PREPARING TO SEE
In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities; in the expert's mind there are few.
—SHUNRYU SUZUKI, ROSHI
When I was nine, I dreamed that my grandfather, who had recently died, took me to see Jesus. There he was, larger than life, sitting on an enormous white stage in a glistening ballroom, the kind I'd seen on TV when the big bands of the 1940s performed. In my dream, I was so excited I could barely contain myself. My heart beating wildly, I rushed down the aisle and plunged into the warmth of his arms. As my grandfather looked on, Jesus embraced me. I snuggled into his lap, protected and safe, lulled by a chorus of distant angels. At this moment, I felt only love. Wanting for nothing, I remained in this state a long time.
Still enveloped by the sweetness, I awoke. It was nighttime. I couldn't have been up for more than a few minutes when the door of my bedroom swung open and my mother burst in. Sensing that something bad had happened, that I was sick or hurt, she'd come running.
“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.
After about a month, suddenly, while meditating in class, something shifted. I don't know how or why. I hadn't really done anything different. With our neighbors belting out a particularly soulful “Rock of Ages,” I tried to ignore my irritation and closed my eyes. As usual, my thoughts chimed in on cue and started blaring with the intensity of a loud radio in a tiny room. I guess I finally just tuned it all out. I'd hashed over the same conversations in my mind so many times, but now the relentless jabbering became like white noise. I couldn't hear it or the music anymore. Instead there was stillness, a feeling of tranquillity—my first taste of the comfort meditation could bring.
I could never have forced this. I just had to sit there faithfully week after week, when I didn't seem to be making any progress. Although I didn't realize it, I was moving ahead. Consistency was the secret. By showing up each Sunday, I was making my meditation a discipline. Surrounded by twenty other people, carried along by their energy and enthusiasm, I wasn't so easily distracted. Most important, I didn't let my restlessness stop me. Although subtle at first, a momentum was building: Once able to feel the peace that comes from meditation, I could more easily find it again.
By regularly quieting my mind, I grew accustomed to a new kind of inner listening. Beneath the incessant buzzing of my thoughts, I aimed always to return to the stillness. Far from being a void, it was alive, possessed an inherent vitality. In this state, the psychic became more accessible, and not simply because of the lack of distractions. It was much more than that: The stillness seemed to have a language of its own. It would speak to me, tell me things during meditation and at other times. Issues I had been confused about would suddenly become clear: how to approach certain situations, deal with people, make decisions that felt right. Through the discipline of going inward and calming myself, my psychic voice took form, became more consistent. Rather than a sporadic, random perception, it was evolving into a regular part of my life.
My teacher, a Taoist, believed in a universal intelligence—referred to as the Tao—upon which all spiritual paths converge. The purpose of meditating, he said, was to contact this force, get to know ourselves better, and strengthen our spiritual link. A by-product of meditation, though not its main goal, was a kindling of our psychic awareness. It was a gift: We were never to blow it out of proportion or misuse it in any way.
And so, in this spirit, my meditation pracrice began. Initially I had to grow into it and go at my own pace. For the first few months, I meditated only two hours a week in class. Gradually, as I was able to do it on my own, the length of time I spent sitting increased. Now I make a point of meditating at least once a day. Early mornings are my favorite. Before reading the newspaper, answering phone calls, or preparing breakfast, I sit quietly for at least twenty minutes. This gets me off to a good start. Whenever I skip my morning meditation, I feel more frazzled and off center as the day goes on.
Meditation is the most powerful tool I have found to become more psychically attuned. It allows us to cross over boundaries we may not know existed until we've moved beyond them. The reason many of you may not realize you're psychic is that you have become conditioned to hearing only your mind. The intensity of your thoughts overrides everything else. Meditation gives you more options. Even if you have never thought of yourself as the “type” or have tried and been unsuccessful, when properly guided everyone can meditate.
I teach my patients to practice the same simple technique my teacher taught me. First, sit on a comfortable cushion, back upright, legs crossed. If sitting on a cushion is too uncomfortable, sit on a chair, making sure to keep your back straight. If you lie down it's too easy to fall asleep. With the palms of your hands resting together in the traditional prayer position, begin by making a reverential bow in honor of yourself and your spiritual source. Then, most important, start to breathe. Paying attention only to the rhythm of your in-breath and out-breath, notice the nuances of each inhalation and exhalation as the flow of air passes through your lungs and out past your nostrils and mouth. If thoughts come—and they will—note them but try not to get involved in them, and always return to the breath. In Yogic thought, this is the prana, our vital energy, the essence of life. Concentrating on it singly leads to the stillness as nothing else can.
You may be like me. I've always rebelled against regimentation of any kind. If someone tells me one way of doing some thing, I'm sure to do the opposite. I'm not saying that this is a commendable quality, but it's how I often feel. Respecting this about myself, I've chosen a method of meditating that suits my character. It's more free flowing, instinctual, without a lot of rules. But meditation is extremely personal. There are many excellent methods—including Zen, Vipassanna, Yoga, transcendental meditation—some more structured than others. It may help to experiment with a few. In the final analysis, how or where you meditate is less important than the outcome of the practice.
I know of a blackjack dealer in Reno who uses meditation to center himself amidst the chaos and confusion of the gambling casino. Inspired by the Hindu tradition, he's renamed himself Hanuman after the monkey god, recognized for being the devoted servant of Rama. During his breaks, he sits cross-legged beneath the glare of the bright lights, eyes closed, surrounded by the din of slot machines and people shouting. There he meditates as peacefully as he might on a mountain in Tibet. His practice has taught him to cope with external distractions and keeps him focused and astute.
To be able to meditate, no matter what the physical conditions, you must begin slowly. Meditation requires loyalty and perseverance. Initially, you can limit yourself to five minutes a day. Once you become more accustomed to sitting, gradually build up to twenty minutes over the next few weeks or months. You may stay at that level for a while. When you're ready, in crease to a full hour. But don't worry if your mind is busy. It takes practice to sense the stillness, so try to be patient. If at first nothing much seems to be happening, you're not doing anything wrong. There's no rush. Just keep your attention focused on the breath as much as possible. Be gentle with yourself. Change takes time.
