Prologue

The Hummingbird's Message

Life for the Indian is one of harmony with Nature and the things which surround him.

—Chief luther Standing Bear, My Indian Boyhood (1988)

A Close Encounter of the Feathered Kind

The fateful encounter took place several summers ago, when my wife, Cynthia, and I were vacationing on the majestic lake that the native Abenaki tribes of Maine called Sebago, meaning “great stretch of water.” At over three hundred feet deep at its center and eleven miles in length, it is indeed a great lake—in fact, the deepest and third largest in New England. Ten thousand years ago, it was part of the Atlantic Ocean.

Even before I knew this odd bit of natural history, however, the lake reminded me of the ocean; perhaps it was because of the close connection I'd felt with the ocean as a child. The lake and I always seemed to enjoy a mysterious bond, like two secret conspirators. For example, my dreams always take on a depth and pristine clarity that match the crystal clear waters of the lake. It's as if I am gazing into a magic mirror that never fails to reveal the truth.

But this was no dream.

One hot summer afternoon I was lazily paddling about on the lake on an inner tube, soaking up the warm sunshine. The tall pines rustled in the light afternoon breeze. A lone seagull winged its way high overhead in the direction of the marina, probably in quest of a fisherman's tasty cast-offs. Relaxed by the gentle rocking of the waves, my mind began to drift into the peaceful rhythms of its own sweet reverie.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something moving near the dock. Turning for a better look, I beheld a tiny figure perched atop the post. As I quietly paddled closer to get a better look, the figure hovered in midair, its rapidly vibrating wings an indistinguishable blur. Slowly descending, it came to rest on the post, its distinctive needlelike bill now fully visible in profile. No more than a few inches in length, its iridescent green-black feathers glistened in the bright sunlight.

A ruby-throated hummingbird!

I had only recently glimpsed my very first “hummer” (as I learned bird aficionados affectionately called them). I marveled at their acrobatic stunts and extraordinary grace. Cynthia bought a special hummingbird feeder with suction cups that we attached to the glass slider in the kitchen. At mealtimes, we enjoyed watching their amusing antics.

But what was this little one doing all the way down here by the water?

Just then, the bird left its perch for the bowed and weathered planks of the wooden gangway. As the waves rolled into shore, gently lifting the gangway, the hummer bobbed up and down, in time with the movements of the gangway, as if it were enjoying a seesaw ride at the park. I could hardly believe my eyes. Moreover, I somehow seemed to sense its enjoyment.

That bird was playing a game.

Knowing that many Native American tribes traditionally view birds as messengers of the spirit, I asked the hummingbird if it had a message for me. Feeling a bit self-conscious, I nonetheless addressed it out loud.

“Do you have any wisdom that you might wish to share?” I asked.

At that, the hummer buzzed away from the dock and headed straight for me, stopping only a yard or so away. Hovering like a miniature helicopter just above the waterline, it darted down to the surface, then up again in the air, three or four times in rapid succession, similar to the game it had been playing with the gangway. Then I watched in amazement as it flew even closer to me, disappearing just beneath my field of vision.

I was stunned. The only place the bird could be was on the other side of the inner tube, only inches from my foot.

As if reading my thoughts, the tiny aerialist revealed itself. It remained suspended above me before settling on the tube itself, close to my right hand. I tried hard not to do anything that might startle the bird. I even kept my breathing regular and calm, as if in meditation.

But the hummer took off once again. For a moment, I thought it was going to fly away. Instead, it flew a short hop into the air, then landed again—this time directly on my left foot. Nestling into the curved webbing of my nylon water shoe, the little bird closed its eyes and made gentle peeping noises, like soft sighs of contentment.

And there, on my foot, my new friend happily remained. We floated along together, bobbing about on the inner tube, enjoying the afternoon breeze and each other's company.

