Update

I'm taking time off from readings to have my baby and then to care for my baby. I'm giving readings to the last clients over the next month-and-a-half. I've announced that I'll be back next year but, honestly, I don't know if I will be.

I'm tired of giving readings now. I think I'm burnt out again. I read an article in New York Magazine that described being burnt out as a battery that no longer holds its charge. That's how I feel.

I will continue to write here about my experiences -- and more frequently than has been usual--and, probably, I will give readings once I've had my baby.

A Bad Day

It has been difficult to write for the past few months since I use a laptop and it's no longer possible to keep it on my lap.

At any rate, I couldn't fail to write about what happened early this evening as my Gigi and I waited for Scully to return home.

I was in the living room when she started crying, wailing even. She yelled something about not wanting to be alone.

I ran up the stairs to find tears streaming down her face. She was saying that nobody was around. When I asked her what was the matter, she told me that her television had come on by itself and it scared her.

The television was now off. Her VCR was mysteriously rewinding a tape. She can't reach the VCR and we hadn't had a movie in the machine at all today.

I scooped her up and we sat at the top of the stairs together.

"I need to sit and just calm down, Mummy."

She explained again what happened as I comforted her.

I turned to the room and said sternly:

"You leave my daughter alone. If you cannot stop scaring my child, you are not welcome here."

Gigi was visibly relieved.

The Pregnant Psychic

The day before I even thought of testing for pregnancy, we went to pick up my daughter from school.

In the parking lot, as I was holding onto her hand, she declared:

"I'm going to be a big sister!"

No kidding.

The Helpful Wife

Scully tromped through the wilderness with his friends over the weekend, canoeing an hour-and-a-half to his campsite. He was completely out of reach of cellphones and email.

On the way home, he called me from a payphone:

"I should be home within a few hours."

"OK. Wait...I have an impression." A terrifying image followed a mental picture of my husband but I knew that he would be fine.

"There's going to be a very bad accident on the way back but it doesn't involve you or your friends."

"It already happened. A car was half-submerged in the lake."

"Oh. OK." It didn't feel like the accident I was talking about, but, hey, how could I be sure?

When he got home that evening, he told me: "Some guy decided to walk out into traffic... It was a huge accident! Cars piled up, etc." This happened after talking to me.

I honestly don't know why some people think that crossing a highway is, well, even possible. But, there you have it, someone did and the consequent mess delayed Scully's arrival by about two hours.

On The Phone

I'd been telling my sister for the past few months that her best friend had something wrong with her stomach. Something wasn't right.

Last week, the doctor found something: a bacterial infection.

"You were right," my sister said.

Nice

When clients take the time to tell me how my predictions turned out, I always appreciate it. I mean, people usually just tell other people which -- don't get me wrong -- is a good thing.

I recently helped a client get in touch with a long-lost relative by giving her the name of someone who knew where he was and in which city he could be found. She wrote to tell me that it all played out exactly as I said it would, names and all, and that she was now in touch with the relative.

She was so grateful. I felt all . . . I don't know, just so happy that I could help.

All Apologies

My absence is inexcusable. I've just been busy both personally and professionally. Still, I should have popped in at least once before now.

Stresses have piled up on top of me and, when that happens, I end up feeling disinclined to write. I should write.

Well, the other day, my daughter and I went to the local bookstore and bought a few interesting titles. Eva Ibbotson's The Beasts of Clawstone Castle caught my eye:

When Madlyn and Rollo are sent to ancient Clawstone Castle they fell in love with it --- especially with the mysterious white creatures that roam the grounds. But the owners are practically penniless and the castle is crumbling away. A magnificent money-making plan is Clawstone's only hope.

Helped by a gang of hilarious ghosts -- including a one-eyed skeleton, a sawn-in-half circus girl and a pair of dancing feet -- the children turn Clawstone into a genuine haunted house! Soon the money is rolling in, but just as things start looking up a terrible fate befalls the beasts. Madlyn, Rollo and their phantom friends now face some very sinister enemies...

We have thousands of children's books and I shouldn't be buying anymore right now but, then, I decided that it would be a good addition.

MacMillan Children's Books
Trade Paperback
London (2005)
232 pp

Note:
The Sunday Times
May 15, 2005
Children's book of the week

This weekend

We went to a festival specifically meant for children. There were many activities/stations for preschoolers including a mat full of 'gymboree' toys. Gigi was unimpressed.

She played in a tiny pool filled with toys. She sat at a table and played with an Etch-a-Sketch-like toy. Finally, there was a travelling caravan comprised of instruments which she loved and which was the source of a tantrum.

The sky threatened rain the entire time. So, we headed off to grab hotdogs and make the 10-minute walk back to the car.

My Lips Are Sealed

You know my ethical guideline about not discussing clients or the details of the sessions when clients come to see me?

Sometimes, I really wish I could. But, I can't.

Friday went very well. I know that I have to confirm my next batch of clients now...

Ghost Baby

I'm lying in my bed, barely able to open my eyes after a deep nap. My baby (OK, my preschooler) is sleeping in her room, too.

I can hear my sister approaching on the stairs and she starts to head into my daughter's room.

"Where are you going?" I whisper
"The baby's awake." She says, pointing to the room.
"No, she's still sleeping." The room is silent.
"I swear I heard her!"
"You heard the ghost baby."

Never Say Never

I gave in and did a reading for my sister last night. It was her birthday and it made her feel good to know that I was willing to try. It actually went very well. Ah, it softened the blow of turning 30 . . . though that was so long ago for me that I can't remember the pain.

The hard part about reading for family and friends is the ability to be objective. Still, somehow, being close to my sister -- she's my best friend -- actually helped last night.

A House of Sound

I apologize for the absence. Life happens so . . . quickly.

My house has been kind of quiet as far as ghosts are concerned. After telling a particularly annoying ghost to leave (who, last month, despite a fantastic security system, opened a door to the outside sometime before we all woke up ), there has been nothing very significant around here.

Well, nothing, that is, except for some intermittent banging and loud 'thumps' and the sound of a baby crying. Scully -- who is also my biggest fan -- tried to convince me that the loud sounds originate at a construction site. I know they don't.

My maternal grandmother is making herself known. I don't actually get along with my mother and, about the time that this bout of activity began, we'd had a pretty heated exchange. We are still not really speaking.

As for the baby crying? That's new to me. I heard it just after waking up one evening and it was easy to dismiss as a sleep-related event after I realized that it wasn't my daughter. It's extremely faint and I think my sister heard it, too. (Needless to say, my sister tells me that sleeping over at my house really freaks her out at times. Considering that she's so skittish, I'm shocked that she actually does stay over.)

The only thing that has caused me to raise an eyebrow is my daughter's insistence that she hears noises in her room every night. I've been in a number of times to try to hear them and I haven't detected anything. There used to be squirrels and raccoons climbing around on the roof but, again, I haven't heard them. They may still be there but I think she's hearing something else.

Interestingly, my sister pointed out that my paternal grandfather -- whom I met only 2 or 3 times throughout my childhood -- had the name of Alfred (see here and here). The impressions that I have of the ghost look nothing like my memories of my grandfather: he is young with dark brown/black hair and he wears a white t-shirt. He has a sense of humour and is pretty laid back.

What's Been Going On...