The psychic flourishes when you give it space to grow. Meditation can provide this. It is an organic process that allows prescience to mature gradually, in a healthy way. With time to assimilate this change, you will never be given more than you can handle. There's a natural tempo to opening that occurs if you don't force it before you're ready. Sometimes we may move ahead in leaps and bounds, at other times take only tiny steps forward, or even think that we're sliding backward. Bur however it may appear, this is an ongoing process of growth. Wisely prepare yourself to see. Make space for your own brilliance. Meditation can be your first step, a solid, well-grounded send-off to a truly amazing journey.
When I was a child, I had a fantasy that a space ship had dropped me off on Earth. I took comfort in believing that my actual home was far out in the stars on another planet, a place where I really belonged. Many nights, yearning to feel complete, I would sit up on the roof and gaze at the sky, searching, feeling an intangible presence just beyond reach. I hoped that if I stared out into space long enough I would make it my own.
Through meditation I later discovered what I had been looking for: a seamless continuity between myself and this very force. More than just offering a psychic link, meditation brought my spirituality alive, wove into my life a sacred texture. A source of replenishment and solace, meditation amplified what was most holy to me and made it recognizable so that I could take it in.
But I wasn't able to achieve this overnight. Until I met my teacher in 1985, my meditation habits were irregular, without focus or form. I had tried meditating on the bed, propped up on a large silk pillow; in the living room twisted like a pretzel in the lotus position on the couch; and even in the bathtub at night soaking in deliciously warm water, surrounded by a circle of flickering votive candles. Still, I couldn't get it right. I felt like a restless old dog, shifting positions, never really settling into a comfortable one.
To solve this predicament, my teacher suggested that I set up an altar, a simple but ingenious idea that immediately intrigued me. He had pinpointed exactly what had been lacking. Rather than being haphazard about meditating, roaming from room to room, I needed a specific place where I could settle in. Meant to be a tribute to the Tao, our spiritual source, an altar is a physical touchstone joining us to it. In constructing one, my teacher had only a few instructions: It was to face the east (in the Taoist tradition, the birthplace of spiritual power); and I was to place a red candle on the right (symbol of knowledge), a white candle on the left (symbol of purity), and provide a container to burn incense. The rest my teacher would leave up to me.
Excited, I began right away. Rummaging around in my garage I found a small wooden table about two feet wide that I had used years before in my Venice apartment. Intentionally, I hadn't rushed out to buy a new table: I wanted one that already had part of me in it, reflected my history. So I brought it upstairs, dusted it off, and placed it on the far wall of my office at home, across from my computer. For a while I just looked at it, deciding what to do next. A few days later, while I was browsing in Bullock's, a roll of fabric jumped out at me. A beige background patterned with beautiful Asian women dressed in blue kimonos, it felt perfect. I got a piece large enough to cover the table's surface. With it in place, I added the objects my teacher recommended plus a small white porcelain statue of Quan Yin, the goddess of compassion. I was all set to go.
Little did I know the dynamic role my altar would play in both my meditation practice and my life. When my mother was dying, it was the place I sought at moments when I thought I couldn't go on. So many nights I slept next to it for the comfort it offered. Sometimes I would place on it a bouquet of colorful flowers or a bowl of fresh fruit—symbols of beauty and vibrancy I clung to in my need. Gazing at the radiant face of Quan Yin, often through a blur of tears, enabled me to remain focused on the truths I believed in, to forgive myself when I fell short, and to begin the next day anew.
When my life gets hectic, I know that I can return to my altar to rejuvenate myself. No matter how stressed out I am or how fast my mind is spinning, just sitting in stillness makes everything slow down. I meditate in front of it each day, though sometimes I'm drawn there in the middle of the night as well. If I am having trouble sleeping, it's the first place I head. Calming, a constant reminder of the power of faith, my altar helps me to relax so that I can rest comfortably again. I always leave feeling nourished, as if I had just drunk fresh water from a mountain stream.
One of my patients, Maggie, didn't enter psychotherapy to become psychic, to meditate, or to learn about altars. She simply was having trouble with her boyfriend. Throughout her life, Maggie had had a series of relationships with dominant men. They had wanted to control her, and she'd relinquished her power to them, becoming passive and compliant, never speaking her own needs. Each time it was the same: She felt overlooked, undervalued. Now, after years of being single, she had once again met a guy who swept her away. They had been dating for only three months and already the relationship had become strained. The familiar pattern was repeating itself; she was beginning to have doubts.
Maggie, a media consultant, had been in lengthy psychoanalysis, so she had a sophisticated intellectual understanding of the unconscious factors that motivated her relationship choices. Still, she was enslaved by her repetitive behavior. I knew that I needed to guide her in a different direction.
Maggie maintained two sets of friends. One group, including her present boyfriend, had fairly conservative beliefs, and they mocked anything that was considered “spiritual.” The other, comprised of avid meditators, was devoted to pursuing a spiritual life. These were the people with whom Maggie felt most at home. Still, she limited her involvement with them because she was afraid of going overboard. Having studied meditation in the past, Maggie held back, reluctant to commit herself to a regular practice. Convinced that her conservative friends would condemn such an activity as “flaky” or “insubstantial,” she never brought it up in their company.
For over two years, Maggie stayed on the fence, keeping her friends separate, leading a dual life. Looking at Maggie, I saw a reflection of myself ten years before: She was struggling with a similar split. I saw so much yearning and so much pain simmering just beneath the surface. I knew the massive amount of energy it took to keep these worlds separate. Always trying to please, to conform at any expense, even if it meant being untrue to yourself. I could also see that she was desperate to change but didn't know how. Her discomfort had finally grown so great that she was willing to try just about anything. I suggested that she set up an altar.