Fifteen minutes or so passed. Then I watched as Cynthia walked down to the lake for her afternoon swim, our golden retriever, Katahdin, cavorting at her side. As she approached the dock, I carefully pointed at my foot and put my finger to my mouth.

Spying my little visitor, Cynthia grabbed Katahdin's collar then bolted back up to the house to get a camera. When she returned with Katahdin in tow, my hummingbird friend was still comfortable on my foot. She snapped a few pictures.

“Woof!” Katahdin was unable to contain himself any longer.

The startled bird zoomed off to perch on a low branch of a nearby pine tree, then briefly circled back toward me before deciding, on second thought, that our big dog was too much for it.

Fortunately, I didn't have to rack my brain to grasp what my winged teacher was trying to tell me. The hummingbird's message was received, loud and clear: Trust.

That bird, not knowing me from Adam, had trusted me with its life. It had recognized me as kin. That was a humbling and awesome experience. In tune with the rhythm of the lake, I had found my own inner rhythm, one that resonated with the greater harmony of the cosmos. I think the hummingbird heard that same song.

Trust.

Trust what? Trust nature, including your own nature. Observe, listen, and pay proper attention—and respect—to both. Then magic will happen, of its own accord.

But what happens if this trust and respect are missing?

Birds of a Different Feather

A few years before the hummingbird incident, Cynthia and I were out one day taking a walk in our new neighborhood, where we'd recently bought a house. Suddenly, Katahdin pulled me toward a certain rhododendron bush near the edge of our property. I could see that something lay underneath, though I couldn't immediately make out what it was.

The mystery object turned out to be a dead bird, a common grackle. We figured that some cat had gotten lucky. Later on, though, we noticed several more dead blackbirds lying about. That must have been one busy cat, I thought. It was very strange.

In the days that followed, however, it became apparent that the real culprit was no agile tabby on the loose. Dead blackbirds by the dozens littered the green suburban landscape, their rotting corpses stinking under the broiling August sun. Worst of all were the dying birds. Flopping about in the gutter, unable to fly, the poor creatures would screech a horrible scream of death. It was agonizing to watch, and alarming. More alarming still was the fact that no one else seemed to notice or care.

One afternoon, I happened to meet the mailman while he was walking his route. With concern in my voice, I asked him if he knew anything about the birds.

“Oh, yeah, that's been happening for years,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“For years? And no one knows, or cares to know, why?”

“Nope, I guess not,” he replied, in a way that suggested he might be curious.

Hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil. A silent spring? Not yet, anyway. Death was certainly noisy (and smelly). Yet still seemingly invisible, at least to the jaundiced eye.

Quietly, without fanfare or public notice, the state environmental department finally came around to investigate. A biologist took soil samples and collected fresh bird corpses in plastic bags. He gave us his card after we happened to see him at work and expressed interest in hearing the results of his laboratory tests.

No one wanted to know the truth (it might affect property values, after all). The culprit turned out to be a ubiquitous and once commonly used pesticide that had been banned since the 1980s when it was found to cause cancer. It had been used to such excess that the beetles it was meant to kill developed immunity to its effects. Yet the chemical remained in the soil and in the bodies of the insects. When the young birds feasted on the beetle larvae each summer, they would poison themselves, destroying their central nervous systems. As they would continue to do for decades to come.

We didn't know it, but we were living on a killing field.

The message of these unfortunate birds was clear: Something is wrong, dead wrong. We humans are at war with nature, including our own inner natures. And for what? Green lawns and greenbacks; to some people, it's all that matters. They are so disconnected from themselves and from nature that they have forgotten the meaning of trust and respect.

On the other hand, there are many well-intentioned seekers who labor under the illusion that connecting to nature (which, after all, is just another name for All That Is) requires a lot of hard work, and special—maybe even privileged—knowledge. They believe that they need priests, gurus, saints, and sages to tell them how it's done, to instruct them in the mysteries. And so they give away their power, opening themselves to manipulation and abuse. Just as blood attracts sharks, so self-mistrust is an open invitation to exploitation.