On Monday, we kept hearing large "thumps" around the house. Scully explained that they were the products of construction work next door. I didn't agree. I spend everyday in this house -- right beside the construction -- and, what I heard was the sound of a heavy box being dropped on the front porch.

I was in the bath when I first heard it and thought, "F---! I missed the Purolator guy!" (OK, I swear when I speak to myself.) As I'd stepped into the bath that morning, I'd forgotten about the possibility of delivery. I was awaiting the arrival of the rest of my daughter's birthday gifts and was worried that I'd have to go pick up a large box at a postal outlet with a toddler and a stroller.

Anyway, I jumped out, got dressed and ran downstairs: there was nothing.

The thump occurred at least a few times again throughout the day and I ignored it.

What was very frightening to me -- and it is very unusual for me to be afraid -- happened as I was trying to rest in my bedroom while the baby slept. The air conditioners in our rooms were on but I heard the sound of my living room door open and shut (a door that leads to the enclosed porch).

"Hello?" I called out, leaning over the upstairs railing. Why? I don't know. It's not as if I think a burglar would shout back or anything but what else do you do?

A second later, I slipped down the stairs, ready to close a door or to call 9-1-1, only to discover that all three front doors were securely latched. In fact, the doors leading to the porch have an old-fashioned style of lock that requires much more digital manipulation than those of today. It would be impossible to open these doors from the outside.

Confused, for some reason I chose to ignore my impressions of my maternal grandmother and of another, different ghost. I mean, I saw them but just didn't think about them. It was the day of this grandmother's birthday (which I'd also forgot).

That night, with sufficient responsibilities to erase all-but-essential data from my mind, I went to bed after locking up and arming the house.

On Tuesday morning, I awoke and went downstairs. I couldn't help but scream. The porch door in the dining room was wide open!! How long had it been open? Anything could have happened to my baby, to us, throughout the night.

Scully came down to investigate, assured me that it must have been unlocked but I was unconvinced. I know that I'd locked that door. I know that I didn't open the dining room door at all throughout the previous days.

I believe that my grandmother is here but it's not her behaviour because the activity is uncharacteristic of other visits to others in my family. Someone else is here, somebody more . . . annoying.

Just the other day, last Thursday, I was doing laundry and waiting patiently for my load to finish. After an hour it occurred to me that I hadn't actually heard my washing machine in the longest time.

When I went down to the laundry room, I was astonished to find that the lid to the machine was up -- which means that the machine won't run -- and, thinking that I'd been careless and forgot to actually start the laundry, I went over to put the lid down.

At the panel, I saw that the load was actually almost finished -- meaning, that the load had been interrupted -- and the knob had been pressed down (which means the machine was turned off).

I hadn't been down there at all. My daughter doesn't go down to the basement without myself or my husband and there's no way that she could have reached the machine's lid anyway even if she'd stood on a chair.

So, in the end, I'd forgotten again who I am and what I actually do for a living: If there's one thing I've learnt in the past twenty or so years, when you're doing renovations, activity increases.

The Cat

At ballet class last week, all the dancers were asked if they had pets.

"Yes, I have a pet. I have a cat. It's orange."
"What's his name?"
"Darfy."

Gigi has often spoken of Darfy (whose name is her pronunciation of 'Garfield') and, very recently, I came to the conclusion that it is her imaginary friend.

Scully has told me a few stories over the past couple of weeks that Gigi has related to him. I remember vaguely hearing something about Darfy rolling around and around on her bed.

This means, of course, that I forgot who I am and what I actually do for a living until my sister asked a very poignant question:

"Could she be seeing Avery?"

Avery had been my cat since 1996. He died last year, suddenly, in August. He was, of course, orange. Now, I had to know.

"Gigi, do you have a cat?"
"Yes."
"What's his name?"
"Darfy."
"What does he look like?"
"He's orange."
"Oh, where do you see him?"
"He sleeps on my bed. I tickle his tummy."

This goes to show that you're never too old to learn. Or to be humbled, for that matter. I've never believed in 'animal ghosts' before now. I'd always thought that, if you get the impression of an animal, it's either at a distance (and the cat is alive) or it's in the past. She may very well be seeing Avery.

"Do you still see Fred?"
"No, he left my home."
"He did? Where did he go?"
"He had to go to another place."

The Case of the Crystal Skull

OK, remember when I said that I don't stare at crystal balls? Well, that isn't to say that I haven't stared at them.

I have never owned a ball but a former friend of mine in the university days had one. He wasn't psychic to any appreciable degree but he did have a lot of money. He believed in magic of sorts (and I don't). Unfortunately, he spoke altogether too often about Aleistair Crowley for my comfort. In the days that seemed so distant from our common goal of graduation, we met in the evenings and our quiet friendship lasted about four years.

But I've digressed.

I saw it sitting on a glass shelf in his immaculate apartment. He took it down protectively, placed it on the carpet and showed it to me. I think I stared at it for half a second and thought, Poor guy! He's been taken.

Not wanting him to feel stupid, I said:

"Is it supposed to have an image of a skull in it?"

I've never seen fear or shock grip somebody so quickly. His brown eyes stared back at me and I thought, for certain, that I was seeing fear. No, shock. Both? (I couldn't tell which since, if you think about it, they look pretty similar.) He quickly covered the ball up and put it back in its box. Needless to say, I was completely confused.

"You're joking, right?" He asked.

I shrugged. "No. It looked like a green-greyish skull and it looked like it was manufactured that way." His reaction was bothering me. I truly believed in its earthly origin; he was a scientist, why didn't he?

"I've been staring at it for hours and I've never seen anything... I don't want you to look at it anymore."

Umm, I thought, OK.

So, there you have it: my first and only time staring at a crystal ball. What happened that night? I don't know. I'd obviously seen something he'd wanted to see but what was it? I don't know and he jealously guarded the crystal ball, never allowing me to look into it again.

Scary and Good

Anyway, many of you have asked me for details and I think it's time to dish. I want to tell you about the scariest reading that I've ever done. Well, let me rephrase that: I want to tell you about the reading that frightened me the most.

It happened about eight years before I started reading professionally. I'd always read for friends and acquaintances for free. The settings varied: Sometimes they were done at my home, in the university cafeteria (I think) or a cafe.

An acquaintance of mine always wanted a reading and I think I generally declined. One day, in a cafe, I gave in and pulled out my cards. (By the way, cards aren't necessary).

As I lay out the cards, I could feel a familiar anxiety rising in my chest. Voices around me became indistinct as I focussed more clearly on the task at hand.

The reading went along pretty smoothly: I told him about his past and what was going on in the present very accurately. Then, I saw it:

"You're going to be going on an unexpected trip really soon!" I felt a sense of urgency.

"Flying," I continued. "It could be just a couple of days away but it actually looks like a couple of hours away."

He looked puzzled. "Really? Why?"

I didn't know how to tell him so I just said, "It's family-related." Gawd, I had such a sense of dread.

The next day, I didn't think anything about not seeing him. I didn't see him everyday. I didn't even know him very well. I just went about my secretarial job and went home. Days followed days, of course, until I saw him again.

"You were right," he said, a look of fear spread across his face.

"What?"

"You were right. About the reading. After working that day, I went home and went to bed. In the middle of the night, my family got a phone call from the ---- coast. My grandmother died... We flew out the next day."

I found this frightening for some reason. These days, it's quite commonplace but I was jolted right then. I didn't want to read anymore for anyone.