Out of touch with her intuition, uncentered, Maggie needed a designated place to regroup, a sacred spot in her home, formally defined, where she could learn to gather her power. That was the starting point. It is an easy action that any one of us can take if we feel confused or lost, needing to find ourselves again.
“An altar is a haven where you can go at any time to meditate and be alone,” I explained. “It's your own private sanctuary…like a church or synagogue. But it doesn't have to be conventionally religious unless you want it to be. The important thing is that you sit quietly with yourself, find your intuitive voice, and begin to listen.”
Maggie's face brightened. “An altar? A few of my friends who meditate have one. In fact, I almost set one up myself. But I was afraid other people would think it's weird. Especially my boyfriend. I didn't want to start a fight.”
“Then pick an out-of-the-way location,” I advised. “A back bedroom, office, even a hallway. Someplace where visitors don't usually go. An altar isn't meant to be a conversation piece. Actually, it's better not to discuss it with most people at all. No one should go there unless they're invited.”
Maggie's altar needed to be a place where she felt unviolated, a nurturing retreat. Unfortunately, she didn't have many such places in her life. Most of the time she felt as if she were on a battlefield, dodging bullets. I knew the feeling. Life can become frantic, even when we don't intend it to be. Our altar is a refuge to come home to, where we can kick off our shoes, breathe deeply again, reconnect.
For me, the altar was just a beginning. I've come to see my entire physical environment as an intimate extension of my inner life. I try to create a sense of sacredness throughout my home. I live by the ocean. As I fall asleep I can hear waves crashing on the shore. During rainstorms, the impact of the wind and water rattles my sliding glass windows and shakes the frame of my bed, keeping me tapped into the wildness of nature. I need to look out at vistas. I long to see expanses of sky. The ocean sunlight filters through my bay windows into every room. Reflecting through crystals hanging from my ceiling, it projects dancing rainbows on the walls. A ceramic vase full of fresh flowers rests on my dining room table. Potted plants of all sizes and shapes are everywhere. A mammoth creeping Charley drapes two stories down over my balcony. Though it's important that my living area feel safe and spiritually inspiring, you don't need a palace—any space can be made sacred if the desire is there.
Seeming as if she'd been just waiting for permission, Maggie jumped at the chance to set up an altar. But first she had to reinvent what spirituality meant to her. Raised a Roman Catholic, she had rebelled against the restrictions of her childhood religion. Since then there had been a spiritual vacuum in her life. She worried that the objects on the altar resembled idols. Associating ritual only with Catholicism, she had to start over again from scratch.
Maggie's altar was simple: a small wooden bench, a round, white candle, and a crystal vase just large enough to hold a single rose. Altars can take a variety of shapes and forms. The objects we place on them should inspire us: statues, pictures, incense, fruit, flowers, candles, or any other symbols that hold special meaning. I encouraged Maggie to meditate in front of her altar daily, even when she didn't feel like it or if there were a million other things to do. Through this discipline, she learned how to direct her attention inward, over and over again, until it became habit. “Listen closely,” I kept urging her, “until you can hear your intuitive voice again.”
“How do I know what it sounds like?” she asked. “There are so many voices in my head. How can I tell them apart?” I reflected on my work at Mobius, how I trained myself to recognize the difference between what was logical or expected and what was psychically true; the sense of rightness that's often present, a clarity, an immediacy, an unconflicted quality so resolute and impartial that the information received isn't open to debate. Explaining this to Maggie, I also advised her to be patient. “This voice is often quiet but steady. It might take some practice to hear.”
In the beginning, Maggie was frustrated. The distracting dialogue in her mind was unrelenting. Whatever intuitive impulses she had were so faint that she could barely make them out. This is common for many of us. Our intellects have often been developed at a great expense: the annihilation of our instincts. To recover them, we must learn to listen in a keener way.
The power Maggie's altar held, and the dedication with which she approached it, made it an effective tool for change. Slowly, Maggie's intuition began to surface, at first small knowings, then larger ones. If she became confused, or slipped into old patterns with her boyfriend, she returned to her altar to consult her intuitive voice, just as she would a close friend. When she did, it told her the truth about things. It taught her to listen. It taught her to see.
If an altar appeals to you, it's an ideal way to create a peaceful environment in your home where you can meditate. Just knowing that you have a special place all your own, where you can be yourself without pretense or fear, can be amazingly reassuring. It provides a backup when everything else in life may be falling apart. Your altar can be a place of return: to your prescience, your inner knowledge, your mystical nature. It restores a sense of the sacred, propels your psychic quest. A concrete, practical step available to us all, an altar can be a reminder of the sublime, an honoring of the great mystery.
Maggie is an example of someone who was curious about the psychic. Jeff, however, came to me in a great deal of fear. He had always considered himself an intuitive person, but recently he had made two accurate psychic predictions that had badly shaken him.
On one occasion, he dreamed that his sister had fallen seriously ill. Since he knew that her health was excellent, however, he didn't pay any attention to the dream. A week later, jogging in the park, she had a sudden heart attack and nearly died. Shortly after this, Jeff had a clear premonition that a close friend who was in financial trouble would lose his job. Within a month, the friend was unemployed. Foreseeing these events frightened Jeff, made him feel out of control. He was at his wits' end: He had never wanted to be psychic. Why was he making these predictions now?
I met with Jeff, hoping to pinpoint what might have set them off. He walked in visibly shaken, a painfully polite, articulate businessman, impeccably dressed in a suit and tie. Everything about him cried out order: shoes shined to a T, hair blow-dried, not a strand out of place, a cellular phone and appointment book securely fastened in a brown leather satchel. He was organized—perhaps too well.