The truth is, there is no privileged revelation, no hidden knowledge reserved for initiates only or an esoteric elite. Our cosmic connection is always present (hardwired in us by Nature herself) and absolutely inviolable. It is our inalienable birthright. We need only claim it. Or reclaim it, as the case may be. For we are all natural sensitives—psychic from the start, mystically attuned to the larger rhythms of the cosmos since before our physical birth and forever after our physical death. Only we have forgotten.

I know, because a little bird reminded me.

The New Religious Consciousness

The future of what we call religion (or sometimes, to avoid using that troubling word, “spirituality”)—our own future, in other words—hinges on remembering what we've been assiduously taught to forget. This will be a difficult, even painful process.

Many of my students ask me if I am religious. They are surprised when I say no.

What is religion, then?

Our English word “religion” originally came from a Latin word (relegere or relictio) that meant “the careful reading of the great book of nature.” The early Christian church, unhappy with this definition (because in its eyes nature was fallen and evil), substituted for it a word that sounded similar to the ear, but which had a very different meaning. This new word (religare or religio) meant “strict obedience to authority”1

After all, if you have nature, who needs authorities?

To move ahead, we must first recover what we have lost. This book is the story of my own quest to recover my natural psychic sensitivity.

Like so many, I was taught to ignore what I knew by my own direct experience, to depend on external authorities (and their answers), and to wage a continuing, futile, and self-destructive war against my own nature. I mistrusted my dreams, hunches, gut feelings, and visions. I doubted that I could be guided by synchronicities (meaningful coincidences) or get my reason and my intuition to work together harmoniously. Most of all, I was distinctly uncomfortable with my own curiosity and embarrassed by my annoying tendency to question established beliefs. Like the biblical Eve, I always felt like an outcast, as if I didn't fit in because I'd done something to offend the gods.

Paradise Regained: Magic and Reason Together Again, for the First Time

What do you need to know as we pack our bags and prepare to make our way back to paradise? What sort of exotic metaphysical flora and fauna can you expect to see on our expedition? What epistemological assumptions (that is, premises about what we know and how we claim to know it) are best left out of our mental luggage? Why indeed should we bother to undertake this arduous journey? What's in it for us?

As I argue in this book, “paradise” is not the name of a place or a destination (physical or otherwise). Nor does it designate a pure, unchanging state of consciousness, free of conflict or questions.

As I contend in chapter 3, there is no point in indulging our nostalgic longing for a lost—if only imaginary or overly romanticized—past, either in recorded history or before it. For there was no Garden of Eden, and thus no Fall of humanity, no Original Sin. A primordial state of perfect innocence, purity and simplicity has never existed and will never exist.

Thus the return to paradise does not entail a rejection of the complexities of life or the burdensome complications of self-conscious awareness. Ignorance is not bliss after all, and deliberate, willful ignorance is (or at least ought to be) a crime.

So what, then, is “paradise”? As I explain later in the book, paradise is not a static state of harmony, but an ongoing (and probably never-ending) activity of harmonizing (with emphasis on the -ing suffix, indicating, according to my dictionary, an “action, process, or art”). Paradise is not the garden of bliss, but rather, the bliss of gardening. Hence the journey back to paradise is not a regressive or reactionary retreat into some delusional mythological cocoon. Nor does it involve the attempt to realize a Utopian fantasy.

Making our way back to paradise is, however, a “radical” act, in the true and original sense of that oft-maligned term (the Latin radix means “root”). Going back to paradise means going down to the root source. What is this living root? What is the flowering plant?

The flowering plant is reason, its living root what I'm calling “magic”: experiences of psychic sensitivity that all of us already have, every day of our lives; experiences we'd know we have if we but paid attention to them, for example, precognitive dreams, telepathic communications with humans and other life forms (including animals and nonphysical entities), clairvoyant visions, and synchronicities.

