when I was on a public-access cable show. The topic of the show was psychic dreams, and I was talking about how my mother had visited me soon after she died. It had only been a few months since her death, and I was still reeling from the shock. To speak of my mother on the air, though liberating, also made my loss more real. When Sophie heard me, she was driven to pick up the phone.
A Jewish immigrant in her early seventies, Sophie lived alone in a studio apartment in the Fairfax district, with Social Security benefits her only income. Her son had died of an accidental cocaine overdose one year before. Thus we shared a similar grief. Soon after her son's death, Sophie had fallen into a depression.
When she arrived for her first appointment, she explained why she had come. “I've been afraid to tell anyone,” she said, “but every evening after dinner, my son sits across from me on a stool in the kitchen and keeps me company. He's just as real as you or me. I realize how strange this sounds, but when I heard the story about your mother, I thought you'd understand. My son's presence is comforting, but have I lost my mind?”
Since she was certain that both her daughters would be alarmed if she told them about her son's visitations, I was the only person she'd confided in. Being of a generation that didn't believe in psychiatry, Sophie had taken a big risk. “If I ever had a problem,” she declared, “I'd always work it out on my own.” This was a matter of pride, of not giving in to “weakness.” And yet, she had a great need to make sense of her experience.
Bundled up in an old woolen coat and clutching her purse, Sophie sat poised on the edge of the couch. Though I saw how uneasy she was, I was touched by her determination to get to the truth. Most of all, I felt empathy for her isolation and self-doubt. She was an ordinary person with visions. That impressed me. No New Age convert or student of metaphysics, Sophie didn't think of herself as psychic. Psychology was an alien language. I was the first psychiatrist she had ever seen.
Wanting to make Sophie more comfortable, I sat down beside her and offered her some tea. Gradually, as we talked, she began to open up, and then for over an hour spoke nonstop about herself. I learned she was a conservative Jew who regularly attended a synagogue in her neighborhood. She had received solace from prayer and the traditional Jewish rituals, but she was reluctant to tell her rabbi about the vision, afraid that he wouldn't understand.
Sophie had never had a vision before. She'd led a modest life. A strong-willed woman, she pulled herself up by her bootstraps whenever things got tough. There was nothing about her behavior to indicate that Sophie was or ever had been psychotic. Except for the overwhelming grief she felt, her mind was sharp and clear. Was Sophie hallucinating? Had she conjured up this image of her son out of loneliness? I didn't think so.
Because of the encounters with my mother, my profound belief in an afterlife, and the accounts I had heard over the years of dead relatives visiting patients and friends, I took Sophie's claim seriously. The description of her son was convincing and vivid; I was inclined to consider it real. Though he never materialized to me, I could feel his presence with us—a subtle veil of warmth, imbued with a focused intelligence, communicating love and concern for his mother. It was like standing silently in a room, eyes closed, with other persons nearby: Just because we can't see or hear them doesn't mean they're not there. When we are quiet, instincts finely tuned, we may sense them.
This was no imagining or picture that I reconstructed from Sophie's memories. During my medical training, I'd witnessed the identical thing time and again soon after a patient died: It was often possible to sense the dead psychically. However, I also understand there's no way to prove of disprove this. It's simply a matter of belief. More important was the relevance this vision had for Sophie. Even if I hadn't considered it authentic, my approach would have been the same: to focus on the message of her experience.
Western medicine has traditionally been uncomfortable with visions, particularly those conjuring up the dead. Given this bias, it's not surprising that many physicians would have interpreted Sophie's vision as resulting from a biochemical imbalance set in motion by grief. In research studies, extreme stress has been shown to throw our neurotransmitters out of whack, resulting in pathological “symptoms,” a tenet ingrained in the fabric of my medical training.
Although physiologically this may often be true, it doesn't tell the full story; it locks us into viewing the psychic in a narrow way. Yes, when we're in crisis our systems react and change, yet that may be exactly the reason our awareness expands. Of course we will have discomfort, but so it is with growth. To see crises as opportunities, not just in psychological terms but as a gateway into the psychic, is the key.