Of course, you know that I did keep reading but, when I started doing it professionally, I actually called myself the 'reluctant psychic'.

***

Generally, since my appointments come via word-of-mouth for the most part, people leave pretty satisfied with the reading.

The times that make it seem very worthwhile are those during which clients go out of their way to let you know that they enjoyed the reading, like when they tell you they've been talking about you on the radio or want to do so or when they ask to take all of your business cards (which reminds me: Print up more business cards). Yesterday was just such a day.

I don't need the publicity but it makes me feel . . . I don't know, good and much more enthusiastic about my job.

All Walks, Just Thoughts

Honestly, getting back to work, I'm not as enthusiastic as I'd hoped to be but I wouldn't say that I'm burnt out anymore.

I can't believe the number of people that I've met: politicians, doctors (academic, medical, and veterinary), lawyers, strippers, heroin/coke addicts, waitresses, psychics, television producers, abuse survivors, depressed people, psychopathic people, psychotic people, social workers, sales reps, horse trainers, carpenters, authors, teachers, dental hygenists . . .

Life is full of interesting folk. My job has taught me that more than anything else. (I also see just how rare psychopaths really are. Of all the hundreds of people I've met, I believe I've only ever come across one. )

I don't think I began giving readings specifically to help people. When I began to see that I was helping people in my own peculiar way, it felt good. I liked it.

When I see signs that I'm helping, I want to keep doing it.

I know that I'm different from other psychics, probably because I'm so strongly convinced that my ability -- whatever you call it -- is biologically based and not the product of some strange confluence of ether and crystal (not -- cough -- that there's anything wrong with that).

I have spiritual beliefs and I don't think biology precludes spiritual reality. I see ghosts and the past and the future because my brain works that way: It enables me to see what others may not. I feel what others feel, even after they've left a room or when they're on the other end of the telephone.

I don't stare at crystal balls; I don't think tarot cards hold any inherent power. I don't think that I'm special. I think I get information and I, ultimately, don't know why except that this is connected to neurochemical events originating in my brain.

All this being said, I hope that my brain works effectively enough to help me drive in the days ahead. I am relinquishing my status as one of life's pedestrians. As my child ages, I realize that I need to be able to get her to her art class, ballet class, keyboard class . . . Somehow, I foresee it only gets busier from this point on.

Your Opinion

I've been blogging in relative anonymity. This blog in particular has received a great deal of attention.

Often, I receive email from people who would like me to give readings to them.

I've been tossing the idea around: On the one hand, I don't want to make this blog commercial; on the other hand, I'm turning down many requests from people who truly want readings from me.

Should I reveal my identity and offer readings from this blog? Looking for feedback.

Vacation Time

I'm tired. I only have two more readings until my three-week vacation starts (and these are booked for today).

I think I'm burning out. I think that I should want to do readings but, lately, I don't want to think about anything.

It could be that I've been extraordinarily busy at home. After my vacation, however, I believe that I'll be enthusiastic again. I've been doing this professionally for a few years or more now. I see a pattern: I'm busy, I get burnt out, and then I rest.

There's something I want to write about here but it'll have to wait until tonight since I have to do my readings now.

Where Is The Love?

So, I’m sitting at the supper table with my daughter and she’s insisting that she’s not hungry, trying to delay bedtime, long after Scully and I have finished the meal.

I can’t help ruminating: My paternal grandmother visited my brother for years and my maternal grandmother still visits and guides my sister. Neither of the two visits me! There have been a couple of isolated incidents. I see ghosts for other people ALL THE TIME but not my own grandmothers?

My preschooler daughter is pushing food around in her bowl while asking me to not be upset that she’s not eating. Distractedly, I assure her that I’m only upset because I love her and I don’t want her to be hungry while we’re all sleeping. Besides, I’m not really upset; I’m worried. By now, I must be staring into space.

“Yes!” I think, “One should have visited me by now!”

Suddenly, the A-string on my guitar — across the room — sounds beautifully and I’m stirred from my thoughts. The very interesting part? The note does not run its course; it stops less than halfway through.

Helping Out

I often wish that I didn't see dead people, especially when I'm asked to help one without really knowing how or why. Sometimes, however, the reason for the request becomes known to me in interesting ways.

Last week, a friend of mine came to me and asked me to find out how he died.

Without having had any of the details of his death confirmed, I strongly suspected that he'd committed suicide. I hadn't seen him in the years before he died -- we'd fallen out of touch -- and I didn't know anything about what had happened.

So, the other night, I sat watching television after midnight. Suddenly, his image kept appearing to me and I tried not to think about him. When I finally gave up or gave in -- I don't know which -- he said, "Find out how I died."

I thought, How do I do that?

Well, without saying I would do so, I went online and found some reports. Apparently, officially, it's said that his death was an accident but I don't believe it. I do, however, believe that he took his own life, now more so than ever.

I get the impression that his request was for me, not for him. He didn't need a mystery to be solved, etc. He wanted me to know, but why?

I believe that he saved my life once, shortly after dying (though I didn't know that he had died at the time). I had fallen asleep with -- gulp -- a cigarette in my hand (back in the days when I smoked). I woke up because a man called my name, my first name. The cigarette had burnt through two layers of blanket and was about to burn my pajamas. When I woke up, I couldn't place the voice but I knew that I KNEW it.

The voice had been loud and had yelled my name directly in my ear. I know now who it was. Since researching in the media to find out what happened, I can place the date on which I was saved from imminent burns after his own death by some months.

He's with me, at least sometimes. It's nice to know.

Ghost Stories

Things have been so quiet, lately. Even my dreams are pretty mundane. I can't seem to watch TV and I always have my nose in a book or magazine. In my spare time, I'm writing or reading and this isn't to say that I've had a lot of spare time.

The "channelling" experience happens more and more to me, too often to write everything down. I don't always pay much attention to it, either. Like so much of my experience in this regard, it has become commonplace.

I remember a fascination with the paranormal while growing up that manifested itself in a desire to read everything that I could. I see now that it was an attempt to understand what was going on. I needed to know that others experienced the same!

When you grow up watching fans having been turned on (while the switch remains in the 'off' position), hearing ghost children running up the stairs and singing, and having ghosts tap you on the head, it's bound to make you feel different from most people. Thankfully, once I discovered that all of my family were experiencing the very same things and once we experienced them at the same time, I felt better.

Until about five or six years ago, I collected every work of nonfiction that I could find on the subject of ghosts. I couldn't help it. I still have so many that I've yet to read. I even collected in the area of fiction. Once I accepted who I was, however, my fascination just kind of ended and I could get on with just being myself. So, devoting so much energy to collecting and reading in this area was really all about finding myself. I guess we all do it differently.

Anyway, as I browsed through a second-hand store on Tuesday, I came across a collection of the ghost stories of Charles Dickens. This time, as I took a book to the checkout counter, I realized that I was buying it because I like the genre.

The Complete Ghost Stories of Charles Dickens
Edited: Peter Haining
Hardcover
Franklin Watts (1983)

Play-by-Play Today

While waiting for my first client to arrive this morning, I'm thinking about the fact that I really would like to clean Gigi's room but can't think when I'll be able to do so today. At this point, her wind-up bunny -- it plays Brahms's lullaby -- begins to play.