I've had all of these experiences, which I detail throughout the book, and so, I'd be willing to wager, have you. (One huge hurdle to overcome, as we'll see, is that we have been taught to ignore and repress magical experiences, even, or especially, when they're our own.) Paradise, I contend, is the harmonizing of magic and reason.

Right now, we're out of tune—way out. I have a lot more to say about this disharmony in chapter 1, and how we, as a culture, got into this mess in chapter 2. Much of our difficulty stems from what I call “Answerism,” a tendency to believe that we have the total picture, which I examine in chapter 3. I explain how I recognized and subsequently tried to mend my own brokenness. The personal stories I share with you will, I hope, make these ideas more clear and understandable.

I show how restoring our balance, or mending the self, means getting back into tune, bringing all our discarded and forgotten parts back into the whole. This “balance” is not, however, a static state of equilibrium; it is a dynamic condition, constantly changing, a dialectical flow, as each new magical experience spurs a new thought, leading to new experience, and so on. You don't stop singing once you learn how. You start, then practice, practice, and more practice.

The harmony of reason and magic may seem to be a tall order. Yet, if the evidence supplied by my magical experiences and philosophical musings (particularly as recounted in my personal stories found in the second half of the book) is any guide, it is not an impossible task.

“My reasoning wants to be faithful to the evidence that aroused it,” declared the French existentialist philosopher Albert Camus.2 This is one of my favorite quotes, for it not only summarizes one of the main conclusions of this book, it also captures my main aspiration in life. We think because we must. We seek truth. But what is the stimulus? Can we own up to it?

As scandalous and inconvenient as it may be to official religion and science alike (for slightly different reasons, as we shall see), reason is a plant that grows—indeed thrives—in the fertile soil of our nonrational experiences of psychic sensitivity.

This sensitivity is what the anthropologist J. G. Frazer called “sympathetic magic.” The magician, he wrote in The Golden Bough (1890), is one whose “whole being, body and soul” is ever so “acutely sensitive” and “delicately attuned to the harmony of the world.”³ Or, as the esoteric scholar Lewis Spence said, the law of sympathetic magic holds that everything is “secretly linked together by invisible bonds.”⁴

These invisible connections are the bonds that vibrate to the psychic touch. In spontaneous cases of telepathy, clairvoyance, synchronicity, and so forth, we are connected to the larger, usually unnoticed patterns of our existence. The psychic is not trivial. It is our personal lifeline to the All.

Why do we ignore these invisible bonds? In part, it is due to our fears, which I examine at length in chapter 5 (and I offer some tips for overcoming these inner blocks). But another major obstacle is the poor, malnourished concept of reason we have inherited from our philosophies—a concept that blinds us to reason's true magical roots.

This is the fault of our western philosophical approach. As an academic philosopher, I know something about this firsthand. One of my key premises is that, since the seventeenth century, we have been operating with essentially two not dissimilar notions of reason (with minor variations on these two basic themes), neither of which is adequate.

From the French philosopher Rene Descartes (1596-1650), we get the view that reason is a sharp scalpel, slicing and dicing large problems or fields of study into their smallest component parts. In this way, we get down to the basic building blocks of knowledge: what Descartes called “first principles.”

Descartes's view is the analytical view of reason, and it matched the search of physicists like Isaac Newton for the atom, the smallest indivisible physical unit. Later philosophers of this analytic bent argued that what we analyze is not reality itself; but only language about reality—words, sentences, propositions, or (with Ludwig Wittgenstein) entire “language games. But the basic idea was the same. Reason is a dissecting tool—a scalpel, a laser—for taking things apart.

From the British philosopher David Hume (1711-1776), we get the view (called “empiricism”) that reason is an adding machine, a counting device (abacus, slide rule, computer-take your pick) that totals up the individual impressions of our physical senses and fixes a label thereon: red + round + noise = fire engine.