I found out he was a member of the Self-Realization Fellowship, a nondenominational church in the Pacific Palisades. Every Sunday, he and his wife would attend early morning services and then take a stroll around the parklike grounds. But over the past three months, their routine had changed. Instead of their walk, they stayed on for a two-hour group meditation in the main chapel. Each of Jeff's predictions had happened the next day. Jeff had never meditated before, let alone for such a long period of time; it was the obvious trigger. He had opened up too fast. Without intending to, by stilling his mind Jeff had become more psychically receptive.
He was unprepared for this shift, finding any sort of change difficult. Obviously alarmed, he asked, “Why did I predict such upsetting things?”
I recalled my own experiences as a child, how distraught I had been about my early negative predictions, the heartache my mother went through. When not put in the proper context, seeming to come out of nowhere, prescience can be hard to assimilate. That's where I wanted to help—to dispel Jeff's fears, just as Thelma and Stephan had done for me.
“Many beginning psychics feel exactly as you do,” I said. “Disasters, deaths, and traumatic events are simply easier to pick up. It doesn't mean you're a bad person or there's something wrong. Crises of all kinds carry a stronger emotional charge and therefore transmit a louder psychic signal.”
If only I had known this before, so much of my confusion might have been avoided. It was a lesson hard learned, a fact basic to psychic growth, information we can pass on to one another. There's no reason to take this psychic journey alone. We can benefit from our shared knowledge, form a network, so no one needs to feel isolated anymore.
“Negative predictions come with the territory,” I continued. “That's why children or new psychics are more likely to pick up a head-on freeway collision with bodies strewn all over the road than to see the same car arriving safely at its destination. The same principle is true of appreciating the nuances of an intricate piece of music. To the untrained ear, the most dramatic aspects are what stand out. But eventually we can perceive an undercurrent of tones indistinguishable before.”
No matter how logical or reassuring this sounded to me, Jeff didn't look consoled. He didn't want any part of being psychic. He considered it an unwelcome responsibility. A creature of habit, he preferred what was already known and comfortable.
“If all my premonitions were positive,” Jeff ventured, “it might be okay. Then they'd be easier to accept. But knowing about crises before they happen, particularly with people I love…no, that's not for me. It's much too painful. Even if I could warn them, I wouldn't want to be in that position.”
Jeff was a private person, and he didn't like interfering with other people's affairs. Without the option to choose what he would or wouldn't see, for the time being he gave up meditating, and his premonitions ceased.
I had to respect Jeff's decision. He recognized his limitations and stuck to them. Nonetheless, I couldn't help feeling let down, as if I'd watched a space shuttle launched into the heavens and then seen it forced to turn back because of lack of fuel. Even so, I had to be careful not to become a cheerleader. My fear of the psychic was behind me: I had earned the advantage of hindsight, had already reaped the rewards of this path and wanted to share them. But Jeff wasn't interested. Clearly, pursuing the psychic is not for everyone.
I have a friend, a stunning blond in her early seventies, a fearless adventurer and world traveler, always wanting to try something new. Although curious about the psychic, she had never felt a real need for it. Still, not wanting to miss out on anything, she once asked me over a Thai dinner, “Do you think I should learn to be psychic, too?” I smiled, knowing that this question was only her way of trying to please me.
I laughed. “No,” I said, “unless you really want to, there's nothing to gain. It's never right to force it.” She looked relieved, and we continued our meal. I had let her off the hook.
Even if you have a desire to be psychic, the path may not always be clear. That's only natural. Difficulties can arise, but fear can be the greatest obstacle—of being called crazy, of getting out of control, of being misunderstood, of being wrong. Fear is insidious, but we can't let it stop us. Our society conditions us to be scared of the psychic. If we dream of the future and it comes true, many of us have a knee-jerk tendency to think it “strange,” or “disturbing,” when our ability is natural, evidence of innate knowledge. We must undo our negative beliefs, no matter how ingrained. Recognizing that fear exists is the first step. But fear can burgeon, leeching out all inspiration, poisoning our dreams.
Some of your fear may be reality based. Too many individuals have exploited the psychic as a means to control or manipulate, or for greed. Is it any wonder, then, that in much of Western culture the term psychic has fallen into disrepute? Sensationalized by the press, scorned by traditional science, discounted by intellectuals, to again be considered holy, the psychic must be redefined in human terms. It allows us to connect with one another more deeply, with empathy and respect, to join together as a collective force. Old stereotypes of psychics as crystal-ball readers or carnival performers need to be left behind, replaced with our faces and names. We are the rightful bearers of this knowledge, the guardians at the gate.
At first it may be disconcerting to discover that we are vaster and more capable than we had ever imagined. Some of us may initially contract around this knowledge, needing time to feel safe enough to peek out from our hiding places and look around. After all, we're entering unmapped territory. Fear is bound to surface, but it doesn't have to force us to shut down.
The purpose of cultivating ourselves psychically is to open. And then to open even more. With prescience, we come to know ourselves well, become more sensitive to friends and family. Better able to respond to their needs, we can be lovingly in harmony with our relationships. The choices we make become truly well-informed, based on our innermost desires, not on some artificial notion of who we are supposed to be.
Ignoring this part of ourselves can lead to depletion and depression. It's like trying to function on only two cylinders when we have a turbo-charged engine that can travel at lightning speeds. We putter along, make do, but suffer from the chronic drain, our energy reserves wasted.
So many patients have come to me in this state—tired and irritable. Out of touch with their psychic voice, they strain to get through life by forcing decisions that really don't feel right. Their actions are dictated solely by what is visible: The quest for the invisible doesn't count. With no spiritual context, they have lost touch with the mystery. Yet we need not live in this state of disconnection. Recovering our psychic voice provides the link.
By listening to it, we can cultivate the ability to hear, see, and feel, to become more acutely attuned to the nuances of our lives. We meet ourselves again, come face to face with our own shining. We've forgotten so much: the ravishing beings we are, the strength of our spirits, the wisdom we possess. All this needs to be reclaimed.