As a psychiatrist, I believe that we must acknowledge the integrity of our visions, to recognize them as a potential opening, so we may access a deeply resourceful part of ourselves. We don't have to lead bifurcated lives, splitting off our psychic side. The price we pay is too high. By appreciating the full scope of our depths and capabilities, we can then strive for true emotional and spiritual health. Some of us are fortunate to have many such chances, but for Sophie this was the first. Her time had come and she was ready.
Sophie had harbored her secret for many months. It had been festering inside her, fueling her anxieties. When I assured her that I believed her experience was genuine, she grabbed my hand and kissed it. To be validated by even one other person when we're afraid we might be losing our mind restores our confidence. Then we can regroup and evaluate what's happening from a different angle, undistorted by fear.
There's a line from “The Covenant,” by C. K. Williams, which has always spoken to me: “In my unlikeliest dreams, the dead are with me again, companions again, in an ordinary way.” In this spirit, I neither overdramatized Sophie's situation nor did I minimize its significance. The essential question I asked myself was, How can I use this information to help Sophie find peace?
“If our loved ones feel they have unfinished business with us, their presence may linger after the body has gone,” I said. “It's as if they have to make sure we're all right before they can leave. When you're ready, you must give your son permission to go.”
It was easy for me to appreciate why Sophie had been unable to accomplish this right away. I would have done anything to keep my mother alive. Losing her had been inconceivable. It felt terribly unfair. Sophie's vision linked her to her son; in releasing him she would have to confront his death fully. I knew that situation well. But I also knew the strength that comes from listening to psychic visions. It fortified my courage to move on so that I could share the legacy of love I had been given. I wanted to convey this to Sophie.
Her vision was the perfect vehicle. Through many conversations with her son, some of which took place in my office, Sophie slowly adjusted to his death. It was so abrupt; there had been no way to prepare. The vision gave Sophie time. Its message was always the same: Her son would be there as long as she needed him, until she could sort through her grief. In fact, his presence was often so strong I felt I knew him. Over the next few months, as Sophie resumed her life again—joining a seniors' group at her synagogue, making new friends—her son appeared less frequently. Finally, when she was ready to say good-bye to him, his visits stopped.
Psychic experiences such as Sophie's are our birthright, and it's up to us to claim it. There's no elite to which this gift belongs—the seeds have been planted in everyone. To harvest them, we must first reprogram ourselves by envisioning the extent of our vastness, challenge anyone who insists on making us small. That we are limited as psychic beings is a myth stemming from ignorance and false assumptions: Each one of us is multifaceted, radiant, and teeming with possibilities.
Imagine that you're gazing through a window onto a magnificent countryside. The view is unobstructed. For miles you're able to see green rolling hills, an expansive blue sky, hawks soaring past the sun, the outline of a distant village. The longer you look, the mote there is to take in. There are exquisite details you might have missed out on, had that same window been clouded over. So it is with our psychic sight. It can offer beauty and insight we may not even know is there. We have grown so accustomed to viewing the world through tarnished lenses that we've forgotten what it means to really see.
Whether you're a skeptic, simply curious, or already a believer, this journey is open for all. It doesn't matter if you've never had a psychic experience or have been wary of such things. Once you are ready to take a second look, to open the door a crack and reevaluate, everything is possible. Because we so often create our own prisons, we also have the power to set ourselves free. All that is required is a willingness to suspend disbelief temporarily, daring to blow apart constraints that have held you back for so long. To awaken is an act of courage.
There's an integrity to the psychic process that flows with a certain rhythm. Like a great river, it moves us along if we allow it. To be psychic doesn't mean that we're enlightened or special. As we grow accustomed to seeing, it becomes completely natural, though our culture offers little support. Prescience is not something we can master in a day, a week, or even a year. Intimately related to the spiritual, it is a path that will take us as deep as we are ready to go. Our spiritual awareness keeps us honest, preventing our egos from ballooning out of control.