According to Hume, reason is untrustworthy because it is apt to go out on a precarious limb and draw conclusions not actually warranted by our senses (oops—it's not a fire engine, it's an ambulance). We'd be better off forgetting our theories and ideas (and that most dangerous faculty of imagination; see chapter 1) and sticking to our sense data—but, there we go again, making unwarranted inferences. Alas, we can't help it. We are prisoners of custom and habit, assuming (often wrongly and never with reasonable justification) that the future will be like the past, the unknown like the known.

Although Descartes was an optimist and Hume a skeptic about reason, both believed that, in their own way, they were making reason more rigorously “scientific.” But were they? I contend reason is no more a mere adding machine or a logical scalpel than a gardener is her shovel or rake. These are only (some) tools used by reason, and not reason as such. To think otherwise, I suggest, is a fatal mistake.

What, then, is reason?

“Reason,” said Joseph Campbell, “has to do with finding the ground of being and the fundamental structuring order of the universe.”5 In other words, as I assume in this book, reason is the faculty of asking ultimate questions, of seeing things as a whole, of making real—not, as Hume thought, spurious—connections.

As the English writer Thomas Carlyle (1795-1881) stated, the true spiritual (or philosophical) hero is one who wonders: “What am I? What is this unfathomable Thing I live in, which men name Universe? What is Life; what is Death? What am I to believe? What am I to do?”⁶

To provoke such deep questioning, one must enjoy deep experiences of a particular kind. Such experiences suggest that all is not as it seems, that there is another, hidden layer of reality These are the experiences of magic, of nature's invisible bonds. They inspire wonder; wonder begets questioning; and questioning is the soul of reason.

Whether as metaphysics or physics, the human mind strives, either consciously or unconsciously, to express and understand its direct, unmediated experience of these subtle connections. As Joseph Campbell said, the invisible supports and nourishes the visible.⁷ There would be no language without telepathy, no prediction without precognition, no discovery without clairvoyance, no inference without dream and vision.

Thus Dr. Willis Harman, past president of the Institute of Noetic Sciences (an alternative think tank that investigates the wider ranges of human potential), has gone so far as to maintain that there is a “secret history of inspiration” that orthodox science and philosophy conceal—even from themselves.8

The secret of human inquiry is thus the inquiry of the great but open cosmic secret that spurs on all of our questions and creative insights.

My encounter and communication with the hummingbird was an expression of this magical attunement (an enjoyment of harmony, a taste of paradise), the holocaust of the grackles the result of a denial and rejection of it. In truth, however, there was more magic involved in both episodes than I previously let on. Allow me to explain.

The hummingbird incident occurred not long after I watched a video about the great Swiss psychologist C. G. Jung (with whom I have long had a strong affinity, as I discuss in more detail in chapter 1). The video featured an interview with one of Jung's grandsons, Dieter Baumann (now middle-aged), who recalled an oft-repeated incident about Jung first told to him when he was a child.

When Jung sat outdoors by the lake near his tower retreat at Bollingen, he would easily slip into a state of reverie, “like a Taoist sage in full harmony with both the internal and external worlds,” said Baumann. Once, he related, a bird landed on Jung's head and sat there for ten minutes.

When I heard this story, I thought, “Oh, sure, but something that magical would never happen to me.” Then, not long afterward, it did. The universe not only made a liar out of me, it linked me, once again—and in spite of myself—to Jung, someone whose work has meant a great deal to me over the years. Invisible bonds, you see (or don't). My reason had yet another mystery to ponder—more grist for the mill.

In the case of the grackles, magic was also at work in the background. Not long before we discovered the dying birds, I had been brooding about the fact that my mother, who had died of cancer several years before, would never see our new home. I also recalled an incident she'd told me about, many times, that occurred during her first bout with cancer, some twelve years before she succumbed to its recurrence.