The psychic doesn't arrive fully formed or without effort. It thrives on our attention to subtleties, a refined interior focus. The difficulty is that many of us don't know how to reach deep enough to achieve this. We skim just above the surface, never quite taking the plunge. Along with meditation and altars, there is one more method to help prepare us to see: the use of ritual.
Ritual imparts a sacredness to our activities that may not be readily apparent. Ritual can give our lives a brightness, a vibrancy, a focus. Many of us take ritual for granted, forget how it shapes our relationships and lives. Imagine a world with no weddings, holiday festivities, birthday parties, or even funerals—our markers, our dearest touchstones unacknowledged and forgotten. How much we would be missing!
Just as ritual evokes the specialness of certain events, it also brings color and emphasis to our inner lives. By creating a forum to celebrate it, we specifically invite the psychic in. When conducted with reverence and humility, ritual enables us to shift out of our conditioned patterns of viewing the world—to cultivate a respect and awe for the mystery that surrounds us.
I was introduced to the use of ritual at Brugh Joy's conference when I was beginning my psychiatric practice. We were scheduled to have an afternoon of healing. Fastidious preparations were being made; there were various rules to follow. I wondered what all the fuss was about. Everyone dressed in white, all forty of us silently filed into a huge candlelit meeting room. I cringed, thinking, What would my doctor friends say if they saw me now? Thank goodness they weren't there. Feeling more than a little foolish, and painfully self-conscious, I took my place beside one of the many wooden massage tables positioned around the room. When our turn came, we were to lie down so Brugh and the others could impart “energy” to us through their hands. The scene was set: Pachelbel's “Canon” played softly in the background, a tinge of sandalwood incense wafted through the air, colorful bouquets of flowers lined the floor. These were careful touches, aimed to convey a mood, to enhance the subtleties of what healing felt like firsthand.
Pretty soon, my awkwardness disappeared. The beauty of the room, the loving instinct this environment seemed to elicit in everyone, made my experience of healing all the more moving. It wasn't that I couldn't have felt this way in a less elaborate setting, but what ritual afforded many of us for the first time was a distraction-free structure made sacred by music, color, scents, and a group intention to heal. Particularly in the beginning we need all the help we can get to unmask our sensitivities. Ritual can hone them, eliminate static, enliven us so that we can more easily see.
Most important, out rituals need to be inspirational. It's pointless if they are unfeeling or rote. I have a friend who belongs to an orthodox religion. He prays five times each day, according to a format he passionately believes in. Recently he came to me, distressed that despite his prayers he couldn't feel the presence of God. Berating himself, he believed that he was doing something wrong. But instead of reevaluating the ritual and perhaps finding another that better suited him, he persisted in this same form. Devoted to his faith, he's still hoping to achieve a breakthrough.
The type of ritual we choose is extremely personal; it awakens a power dormant within. The efforts we make, either simple or intricate, assume meaning if we are sincere.
Another friend of mine was taught an endearing ritual by her grandmother. With the coming of spring, my friend's grandmother—now nearing ninety years old, and a painter—would brush her long gray hair and then toss the hair from the brush up into the air so the birds nearby could use it to make their nests. As my friend was growing up, every March she and her grandmother would do this together. Now in her forties, my friend has taught this honoring of spring and renewal, a connection to nature and new life, to her own daughter.
A ritual I learned from my teacher, which I perform twice monthly, is to pay tribute to the new and full phases of the moon. On those days, I eat vegetarian food, meditate longer, recite special prayers in front of my altar, and try to be particularly reverent. The purpose is to achieve balance and purification. A part of the Taoist tradition, this practice joins perfectly with my own beliefs.
Since I was a little girl I have been fascinated by the moon, sensed its mystery and power. Late into the night I used to stare at it, lying in bed, fine white light streaming through the cracks of my curtains. I loved to watch the moon gradually change form, growing from a barely perceptible sliver to a radiant orb that felt as if it shined right into my body. I could never separate myself from the moon. It has always been a part of me, molding my rhythms, drawing me up to the sky.
When my teacher spoke of the new moon as the initial phase of a cycle, a time when the flame is just being lit, and of the full moon as an epiphany, a culmination of forces reaching a peak, he put into words what I had long felt. Spiritual energy, he said, was particularly high at these times. Hence the reason to pause and pay tribute to them.
I should stress, however, that I recoil from taking part in ritual that feels false, no matter how powerful anyone claims it to be. But having found one that is true to my nature, I have made it a seamless extension of my spiritual life.
The practice of ritual has proved of great value for many of my patients. Providing a hands-on, action-oriented dimension to our work, it can bring insight to even the most murky dilemma. I'll conduct a ritual with someone in my office or I may encourage them to do this in solitude or in groups. When performed in nature, ritual is especially potent. The forest, desert, ocean, or mountains bring an excitement, a primal quality often less noticeable in the city.
Jenny, a gorgeous Hawaiian woman with long raven-black hair and warm brown eyes, was familiar with ritual, but she had lost track of it. Her father was trained as a kahuna, a holy man and healer, on the island of Kauai where she was raised. He passed on the secret teachings to his young daughter, but as she grew older the memories gradually fell away. Having lived a sheltered life, Jenny was hungry to experience more. At seventeen, when she graduated from high school, she left Kauai and moved to Manhattan to pursue a modeling career.
Signed by a top agency, she landed more jobs than she could handle and traveled the world on exotic photo shoots over the next few years. Money, fame, and prestige were hers and yet she was increasingly unhappy. Jenny's career had skyrocketed, her face had been on the cover of major fashion magazines, but something wasn't right. Modeling was becoming empty, yet she was afraid to leave it. Locked into a seductive lifestyle, adulated by the public and her friends, Jenny felt stuck and depressed.
For several months, in therapy, we discussed the pros and cons of Jenny's career, but she still hadn't made up her mind about what she would do. We were getting nowhere. It became evident that no amount of talking was going to help, despite Jenny's sensitivity, intelligence, and desire. I had reached this point before with certain patients. Seeing that she was immobilized, that it wasn't enough for her to understand the emotional and intellectual roots of her problem, I suggested she conduct a ritual. She remembered that her father had introduced her to this and was eager to give it a try.