At the onset, you must approach the psychic with the proper attitude: The power that comes with it can be very seductive, and should always be treated with the utmost respect. For that reason, one must find a mature teacher, both knowledgeable and humble, to guide the initial stages. After returning from Brugh Joy's conference, I was looking to meet someone locally, to establish regular contact and a consistent routine. My search for such a person began in fits and starts.
Over the following year I sampled a smorgasbord of gurus in Los Angeles, from a San Fernando ex-housewife who channeled an ancient entity bringing messages from the dead to a psychic astrologer who catered to Hollywood stars. It was a colorful circus of diverse personalities and styles, some more palatable than others. But since for me they all lacked a certain depth, I wasn't motivated to study with anyone longer than a weekend.
One day, a friend suggested that I see a newly immigrated Malaysian man whose meditation methods had impressed her. I was intrigued, knowing from Brugh that meditation could deepen my spiritual practice and enhance the psychic. The only problem was that by then I was becoming discouraged; I thought I'd exhausted the spiritual circuit and doubted that I would encounter anything new. But, certain that this particular friend was quick to see through metaphysical hype and hypocrisy, I decided to make an appointment.
A week later, in a modest fifties-style office building in downtown Santa Monica, I walked up a flight of creaky stairs and entered a sparsely decorated office with a single Formica desk and two worn armchairs. Sitting quietly in the corner was a man in his midforties, dressed in a simple gray cotton shirt and pants that might have come from Sears. He waited patiently for me to arrive, no hoopla or fanfare. When I looked carefully at him, suddenly all I could see were his eyes, two clear pools of light I'd known from somewhere before. Those eyes, which felt as if they'd always been gazing at me, could see my every hiding place, my faults and gifts alike. Ecstatic at the sight of him, I wanted to explode like a comet streaking across the sky. And all this before he uttered a word.
In the next hour, I poured out my life story, though he hadn't asked: The details just kept flowing out of my mouth as if from a spigot that wouldn't shut off. He listened in stillness, in complete respect, never once interrupting. When, finally, I was finished he spoke slowly and unassumingly in broken English about his background and meditation philosophy, making only a very few comments about me. In truth, it wasn't so much what he said but the radiance of his face. In his gentle, reserved way, he looked at me with so much love that I instinctively trusted him. I knew I had found my teacher.
I began attending a two-hour meditation class he taught Sunday mornings in the back room of an acupuncturist's office in Culver City. To my dismay, these were very frustrating sessions. I expected to find at least some sense of inner peace, but from the moment I closed my eyes all I felt was anxiety. The first few minutes of sitting were always the hardest. I'd fidget; my mind chattered incessantly. I couldn't calm down. Worse, there was the born-again Christian group next door, whose fervent hymns were as loud as if they were sitting in the room with us. How were we expected to meditate with such a racket going on? My teacher didn't look concerned. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the music. But I was impatient, antsy. Aware of my discomfort, he smiled and advised, “Try not to let the singing disturb you. Keep on meditating. Eventually it will get easier.” Since I respected him and he sounded so sure, I kept at it.
Before this, I had found it difficult to focus at home. Meditation wasn't as simple as just crossing your legs and closing your eyes. When writer and performer Spalding Gray told Tricycle magazine “I've been circling my meditation cushion for almost twenty years,” I could totally relate to what he said. The most painful part was getting to the cushion in the first place. My teacher said, “It takes discipline to meditate. Do it for just five minutes a day.” Easy enough, I thought. But I couldn't seem to pull it off. Carving out the time felt impossible. Full of good reasons why I couldn't sit, I always found something that stood in the way. I was too busy. The phone kept ringing. A neighbor needed me to move my car. I came up with a million “good” excuses. It wasn't that I didn't want to meditate, I just couldn't get myself to do it.