She had elected to undergo what was then a highly experimental radiation therapy procedure after her surgery. At the time, this new option was only offered at a Philadelphia hospital. So she hopped the commuter train from suburban New Jersey into Philadelphia, by herself, every day over the course of several weeks, for outpatient treatment. Dressed to the nines and sporting a briefcase, she looked like just another commuter going to work. (It was psychologically beneficial for her to think this way as well.)

One day after the treatment, as she was being driven home from the train station in the taxi, the driver sighed as he came to a stop at an intersection not far from my parents' house. (This intersection is only a couple of miles from the neighborhood where Cynthia and I now live, and where we'd found the poisoned grackles.)

“See that, over there,” the driver said, pointing to a brand new housing development. “I used to be a truck driver. We were told to dump stuff—bad stuff, drums full of chemicals—there, when that was just an empty field. It made me sick just to think about it. I had to quit.”

My mother went numb. She made some idle remark like, “Oh, my,” but said no more. The driver, of course, didn't know of her illness. My mother, of course, hadn't known of the chemicals. Nor did the proud new owners of those nice new suburban homes.

On the surface, my mother's death from cancer and the death of the grackles from pesticides were not connected. However, in a deeper sense, they were part of the same larger pattern—the same war against nature, the same inability to sense those magical invisible bonds connecting everything, the same shortsighted, greedy mentality.

We think we're so clever, that we can manage cause and effect. Like James Bond, we're confident that, at the last possible moment, some technological gadget we pull out of our pocket will save the day. But that's not going to happen. Unless we reestablish the connection with inner and outer nature, unless reason is reacquainted with its magical roots, we will kill ourselves with our sheer cleverness.

One of my main purposes in writing this book is to convince you that nourishing our psychic sensitivity to what the old Native American shamans called “the hoop of life” is not an option, something that we might decide to do at a weekend workshop, if we're so inclined. It is a necessity if we wish to survive as a species on this planet. As I argue throughout the book, those old Indian shamans still have a great deal to teach us—if we're willing to learn.

You might think that this sort of educational project should be the job of religion and spirituality, which acknowledge these subtle, invisible bonds—at least in theory.

In practice, however, traditional religions and even many esoteric spiritual systems seek to cloud our perception of the invisible dimension with distorting fears, illusions, and superstitions. They do this in order to stage-manage and control not only the magic itself, but also the questing intelligence to which our innate psychic sensitivity gives birth. They condemn the psychic as demonic or, at best, as a distraction from “true” spirituality. This distortion is the main topic of chapter 3.

As for science, it, along with its offspring technology, continues to pretend that our reason is utterly self-generating and self-supporting, like a tree growing out of thin air rather than from a seed buried in the rich earth. This idea would truly be magical if the image weren't so laughably absurd. We can repress our sympathy with nature, but we cannot destroy it. Repressed, it exacts its revenge, threatening us with our own doom.

What, then, about my discipline of philosophy? In the darkness of the Christian Middle Ages, philosophy, the ancient “love of wisdom,” remained the meek servant of religious faith. In the modern era of the scientific Enlightenment, philosophy courageously proclaimed its independence even as it tacitly exchanged one master for another: science. As the old saw states, “The more things change…”

In my years of studying philosophy at both the undergraduate and graduate level, I worked hard at accumulating the various badges of academic honor and achievement. Not to brag, but I earned my share of these: Phi Beta Kappa, Summa cum Laude, overseas fellowships, and more. I also encountered many fine teachers at the major research universities where I earned my degrees.

To my dismay, however, I discovered that virtually all of my professors were in thrall to one or another version of the old time religion (scientific materialism, Christianity, Marxism). As such, they were either roundly dismissive of, or indifferent to, those personal experiences of the invisible bonds that I could neither disown nor affirm. Those experiences fueled my quest, but I couldn't admit that—at least not openly.

By the late 1970s, when I had begun work on my doctorate, a new “postmodern” movement in philosophy had arisen with its promise of deconstructing all the old shibboleths. On closer inspection, however, most of the proponents of this “new” approach were disillusioned adherents of one of the older, ostensibly discredited, views. Their genial, freewheeling anarchism masked an underlying nihilism comprised of equal parts free-floating anxiety and the sour disappointment of a jilted lover.