We spent a full session exploring the specifics of what her ritual would be. What symbols were meaningful? Where would she like to perform it? With whom? The more concrete the details, the better the chance of imparting the potency to penetrate her block. Having grown up on the north shore of Kauai, she had a special feeling for the ocean and wanted her ritual to take place there.
This gave me an idea. “There's an ancient Celtic ceremony involving a circle of stones,” I explained. A few years ago I'd learned of this from a friend and had used it myself. “You can perform the ritual at the beach. It's quite simple. Basically, you form a circle of stones and sit inside it until your answer comes. In Celtic mythology, stones hold a rich concentration of power, represent the living embodiment of Mother Earth. The circle is a configuration believed to contain mystical properties. It acts like a pressure cooker, focusing and containing energy. This could provide the boost you need.”
This ritual appealed to Jenny. A few days later, on the morning of the next full moon, signifying the peak of a cycle, she drove her Volvo up the coast to a secluded beach north of Malibu. Wearing a long, flowing white cotton dress, she tied her hair back with multicolored beads in honor of the occasion. She brought with her some purple sage she had gathered from the Malibu hills, which in Native American tradition is associated with purification. Collecting a number of large stones from the shore, Jenny carefully set up the circle. In the center she placed a round ceramic container and burned the sage. Settling in, she sat cross-legged on a blanket, closed her eyes, and asked for guidance.
The next few hours she spent meditating and watching the ebb and flow of the waves. My instructions had been to allow the answer to surface rather than attempt to “figure it out.” Although Jenny was doing everything right, nothing much was happening. But she waited, knowing that rituals have their own time frame. Even so, it was growing late. Doubts crept in, about the ritual and about her life in general. Did she have the strength to make a change? Jenny wasn't sure. The sun was setting; she was chilled. Despondent and restless, she was tempted to pack up her things. But she didn't. As she sat, somehow connected to the ancient knowledge of her father and everyone who had performed this ritual before, she understood the need to remain. A warm blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Jenny curled up and drifted off into a light sleep.
It was then, when she stopped trying so hard, that the answer came. In a flash she realized that she had to take a break. If just to get perspective, it would be worthwhile. Though logically she had come to this conclusion before, the strength of her intuition now compelled her to act. Her entire body softened in response. The rightness of the decision, though laced with a certain sadness, also carried a great sense of relief. Freeing as this was, Jenny knew better than to act rashly: It would take time for the insight to sink in.
Over the next few weeks Jenny and I waited to see if her resolve remained strong. I played devil's advocate, raising the objections I was sure her friends and colleagues would make. Jenny didn't waver, showing the same confidence I have seen in other patients following similar rituals. Having struggled to find a solution that makes sense, they aren't easily dissuaded. They are ready to put themselves on the line and trust their instincts at last. When Jenny was certain her mind was not going to change, she notified her agency that she was taking three months off.
For all of January, she returned home to visit her family on Kauai. Taking long walks on the beach with her father, she became reacquainted with the kahuna tradition. Something inside of her was sparked. She longed to learn more about healing. During that trip she decided to move back to the islands and enroll in college. Aware that other models would kill for her career, Jenny acted on the courage of her beliefs. There were no guarantees that her plan would succeed, but she was determined to give it a chance.
Over the years Jenny and I have kept in touch. Now a doctoral student in psychology at the University of Hawaii, she plans to open a private practice on Oahu. Following her father's tradition, she is weaving her ethnic wisdom into her work. Jenny is pleased with the choice she made. The ritual of stones she performed on the beach made a breakthrough possible. When the moment came, she seized it. Despite all the pressure to continue modeling, she contacted a truer voice inside and followed her heart.
As it provides a structure, the beauty of ritual is the freedom it offers—freedom to explore what you really want from life, to define new directions, to clarify your visions and desires, even if you may not know what they are. It's a way to become centered, to stop giving away your power and to take responsibility for it. Implicit in all ritual is self-respect, as well as an honoring of a spiritual reality, however you define it, and faith that guidance is available. Such faith is essential for everyone who is preparing to see. Ritual helps instill this by illustrating time and again the depth of change that is possible when we act on what we know within.
To elicit guidance in our lives, we can also turn to prayer. It works no matter what your belief system, whether you appeal to a force outside yourself or to an inner wisdom. While meditation is an open-ended way of listening to spirit, prayer is a specific way of speaking to it. Through prayer comes clarity, and with it psychic knowledge. Although life may not always go as we wish, the strength of our clarity, and the appreciation of the deeper meaning of certain events can carry us through.
When I was very young my mother taught me to recite two different prayers before I went to sleep: the Shema, an ancient Hebrew prayer stating, “Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone is One,” and another in which I'd say, “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Keep me safe throughout the night. May I see the morning light. God bless Daddy, Mommy, and Judi [my childhood nickname] for ever and ever. Amen.” Burrowed beneath a mountain of covers, cozy and warm, I repeated both prayers without fail every night. They made me feel secure, connected to my Jewish roots and family. I should add, however, that I was motivated more by habit than devotion. It was something I did to be a “good girl,” not because I was truly inspired.
For years, I underestimated the power of prayer. As a teenager, I resorted to it mainly when I wanted something or if I was in so much pain there was nowhere else to turn. Then, if I got what I requested or when the pain stopped, I promptly forgot what had helped me. In high school I would pray to have a boyfriend, to be “popular,” or get a good grade on a math test. But looking back, I can now see that if all my prayers had been answered I would probably be in big trouble today. In some cases, unanswered prayers prove to be the blessing.
Through meditation and studying with my teacher I have come to view prayer differently. Once I had a direct experience of exactly what I was praying to—an unbounded love vaster than I had ever imagined—my faith strengthened. Previously, I was afraid that if I gave up my demands I wouldn't be heard, as if this intelligence were so limited it couldn't possibly respond to my needs without my specifically asking. Or that it had so many mote pressing things to attend to. But sensing the infinite capacity of this love, I increasingly came to trust it.