I hurry to her room because I'm excited that someone is here. Just as I open the door, the bunny stops playing. Where is it? I have to search for it. It's lying under her table. I pick it up and wonder, "Who is here?"

Hmmm....

This morning, my daughter (not quite 3 years old) took me completely by surprise when we had the following conversation:

"Mummy, I'm scared."

"Why are you scared?"

"Because of Fred's shadow."

"Really? Who's Fred?"

"He's a very scary ghost."

"What does he say to you?"

"He says, "Hello, Gigi", just like that."

"Wow. Well, you tell Fred that Mummy says to stop scaring you."

Fred is new to me. Actually, I know of a ghost around here called Alfred (I mentioned him here): He started hanging out here a little while ago. Could she be interpreting his name as 'Fred'? Could he have told her that his name is 'Fred'?

I'm Back!

For unknown reasons, I've had difficulties posting to this blog: getting logged in, losing data, etc.

But, everything seems OK at the moment.

An interesting anecdote:

My sister, alone at my mother's house last week, heard loud, booming footsteps coming up the stairs on the porch behind her and these were followed by a loud bang on the screen door. When she went to investigate immediately, she found nothing and nobody there: There had been no descending footsteps.

So, the ghosts on the porch are still there. I used to hear them all the time but now, when I go to my mother's house, I rarely hear anything.

My sister also told me that my maternal grandmother visits her regularly. She actually rarely visits ME. She and my sister shared a closer relationship than my grandmother and I had.

I can feel things slowing down for me: not in terms of reading-volume overall but in the sense that June is my family vacation time and I might have accidentally on purpose scheduled fewer readings in the weeks leading up to it.

I generally do more readings per day than I would like to do and I have shuffled the majority of requests off to July.

I've been gardening with my husband lately because 'tis the season. I'm a bit overwhelmed by the amount of gardening that needs to be done. Last year, I had a small baby and I didn't do much gardening at all. The gardens lay barren, practically. Now my baby is a little girl and I've been able to do more work around the 12-or-so gardens.

Though I'm plodding away out there during spare moments, I'm well aware that I'm ignoring what I normally consider to be the spiritual benefits of working the earth and in nurturing seeds to seedlings to mature plants: the biological connection to the earth, engaging in an activity that connects me to the generations before me.

My readings tomorrow are all back-to-back and this will give me more spare time in the middle of the day.

Happy May Day!


The link I used last year.

Now, you're supposed to go roll naked in the dew or wash your face and walk barefoot in it, at least.

A post revisited.

Another Post!

Very early appointments today. I purposely scheduled everything to end by early afternoon so that I could write and practice the guitar and do laundry.

I've been busy securing permissions that I need for the book I'm writing. I had to decide between: (1) writing the entire thing and waiting to get permissions and then editing accordingly, (2) writing to the degree that I have permissions and (3) waiting until I had all the permissions in place.

I chose option #2 because the first would have been heartbreaking had things not gone my way and the latter would have meant possibly blunting the process.

Finally, I have some major green lights in place. Yay!!

The funny side of things

I think that being a mother, a homemaker and a psychic all at the same time -- while difficult -- actually has some comical moments. And I also think that it's impossible to separate one from the other.

Case in point?

Trying to book appointments while toilet training a two-year-old: I hope desperately that I can finish the phone call before my daughter starts yelling in the background, "Mummy, I'm pee-ing! I'm pee-ing!"

Nearly Sleeping On The Job

Though I get impressions from many sources, I seem to be overcome lately by a certain type of experience. Otherwise alert, I suddenly begin to feel extremely sleepy. Instead of succumbing to sleep, I get the urge to grab a pen and paper.

I start to write, and feeling more alert, the impression of a ghost occurs and I write what he/she tells me. In the case of one client the other day, I was able to tell her about her life because the ghost (a relative) had messages about different aspects of her life. He even told me what she did for a living.

When all was said and done, this was only qualitatively different from my usual experiences. The sleepiness was new but I'm getting used to it. Ghosts usually do appear but mostly at night or during readings and not often immediately beforehand.

I should be posting more often. Life gets crazy. Sometimes, I feel like giving up readings altogether (like tonight) and, at other times, I worry that I won't be able to keep doing my readings. Neither scenario is realistic. I'm just moody. Especially in the past few weeks. This probably explains my absence.

I think I need to cheer myself up.

A Playful Ghost

Last Friday, before my readings, everything was all set: my office caddy had all the essentials, my recording devices were prepared and waiting . I looked around, satisfied, until my sight landed on the antique green chest: The coaster, my favourite one, was missing.

I knew that it had been there but I launched a search around the house for it. It bothered me that the coaster was missing. When, finally, after searching the kitchen and the foyer, I decided to give up. Maybe I had moved it after all.

When I returned to the living room, I saw it: there, on the antique green chest, was my favourite coaster.

"Who did that?" I wondered aloud.

"It's me, Alfred."

Great, I thought, but I don't know an 'Alfred'. He had dark brown, almost black, hair and dark eyes. He wore a white t-shirt and he was pretty young looking.

"Are you here for one of the readings?" I asked.

He laughed. "I just come when I'm expected to."

That was a pretty cryptic response but, then, I hadn't seen him before and I haven't seen him since that day. So, as my husband suggests, he was probably there for a reading. At least I got my coaster back.

Exorcisms and Aliens

More and more of my days off are being used to fit in readings for people who are waiting and who want an earlier appointment or for whom I might have caused inconveniece by having to reschedule. I'm booked months in advance but if I have to reschedule someone at late notice, then I generally use my day off.

A movie seen recently: The Exorcism of Emily Rose. I thoroughly enjoyed it though I don't believe in demons or in the notion of possession.

I read the April issue of Fortean Times and really enjoyed reading the sections devoted to ufology despite my disinclination to believe in alien-powered UFOs. I want to be open-minded on the subject.

I actually stumbled across this magazine when I lived in London and frequently used to walk down to a major new-book store (whose name escapes me). At the time that I moved back here, I realized that I could ill afford a subscription to the magazine so I intentionally allowed my interest in it to wither.

Of course, this magazine is now available in some stores around the Big City and the Bigger City.

I have a link in my sidebar to the website.

Out and About . . . Ghosts

It has been a long time since my post. Yikes! Times goes by too quickly.

Yesterday, I only had a few readings but they were great. I really enjoyed them.

Ellen Potter's Olivia Kidney and The Exit Academy arrived, finally, last week and I'm trying to find the time to read. I don't have any spare time especially since the weather started warming up this week.

We spent two days at the park last week. So, things like cleaning and laundry really were ignored. We couldn't help it, however, because once she realized how warm it was outdoors, my little girl wanted to go to the park.

There has also been a lot of garden/yard work: raking up leaves, etc. Watching everything come back to life is my favourite part of the spring season. This weekend, we turn the clocks ahead one hour. It's already very light outside at 6:00 p.m. but I can't wait until the skies darken around 9:30 or so.

There's a ghost who sits on the end of my living room sofa recently: a young man in his twenties with light brown hair. He's not there all the time but I've noticed him a couple of times.

It reminds of when I was a little girl. We lived in a townhouse complex and one of my neighbours was a family with two children. The mother fascinated me. She told me often about the ghost of her father in her car and she spoke most frequently about the ghosts around her home.