To the postmodern mind, you could be or do or say anything because nothing, in the end, is objectively real or significant. It was like being trapped in a conversation with a laughing idiot who treats everything you say as a meaningless joke. Yet whatever they were, I knew my experiences of magic were not mere jokes. Sometimes they were funny, but even the most humorous ones were real and meaningful enough, revelatory of a dimension beyond the visible.

Thus, when the time came to begin my own college teaching career in the late 1980s, I felt deeply conflicted about my approach. On the one hand, I knew that those who undertake a genuine search for wisdom have been touched somehow by nature's secret harmony. On the other hand, to talk openly of this invited ridicule (from the scientists) or, worse yet, distortion and misunderstanding (from the religionists). So even as I taught my subject, I pretended that I didn't live it, thereby obviating the need to confess my sensitivity. No wonder my students were confused. so was I.

Eventually, however, I realized that if I valued my integrity, I had no choice but to risk rejection and misinterpretation. So I began to write and publish on subjects that really interested me (e.g., psi and synchronicity). I also worked hard at confronting my fears (I discuss this in chapter 5) and trying to follow the subtle clues that would bring me closer to my own magical roots (as I explain in chapters 4, 6, and 7).

At the same time, I encouraged my students to reexamine their everyday experiences with an eye to uncovering the secret connections, resonances, and affinities that had hitherto escaped their notice—hidden, as it is said, in plain sight. I was rewarded with many stories similar to my own, some of which I share with you in these pages. The philosophical questions, I knew, would follow as a matter of course. They did (and still do).

“It hurts,” a student recently confessed when she realized that her old views were not consistent with what she now felt and thought.

“Ah, good,” I replied. “That's a sign you're making progress.” Inwardly, I sympathized. I have been there myself.

As a member of the academic establishment, I am perhaps more familiar than most with our decrepit cultural ideologies and the extent of their decay. I have been marinating in them for some time now. Having reached the point of saturation, I made a vow that my reasoning would remain faithful to the evidence that aroused it. If I can get you to consider making a similar vow, and opening yourself, and your reason, to the magic that is all around us, I will have accomplished my main purpose in writing this book.

Why should you care? Why should you read this book?

There are many books out there (both good ones and some not so good) on psychic phenomena. Many of them have been written by people who profess to be, or genuinely are, professional “psychics” whose claims have been tested in laboratories or verified by the results they have obtained in their practical fieldwork Other volumes have been written by professional parapsychologists, the scientists who have actually done the testing and conducted investigations firsthand. You will find some of these names listed in my bibliography.

But I am neither a professional parapsychologist nor a professional psychic. So what gives? What's special about this book?

Here is where some might be tempted to follow the example of the great German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, who wrote books with chapter titles such as, “Why I Am So Wise,” “Why I Am So Clever,” and “Why I Write Such Good Books.” Alas, I've known people much more clever than I. As for wisdom, I love it, and I'm still searching for it, but I'd be the last one to claim that I have it (or am wise). Moreover, since this is my first book, I can't point to my sterling record.

No, the reason why I think this is an important book is not because I'm special, but precisely because I'm not. I'm just a canary stuck in the same coal mine as you—one who's willing to own up to his sensitivity to his surroundings. I'm ready to shout a song of warning at the top of my lungs if need be, even at the risk of looking (or sounding) foolish.

Facing up to our psychic sensitivity and using such experiences to fuel inquiry that will bring about social and cultural change are the personal responsibility of each and every one of us. It is our sacred duty. We are all sensitives, and we can all think, even if we're not professional psychics or philosophers. To shirk our individual responsibility to seek a balance between magic and reason is to invite a disaster from which we may not recover.

If I can do it, so can you. Paradise is only a pain away.