Now, when I pray for myself or others, except in certain emergencies, I request only what is for the highest good, not presuming to know what that good might be. Though it is often tempting to specify “I want this” or “I want that,” particularly if I'm in a lot of pain, I try to keep my prayers general rather than superimposing my own will onto them. The true elegance of prayer, I believe, is letting go of the results, confident that our needs will be met, maybe not in the exact form we had envisioned but ultimately in a better way. Scotch-taped to my refrigerator door as a reminder of the ideals that are important to me is the prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi, which I recite every morning before I begin my day. It says:
Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace:
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.
Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive;
in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
This simple prayer, which asks that we may be of service, imparts the basic philosophy of my spiritual practice. Promoting healing, prayer is thus my manner of addressing the psychic. You may use this prayer or find another that appeals to you. Most important, choose one that stirs something deep inside, inspires you to be the kind of person you most want to be. The humility with which you approach prayer, not demanding results but remaining open to the answers, creates a spaciousness that allows the psychic in. C. K. Williams, in a poem, has a beautiful way of describing this process: “I'd empty like a cup; that would be prayer, to empty, then fill with a substance other than myself.” The emptiness is pregnant, the stillness full, the psychic ever-present when we pray.
Although I avoid stipulating outcomes in prayer, I regularly request guidance—to do the right thing, to know when to intervene or remain silent, to choose the most meaningful words to say when someone is stuck, to find inner peace or help others achieve it. A highly private and instinctual act, prayer can provide a direct line to the psychic. By admitting that we don't know, we become willing to call on a greater force to assist us.
Matt was someone who greatly needed to be heard but felt that he'd been forsaken. A UCLA philosophy professor, a young fifty, dressed in well-worn Reeboks, a T-shirt, and jeans, he was cautious yet fascinated by the psychic. A week after attending a lecture I gave on dreams he set up an appointment.
Matt had been raised a Baptist and had exhibited a strong religious faith while in his twenties. But then he fell into a depression in which he couldn't even get out of bed. He called on his religion to help, dragging himself to church on Sunday, barely having the energy to move, but his depression only got worse. After a few years of seeing psychiatrists, through a combination of medication and psychotherapy, he began to feel better. In the past, Matt had had a number of accurate premonitions. Now he'd come to me to learn more about them. But Matt wanted nothing to do with spirituality. That chapter of his life, he declared, was over.
Furious that his former beliefs had failed him, Matt rejected my suggestions that he pray or meditate. “You don't have to belong to a traditional religion,” I said. “Discover your own way instead.”
“Why should I?” he snapped. “Where was God when I needed him?”
For a solid month he aggressively voiced his protests. Empathizing with Matt's position, knowing how hard it was to begin again while he was still so consumed with anger, I just listened and gave him a lot of room. Matt's anger enlivened him. I felt goose bumps and appreciated this much-needed relief of tension, excited that Matt was letting loose. It wasn't the poisonous anger that some patients spew out with no intention of releasing it. This was a purifying rage, a sign that old defenses were melting. I had seen it in others many times before. Loss of faith is so devastating that it can become a wound that will not heal. People try to make do, deny or minimize the loss, or shield it with anger. But it is never really gone. Matt needed to vent his rage; beneath it lay a reservoir of pain he would have to confront if he continued therapy. Deep inside it lay the healing. Such a wound takes trust and time to reopen, and not everyone is willing to do this. But Matt was. In our work together, he dealt with his sense of betrayal, and eventually put much of it behind him. Only then could he redefine his spiritual views. He never felt comfortable using the term God. But in the context of seeking inner guidance and communicating with his higher self, Matt became willing to pray.
Together, in my office, we sat beside each other on the couch and closed our eyes. For me prayer is a joining of hearts and minds, all distancing gone. It is innately therapeutic, a humble act, that can prepare us to see.
“What should I do first?” Matt asked. He sounded uneasy. Because it had taken so much for him to come this far, I wanted to keep everything as straightforward as possible. “Simply pray to make contact with your higher self,” I said. “Then listen for a response. It might be an image, a sense of knowing, or even a voice. The exact form doesn't matter. What's crucial is that you learn to recognize it. Let's just sit quietly together in prayer and see what happens.”
A few minutes passed. As is often true, the response Matt received wasn't highly dramatic—no burning bush or voice of God. Rather, it was a subtle shift, a peaceful feeling that he could now return to. When we opened our eyes again, he knew that by taking this step old barriers had been broken down; a door had opened.
Matt began praying every day but not in the formal tradition of his church. He was finding his own style, was able to ask for direction and then listen to the guidance. In the past, he often had difficulty with decisions, depending on his friends and wife to advise him. Now he was training himself to make his own choices.
Early one morning Matt's son, who was in film school in New York, called to say he had a terrible stomachache. Sensing that something was seriously wrong, Matt prayed for guidance. Immediately, he knew he had to fly to New York right away. Both his wife and son felt he was overreacting, that it was probably nothing more than a flu. But he canceled his classes at UCLA, hopped on a plane, and was at his son's Greenwich Village apartment by evening. Shortly after arriving, his son's stomachache got so bad that Matt rushed him to the emergency room. Diagnosed with an acute case of appendicitis, his son had surgery that night. Because Matt had prayed and acted on the response, not dissuaded by anyone else's opinions, he was able to be at his son's side during this crucial time.
As a source of guidance, prayers have enormous worth, particularly during emergencies. There may be times when we feel compelled to pray, to send out a loud and clear SOS. We reach a crisis point with nowhere to turn. In these situations, we must speak our needs—pray with a specific intent. Instead of saying simply “Thy will be done” or reciting the Saint Francis prayer, we can request direct intervention as long as we aren't too explicit about what an acceptable response would be.