Seeing the ghost on the sofa reminds me of one of her stories. She told me that she was sitting on her couch one evening, sewing, when the ghost of a woman came down her stairs and sat down ibeside her. Apparently, she, the ghost, stayed there for a very long time. My ghost doesn't sit down; he is already there, on the sofa, across from me. (It's a sectional.)

I was only nine years old. I was friends with this woman's daughter -- whose other child was my sister's age -- but I spent more time in conversation with her than I did playing with her daughter. I loved her because she was so honest about her experiences: She didn't avoid conversation about it, she promoted it.

I'll always remember the story of the smoke detector. One evening, without obvious cause, their smoke detector on the top floor sounded. Thinking there was a fire, they went to investigate. When they were unable to find any reason that it should have sounded, my neighbour's husband grabbed a stepstool, trying to shut it off, and it did not stop. So, finally, he removed the circular top, took the batteries out, replaced the top. That evening, the alarm sounded again. This time, however, it held no batteries!

Iceland, Ghosts and A Busy Day

So, if you've been reading this blog for a while, you probably know how much I can't stand television shows based on the paranormal: Medium, Ghost Whisperer, Supernatural, etc.

Sometimes, a documentary will catch my eye. This weekend, I recorded one concerning Icelandic beliefs in persistence beyond death and it aired on the Documentary Channel. I've yet to watch it but the television blurb itself described the doc as "uninvolving".

It's entitled, Investigation into the Invisible World:

While scouting locations in Iceland, filmmaker Jean Michel Roux discovered that many Icelanders truly believe in the existence of pixies and elves. Enchanted by the beautiful Icelandic landscapes and intrigued by the sincerity of the people he interviewed, Roux pursued his investigation. The result is Investigation Into The Invisible World, a feature-length documentary about the relationship between humans and invisible beings such as elves, ghosts, angels, water-monsters and extra-terrestrials. (The Documentary Channel)

If anyone has seen it or does see it in the near future before I do, please feel free to tell me about it. Time goes all silly in my home when the lapse between the point of recording to the point of watching a show is measured.

Tomorrow, there are no breaks in my reading schedule at all. I often wonder why I do this to myself: I mean, it's my time, my home. I could control this better but I haven't yet.

Lost Tarot

Last week, I discovered that my daughter had drawn in pen over the backs of the tarot deck that I use during readings. It's really cute but I had to explain to people during readings that the marks had no significance to the reading other than that it meant I hadn't been careful enough.

I discovered the artistic impressions quite by accident. There were no bits of evidence to suggest that the deck had been tampered with at all: It was neatly put away in my "office caddy". (She is extremely neat and orderly, like Scully.)

It's my favourite deck. I hardly use the tarot, really, but, among my dozens of different decks, I like this one the best. So, I had to concede to Scully that I couldn't keep using it professionally and I ordered another, similar deck. Unfortunately, I couldn't find the exact deck. Oh, well.

Hopefully, it'll arrive today.

"I live too much with the dead. My mind is something like the ghost of an ancient, wandering about the world and trying mentally to construct it as it used to be, in spite of ruin and confusing changes." (George Eliot, Middlemarch)

I just love the above passage but it's really only a cut-and-paste fragment and has no meaning to this particular post.

I will be one year older in a few days and I think I'm a bit down about it.

My last post bore complaints but I'm determined to see the good in things.

First, I'm not doomed like Cassandra of Greek mythology. Apollo granted her the gift of prophesy but she was doomed to never be believed. This would have driven the poor woman mad. (Well, this and the fact that she had no fewer than fifty brothers.)

The Weekend Is Nigh

I shouldn't complain but I've got five consecutive hours of readings today without a washroom break. Why was I not more careful in my scheduling? Oh, well.

My readings are an hour long and, once I've started, I'm quite happy while doing them. It's just that . . . beforehand . . . I start thinking about other things that I would like to be doing such as practicing the guitar, reading, writing . . .

I know. I'm very fortunate to be able to make a living doing something that I enjoy. So, shut up, right?

Ugh. It's just one of those days, I guess.

My dreams have been of two types this past week: there are those in which I'm reliving a past life somewhere in the southern United States and others that are filled with vague anxieties as well as shadows of people from this life.

One good thing about today: My house is cleaned for the weekend. There are friends coming over Saturday, family visiting on Sunday . . . If I can just remember to email Scully with a grocery list before he gets home, I might be able to pull off the entertaining successfully.

We're all getting sick again, I think. At least, it's the usual: sore throat, etc. Maybe we'll all fight it off!

Does anybody still read this blog? Just wondering. I know that I only post weekly but, trust me, you would be bored beyond belief if I wrote about every single detail...

A Conversation About Ollie

This morning, as my mother-in-law listened, my two-and-a-half-year-old and I had an interesting conversation. Within three seconds, I reached for my luckily-nearby digital voice recorder and captured it. While I won't transcribe it verbatim due to time constraints, I'll try to recapture the spirit (...sorry...) of the exchange.

She told us about Ollie, how he lives sometimes behind the door outside (potting shed) and sometimes she sees him in the downstairs hallway. She doesn't like him at the moment. He makes her feel like crying because Mummy doesn't hear him. (I have to assume she feels alone and afraid because she is not sharing this experience with me). He calls her by her first and last name.

At some point, my mother-in-law decided to ask a question. I don't know if she was just trying to make light of the situation, but here's what she asked:

"Does he say 'boo!' to you?"

"No, " my amazing little girl explained. "Ghosts don't say 'boo'. Children say 'boo'." Then, my daughter laughed because she found my mother-in-law's suggestion funny.

Well, I asked her to tell Mummy when she sees him or when he speaks to her. I also explained that, if she felt uncomfortable, she could ask him to leave her alone.

At Home

Ooo, time flies, doesn't it?

I get so caught up in our family schedule that I sometimes forget throughout the day that I wanted to blog.

Things have been busy on more than one front lately. Today, especially, ghosts are active in the dining room. You can hear objects dropping a lot.

Oddly, our little girl, when greeting someone, has taken to announcing: "It's me. I'm not a ghost."

Will write more later.

A Week In

I had trouble getting my daughter off to 'school' (daycare) today. She didn't want to leave so I gave her my leather PDA wallet and asked her to take care of it for me until she came home today. Hopefully, it has done the trick.

Today won't be anything like last week as far as scheduled insanity goes. Last week, I had, perhaps through professional guilt due to taking a vacation, so many clients scheduled for my first day back that I was exhausted by the evening. (I did the scheduling months ago and planned for my vacation at the same time.)

Today, there are not so many.

I suppose there are many perquisites to working at home: I set my own schedule, I can go to the washroom whenever I need to and I can throw in a load of laundry between appointments. The drawback, however, is that my home has to be spotless. If you have even one child, you know how hard this can be.

Anyway, I need to get ready for my appointments.

Back To Work

On Friday, my vacation will have ended and I will be giving readings again.

Unfortunately, January--rather than being productive--was fraught with illness. Finally, after a course of antibiotics, I think I'm better. I think.

Running From The Ghosts

My family was very open to paranormal experiences and, every now and then, each one of us harboured the memories of an event that we wouldn't share with the others.

I was no exception. Whenever there was nobody home, I heard the sound of running on the front porch. I could hear feet running from one end of the wooden porch to the other and back again. This would last for a few minutes. Then, after one last run back and forth, I could always hear the sound of the metal screen door being sharply kicked.

For a while, I didn't think about it. For a while, I'd forget about the porch. Then, when next I was alone, I would hear the running and the final kick again. Eventually, I realized that I could hear the running from any point in the house (and it didn't occur to me as strange, actually).

Then, one day, after my mother left to do some errands, I cranked the volume on my stereo. That was when it hit me: I could still hear the running. So, being as young as I was, I thought that this indicated that I was losing my mind: if it were actually happening, there would be times and places at which I wouldn't be able to hear it. I swore to myself that I would never speak of this to anyone.

One evening, my mother opened my bedroom door to tell me that she was going to work.

"Could you keep your door open for your sister?" My mother asked me.
"Uh, I guess," I replied. To me, it was a strange request.

We lived in an old mid-19th century home. My bedroom was on the second floor directly across from my sister's room. Then as now, I liked my privacy so I had only begrudgingly agreed.

"Why? Doesn't ---- want to be alone?"
"No, she just doesn't like to hear the ghosts on the porch."

My secret experience had been paranormal after all and not so secret. As it turned out, everyone in the family was aware of "the ghosts on the porch".

Feverish Activity

I finally secured daycare for my little girl. Now, knock wood, my troubles are over. We have enrolled her in a fantastic daycare, part-time, and, though I'm nervous about it, I know that this is a good thing. She needs to be around children her age in order to learn more about successful social navigation.

She has been sick lately which, in part, explains my absence from the blog. She has had a nasty cold/flu with a fever and this has kept me up at night with worry. I know that the fever is her body's means of fighting the infection but, when it gets high, it is extremely frightening.

We have watched many DVDs--selected on her own--and read many books.

I have to note that her favourite book for the last month or so is still Babar and The Ghost by Laurent de Brunhoff. She absolutely loves this story. (Spoiler ahead.) It wonderfully illustrates how confusing the common adult stance that 'ghosts don't exist' can be to children. Babar and his wife, Celeste, though they have inexplicable events involving object levitation and driverless cars, cannot allow themselves to say that ghosts exist. In fact, Babar goes so far as to actually warn the ghost to stay away and thereby acknowledges its presence but, in the end, reverts back to a skeptical posture.

Our little girl asks us to read it everyday, twice: at naptime and at bedtime. I wonder when she'll tire of it! I mean, she will get tired of it...Won't she...?

Commonplace

There isn't much to write about since my vacation started: I'm catching up on reading and writing, cleaning, watching movies that often feature Steve Buscemi. (I think he is my favourite actor).

I just may have solved my childcare problems: Scully and I have an appointment with a daycare/nursery school in a neighbouring town on Monday. How difficult it is to find daycare in this province! Could it be? Could it really be??

I recently joined a gym and I have been trying to keep a low profile, changing subjects in conversations before anyone can ask me, "What do you do for a living?" So far, people, if they recognize me, have not said anything, thankfully. Two of the staff know and I've been asked questions in a very low-key manner. Some people look at me as if they might have seen me somewhere but can't quite recall...

I've been booking appointments steadily as usual and I even broke my "no working on Saturday" rule by responding to some business email today.

I spent the entire morning doing millions of loads of laundry while listening to edgy covers of Billy Joel songs.

As this post amply illustrates, life as a psychic is pretty mundane this week.

A Ghost Washes Up

At five o'clock this morning, my mother heard the sound of water running in the bathtub. She assumed, naturally, that someone was taking a bath.

One floor below, my sister lay wide awake listening to the sounds of water being splashed about in the bathtub. She, too, assumed that someone was taking a bath.

This morning, they both discovered that everyone else in the house had been asleep, nobody had taken a bath.

As The House Settles Down Tonight

"This house really spooks you," I observed while my husband and I were turning in for the night just a little while ago.

"Yes! It does..."

Scully is a scientist and, before meeting me, he had never thought seriously about the existence of ghosts. Now, he is extremely open-minded.

Our little girl continued over the holidays to speak about ghosts. She actually is talking about (1) the ghostly characters in cartoons like the Backyardigans and (2) her ghost named, "Ollie". (She actually spoke of ghosts around the home before being introduced to the images of popular culture. When she started to talk about seeing ghosts, I decided that I needed to teach her to be unafraid and to speak openly with me about her experiences.)

Late this afternoon, we ventured out to the backyard and she insisted on going up to the potting shed again. She knocked on the door.

I asked her, this time as before, "Who lives there?"

"Ollie lives there."

So, Ollie lives in our house and, according to our two-year-old, in the potting shed. Fascinating. I have seen him around but not very often. She sees him often.

The other day, I heard her telling him that I had put a tablecloth on her little table:

"My Mummy do that. Not fair." (Funny, she didn't say anything when I put it on the table.)

Anyway, I just couldn't fall asleep tonight, so I came down to my office.

What's In A Name?

The holidays have been very enjoyable and I think that everything is settling down again. At the very least, my toddler is resuming her regular schedule and is no longer overwhelmed by company and by too many gifts.

It's a relief to have begun my month-long vacation from readings but now I'm unsettled:

I had a very frustrating experience last night. The ghosts that came to my dreams gave me the first and last names of a person and I haven't any other clue about her identity. She isn't a client of mine (at least, not yet). I've written the name down for future reference.

Also, a ghost from my family's home--in a dream--came to warn me about something but I can't remember the content! She was actually the "ghost from the porch". She was angry, she was dressed in white (how cliché!) and I know that it was important.

Glass Breaks

Last night, between four and five a.m., my sister and her friend were awakened by the sound of glass crashing in the kitchen, right beside them. Apparently, it sounded as if all the glass in the kitchen had been smashed to the floor.

They got up to investigate, turned the light on and found nothing out of place. This is not unusual for the old family home. My sister is accustomed to hearing glass breaking and finding absolutely nothing (though it is usually my mother who experiences this).

Her friend, however, was frightened almost witless while my sister fell back to sleep.

***

Yesterday, a very long day, was my last set of readings until February! My writing vacation begins. I'm so thrilled.

There was something of a storm during the last few days and more stormy weather was expected yesterday; not one of my clients, however, was deterred. One lady even said, "Look, if I have to ski to get there, I will." Blush.

A Light In The Dark

The place is simply abuzz lately with ghostly activity. Both Scully and I have often heard our names being called and, thinking it was the other, were shocked.

Orbs, flashes of light and figures--all seen and sensed--are really notable.

This afternoon, before leaving for our visit with my in-laws, I was entrusted with securing the house and I did so diligently. I made certain that each light was off when I left.

Many hours later, my dear husband exclaimed:

"You left the hall light on!" He was frustrated.
"No, actually, I didn't." I snapped.

The conversation stopped there. You know, the light being turned on could be interpreted by others as intrusion but I thought it was a nice gesture: while we were away, I thought more than a few times about coming home to a pitch-dark house. (It's on a very large lot without extra lighting beyond those on the street. Tucked back from the road, it is very dark.) It bothered me that I had chosen to turn every light off before leaving.

Anyway, there are four spirits around.

Ghost Etiquette

Gigi continues to talk about ghosts that I've seen, too. Lately, the strongest ghost (in the sense of "most often perceived") is in the basement. He is large and he died an angry man. He has not tried to talk to me. I believe that he is associated with the home as a former resident but not a former owner.