Recently, my father had a health scare. For months he had been experiencing excruciating lower back pain from arthritis. Stoic by nature, he kept this mostly to himself, but finally consulted an orthopedic surgeon, who recommended surgery—an extensive procedure that could require months of recuperation with no guarantee it would succeed. Nevertheless, my father saw it as his only hope and wanted to schedule surgery as soon as possible. I panicked, intuitively certain that surgery would only lead to trouble. But nothing I said to my father made any difference.
I didn't know what to do. It was like watching a train wreck about to happen and not being able to stop it. The person I loved most in the world was, I believed, in danger. Frantic, one morning I headed toward a rock jetty about a half mile down the beach from my house. It's a place where I've gone for years to think, or sometimes pray, and watch the sailboats glide out of the channel from the Marina into the open ocean. Sitting on a bench, I had a panoramic view of the Malibu coast, but nonetheless felt utterly alone. Gazing out on the still, blue water, the only thought I had was, I can't do this by myself. I need somebody to help me get through to my father. And so I prayed. Quietly weeping, trying not to draw attention to myself, I stayed glued to that spot for about a half hour. When I left, there was still no answer. But by then I'd relaxed, and was ready to begin work.
Immersed in my writing the rest of the afternoon, I forgot about the prayer. Then, toward five, the phone rang. It was my cousin Bobby, an orthopedic surgeon who lived in Ohio. I hadn't heard from him for over a year. The following week, he said, he was coming to L.A. for a medical convention and wanted to have dinner with me and my father. In all the confusion, I had never thought to ask my cousin for advice. My prayer had been answered, and so quickly. Bobby, an expert on the surgical treatment of backs, was one of the few people my father would listen to.
Thank God for Bobby's visit. As one doctor to another, he spoke to my father about the advantages and disadvantages of surgery. There were alternatives worth pursuing, he said. Of course I'd mentioned some of these to my father, although his surgeon had not, but my father could be stubborn. Yes, I was a doctor, but I was also his daughter. He needed to hear this from someone other than me. Bobby was perfect, a close relative and an orthopedic specialist. My father listened to and followed the advice that both Bobby and I urged on him—a course of medication that, as it turned out, saved him from major surgery—and his pain is now much improved. He is even back at Hillcrest Country Club again, at lunch and on the weekends, playing golf. I was grateful and touched that my prayer had been acknowledged.
Although we aren't guaranteed such direct response, the very act of prayer can be healing. It can instill faith, replenish our compassion when our well has run dry, provide stamina to survive even impossible circumstances. Try not to get locked into dictating the manner in which your prayers are answered. Help comes in a multitude of forms, some more obvious than others: a simple word from a friend or teacher, a dream, a message conveyed by a movie or book at just the right moment. By setting into motion our connection with the mystical, power flows where most needed. Our prayers send out a psychic signal, a calling to heal.
When Grace, a patient who had recently immigrated from the Philippines, came down with bronchial pneumonia, I didn't know how to help. She was much too sick to have visitors or even talk on the phone. In out last conversation, Grace said, “Please pray for me,” and I did. Later, she told me that during the two weeks when she was running a high fever, I often came to her in dreams. Grace appreciated the power of prayer, felt that my presence comforted her. I believe that through my prayers I was able to make contact with Grace, to lend her psychic support from a distance until she was well again.
Prayer is a means of invoking wisdom, of strengthening our spiritual and psychic link, of healing. It's never appropriate to pray for material gain—that would be a misuse of power. By asserting that love is the goal, however, we actualize the purpose of prayer, place the psychic in proper perspective. Rich in meaning, elegant and pure, prayer is a resource that can prepare us all to see.
When prayer is used in combination with altar, ritual, and meditation, we are beginning to build a psychic lifestyle. These tools beautifully complement each other and can be practiced individually or together. Rather than considering the psychic an isolated, mechanical skill, we can make it a cherished, integral part of our lives.
Starting this journey with a strong foundation, we're better able to navigate the road ahead. There's a magic in the beginning, a readiness, an anticipation. Just by taking the first steps forward, a chain reaction may take place. You meet exactly the right people at the right time who can guide you. Opportunities present themselves that are perfectly suited to your needs. A flow is established. However, the timing may differ for each of us; we must all proceed at our own pace.
If you're curious about the psychic yet uncertain about what direction to take, this is a period to experiment and see how far you want to go. Expose yourself to different teachers. Hear what they have to say; digest it. Take what makes sense; discard the rest. It doesn't matter whether you've had a psychic experience before. This could be the start.
Perhaps you've been skeptical but want to take a second look. It's important that you keep a critical eye, remain discerning. Unfortunately, psychic fraud is rampant, and many people are too easily taken in or fall prey to deception. But also be careful not to let charlatans destroy what is worthy and true. There are fine jewels to be found, psychics who are honest, talented, sincere. In your quest for truth, consider speaking to them before you write everyone off, then draw your own conclusions. Possibly something of value is awaiting you here, too.
Or you might be one of those people who immediately takes to the psychic. It intrigues you, you're excited, there's not a moment to waste. Opening up is something you've been yearning for for a long time. Just remember, there's no urgency. Enthusiasm is wonderful, but as the great Tibetan saint Milarepa taught, “Hasten slowly.” Give yourself moments to pause, to take stock, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground. Remember your own strength; be wary of teachers who want to usurp your power or make claims about how much they know. Stay simple in your search.
What has drawn me most to the psychic is its mystery. Ever changing and often elusive, the better I come to understand it the more there is to learn. The same is true of meditation, altar, ritual, and prayer. These aren't static techniques. Their power is fluid, transparent, always offering us something new. Windows through which we can glimpse truths, they reveal psychic knowledge. By regularly utilizing these practices, we can acclimate to the psychic and strengthen ourselves to avoid being blinded by the exquisite brightness of out new sight. Rather, we can bathe naked in the brilliance, extending our arms wide open to receive it all.