Gigi doesn't become afraid very often because, since she started speaking of them, I've introduced her to cartoons with images and songs about ghosts. I also tell her not to be afraid and she says, "Never, never."

Nice is the transformation with Scully: he has had some experiences (recounted at various points in the blog) but it's Gigi's growing capacity for speech and her fascination with them that intrigues Scully.

Since becoming a professional psychic a couple years ago, I have to say that I've become more detached from the ghosts around me. They're there, definitely, but often in the sense that wallpaper is there or furniture even. I guess I'm no longer intrigued by my experiences. I've just accepted them.

If a ghost needs me, it contacts me. If not, it doesn't and I don't push the issue. I guess I've developed a 'ghost etiquette'.

A Tale of Two Parties

I receive a lot of email to I See Dead People. There are often many questions and, overall, it's nice, warm and supportive. One in particular was really touching because I suddenly realized it was from a complete stranger. I couldn't help but think back to a conversation that I'd had at around the time that the media started buzzing around me.

It was with someone whom I only knew as a celebrity.

"Look around you tonight. Many of your friends won't be around in the next couple of years. Before you've even gotten to the height of your career, so many people will have just dropped out of your life."

I tried to be casual. It was, after all, a party and I didn't want a scene or anything like that.

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Some will be envious of you. Some have been around because they felt more successful than you. Others will resent how quickly you became successful. And others won't believe in what you do and won't have an open mind."

"I think my friends'll support me." I could feel my cheeks burning with resentment. How dare this person presume to know anything about me or about my friends? Besides, life at that time was all about a great husband, a beautiful home and I went from media event to media event while subsisting on hors d'oeuvres and wine/champagne.

Boy, I was wrong. So, so wrong. Last weekend, I was at a party (a very good one, indeed) and met up with someone who resents me. (I have it on very good authority that she does.)

I dreaded the encounter. I wasn't about to apologize for having made something of myself and I wasn't about to apologize for having a career that most people didn't understand and, worse, wouldn't even try to understand. I often write about what I do for a living but I don't speak of it often unless it's brought up in a certain context or by someone else. So, obviously, I wasn't going to force the issue by saying, "Hey, did you see me on television?"

When I did see her, my own resentment dissipated. I just felt saddened. Here was a person for whom I could be happy if she were happy but who, in turn, could not be happy for me: she knew about the interviews, many radio appearances, the documentary, etc. but she could not mention it.

And, so, the celebrity had been right after all. This person had spoken from experience. I'm not as well-known as she--or, maybe I am but how could I possibly know?--and I didn't ask to become well known nor did I ever expect to be. It has all been a nice--and oftentimes embarrassing--surprise to me.

I could have dwelt on the fact that not all of my friends have come through for me. When I look around now, I see the numbers have dwindled.

When I looked around at this most recent party, I chose only to see the people who supported me. People who said, "Hey, congrats on the documentary" or "I wanted to watch you on television but was at work" or, even better, "How are you?"

These were my friends. As for the resentful former friend, I bid her goodbye. I mean, really, I did. When, as she was leaving, she kissed my cheek and said, "Goodbye", I returned the nicety though my word was more meaningful.

The rest of the night, I was grateful to be among people with whom there was mutual respect. Not everyone believed in what I did but they treated me with respect just as those who take the time to make comments, to ask questions and to send email.

(cross-posted to Miscellanea & Ephemera)

Patterns

My stepfather doesn't have much to do during the day. He shuffles from one end of the house to the other, puffing on his cigarette.

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Puff. Puff.
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Puff. Puff.
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Puff. Puff.

I remember it well from the days when I lived at my parents' home. My sister still lives there; she also doesn't have much to do during the day.

"It drives me nuts!" she yelled down the phone to me this morning. "Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Puff. Puff. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Puff. Puff. Oh my gawd, I'm going insane!"

"You know, he's going to do that when he's a ghost, too.".

Peals of laughter. It broke up my sister's mood. I actually meant it seriously.

Fear and Ambivalence

This morning, my sister informed me that she had stayed up last night and was feeling sick from sleep deprivation.

"Why the hell did you stay up?" I ask with my normal sisterly concern.

"I kept listening to the fridge door opening, to the sound of juice being poured into a glass and to the fridge door closing."

"Oh, don't be silly!" I scold her. "That was just Grandma!"

"I know. Still, it really freaked me out. Everyone else was asleep."

You might have detected just a hint of impatience in that conversation. My family is no stranger to ghosts or to paranormal phenomena and my sister knows that she needn't be afraid. Besides, I was still sleepy.

Ah, forgive me. It has been a long time since my last confession...er, I meant post.

Things have been at once pretty busy and quiet.

My reading schedule is heavy but manageable (I hope) and I'm now booking into March. I can't forget about my 'writing vacation' that take place throughout the month of January. Everyone needs a break, right? I'm overdue for one which is probably the reason behind my slow-to-post-here behaviour.

Interestingly, I've discovered that I have referrals from a local police department. This shocks me and, yet, it doesn't.

More About Ollie

While getting changed today, Gigi knocked on the bathroom wall.

"Knock, knock." she said. "Ollie!"

I asked her why she was knocking on the wall. "Ollie," she replied.

"Is Ollie in the wall?"

She spoke into the little space created by the edge of mirror and the wall: "Hello!!"

"Gigi, where does Ollie live?"

"In Gigi's house. In my house."

Speech Developments

Now that she can speak more fluently, our two-year-old daughter talks about the normally-unseen occupants of the house. I overheard her (and Scully) the other day:

"Daddy..."
"Yes, honey?"
"Ah 'cared."
"You're scared? What is scary?"
"Shadow."

This past Thursday, I took her out to the backyard for some fresh air. It's a very large yard and, at its end, there is a locked shed that's connected to our detached garage. We climbed the old, stone steps and it was cold.

Mini-me turned around and started knocking on the door:

"Ollie!" she yelled. "Ollie!"

"Um, who's Ollie?" I asked her but she didn't want to talk about it.

I have seen the ghost of a young boy around the house but I didn't know his name.

All's Well That Ends Well

The documentary went really well. Thank you to everyone who asked about it.

Basically, I answered questions about myself and my work for about one hour and I did a walk-through of a home while giving my impressions. I hope it was interesting.

I'm a little shocked that some friends didn't congratulate me or even mention it to me. Oh, well.


Our Jack-O-Lantern

Scully carved the pumpkin in the front yard on Hallowe'en. We think he did a great job.

We took Gigi out for Hallowe'en for the first time. It was amazing. I taught her the day before what to expect. Only 27 months old, she said, "Trick or Treat", "Thank you" and "Happy Hallowe'en" at every home. She also surprised us by being able to walk up and down 1.5 streets before she got tired. I also explained, that evening, that we could look through her treats and maybe have one or two before going to bed. She had never had a Coffee Crisp before -- and, thankfully, she only took a bite -- but it was exciting for her.

Several times throughout the week, she watched her favourite episode of the Backyardigans called, It's Great To Be A Ghost.

My readings went well and I look forward to those scheduled today as I wait for my babysitter . . .

I See Dead People . . . In A Documentary

Today, the documentary about my life/work begins. I'm more nervous than I thought that I'd be but definitely not as nervous as my first national TV appearance. I'm used to the camera, I guess, but I can't really believe that it's happening.

Gigi had me awake from 3:00 - 5:00 this morning, so I'm not exactly chipper.

Sleepless

At the moment, I'm listening to talk radio on the station on which I have often been a guest. I accidentally changed some function on our elaborate home-theatre system and, this being the second time tonight, I can't be bothered to problem-solve my way through it again.

I have insomnia and I think that it's due to this illness.

Anyway, last night (Saturday), I dreamt that a major bank was seized by many men. There were many hostages. I don't know the location but I know that the motive behind the crime wasn't entirely related to monetary gain. There was more of a 'terrorist' element than financial motivation. I wish I knew the location. I haven't listened to the news, so I don't know if it has already happened.

Me, In Translation

Will I get lost in translation? I have a client who does not speak English at all and she has recruited someone to translate for her in order to have a reading. This is a new one for me.

An Interesting Experience

Last night, my two-year-old daughter ran into the darkened kitchen and came running back out at double the speed.

"Mummy!" she called. "Mummy, 'cared!" She had never told me that she was frightened before.

"Oh, come here, my baby," I told her. "What are you afraid of?"

"Kitchen. Dark."

I took her into the kitchen, flipped on the light and showed her that everything was okay. Satisfied, we walked back into the foyer.

For some reason that I can't recall, we started singing a song from a Backyardigans episode: It's Great To Be A Ghost.

When I make that moaning sound,
I get the urge to float around.
With my arms out before me, I can float all day
And there's a word I heard a ghost once say
It's boo...

There is a dance that accompanies the music and we love to act it out.

Then, she started talking about "a ghost". I couldn't understand what she
was saying, so I asked her questions that sounded similar:

"Do you see a ghost, Gigi?"

"Yes."

"Where is the ghost, honey?"

Then, she took me back through the kitchen and down the step to the mudrooom area. She stopped at the top of the stairs to the basement.

"There," she pointed without prompting. She was pointing to the bottom of the stairs. I couldn't see anything.

"The ghost is in the basement?"

"Yes."

"What does the ghost look like?"

I forgot that I was speaking to a just-turned-two-year-old. The question didn't make sense to her and I was at a loss for any questions that she would understand.

I had to wonder: Had she orchestrated our play to tell me about a ghost?

The Spectre of Danger

Exposure. Transparency. I thought about these words while reading a book recently--a children's book--that I had considered to be wonderfully original. The main character--a superintendent's child--enters the apartment of a quirky, nay strange, tenant and finds herself looking through objects: everything but the ceiling in this apartment is made of glass including the floor. She can even see the tenants below.

The issue of transparency in this novel is not incidental or an accident of production. Olivia Kidney, the titular character created by Ellen Potter, finds a world turned inside out in which what isn't normally seen is exposed. The author uses various devices such as humour and psychic phenomena in order to achieve this and Olivia learns that things don't always appear as they seem: this is sometimes dangerous and sometimes not.

Reading this book brought back so many memories. Back in the mid-90s, I lived in a three-story walk-up in the middle of downtown. It wasn't in the least glamourous: dingy, yellow walls absorbed the smoke from unidentified burning substances while a feckless 'superintendent' sat on the front steps mentally recording everyone's activities. I didn't want to be there but I couldn't bring myself to leave: there was something familiar about the bizarre array of occupants, even about the strangeness of everyone and everything. It takes time to reach that level of familiarity.

Olivia Kidney knows this well. She has moved from building to building as her father is fired and hired as superintendent around the city. Settling and developing friendships are difficult--if not foreign--ideas for Olivia and her initial uneasiness isn't exactly quelled by the occupants of this latest building.

Again, more memories arise for me. An elderly woman befriended me. 'Ursula' called me--whether I liked it or not--daily and once cryptically warned me: "Nothing is as it seems in this building." When pressed for more information, she squirmed away from the conversation. I never did find out what she meant but Olivia is more fortunate in that she gains insight into the nature of both her surroundings and her relationships.

In this little girl, you'll find courage, strength and a fractured sense of well-being after traumatic experiences. You'll also find sorrow, anger and a determination to conquer her fears.

You'll also find her funny because Ellen Potter has a sense of humour and she's not afraid to show it. At the outset of the novel, Olivia carries around a book--about seances--that once belonged to her older brother. The following is the most original passage that I've ever read concerning the paranormal:

The first chapter of the book was full of warnings. It told of all the bad things that could happen if you didn't conduct your seance properly. It seemed that dead people could be quite ornery about being disturbed. If you didn't summon them in the right way, they might pinch your leg or tackle you to the floor. Then there were the boring dead people. If you had the misfortune to summon one of these, they could yabber on and on about bathroom towels and how the weather was so terribly changeable, and what sorts of plants were best for indoors. And they would not leave either, even after the seance was over. That was because none of the other dead people would talk to them. So they would float next to you, blathering and blathering without stopping, night and day. In some instances boring dead people literally drove living people insane. In fact, the book said, many psychiatric hospitals are 40 percent full of people who have accidentally summoned a boring ghost.

One problematic area of Olivia Kidney is the pace. Olivia leaves an elevator and enters the unknown; maybe she lingers in certain areas longer than necessary. It did seem to slow considerably in the middle but it regained its momentum near the end.

At one point, Potter introduces the possibility of insanity but it is fleeting. You are supposed to decide if Olivia is delusional or if she is experiencing the paranormal. I don't think that this device was necessary. First, Olivia Kidney is not a genre gothic novel and the question of sanity is not required. Secondly, the novel could stand its own ground in an argument about the paranormal. There are sufficient numbers of those who believe in the paranormal to ensure that this book will reach a wide audience.

There are so many features of this book that deserve discussion but the scope of this blog entry won't cover them. Besides, it's better to discover these for yourself. At any rate, this is the kind of book that you'll read in uncomfortable positions if necessary.

Book Information:



Author: Ellen Potter
Illustrated: Peter H. Reynolds
Publisher: Puffin Books (2004)
Format: Paperback, 160 pp
Trim Size: 12.9 cm x 19.7 cm
ISBN: 0-14-240234-6
Reading Level: Ages 8 - 12

Lenses

I've been so busy lately that I've hardly had time to consider what a documentary about me and my work is going to look like. I mean, I'm flattered and honoured that I've been asked but I doubt that I will even watch it once it's complete.

(Actually, I can't believe that it's going to happen: I forgot about the proposal sitting in my inbox and, when I responded affirmatively, I didn't know if the offer was still on the table or not).

I've never watched anything that I've done in the media before. Reading interviews can be upsetting and I certainly don't want to pick my television appearances to pieces (and I'm sure that I could). After being on the radio a dozen times, I don't bother with recordings of the hour-long sessions.

Through A Lens

I was approached over the long weekend to do a documentary about me and my work and I've agreed.

A Note On My Absence

I'm still sick but I'll get back into the swing of things as soon as this illness is gone.

End of Day

I've had the luxury today of staying in bed while Scully takes care of me. I have three comforters on and I'm still cold.

Yesterday, I had a scheduled telephone reading and, given my babysitting woes, Scully had come home early to babysit while I did my readings.

"Mummy! Mummy!! MUMMY!!!" she yelled, over and over again. Bear in mind that our house is large enough to require intercoms and she could still be heard. My client was less than impressed and I had to put her on hold (at least, I hope that she was on hold) while I called to my husband to keep the baby quietly occupied.

It was bound to happen that being a Mummy and a psychic would eventually meet at the same spot. Poor baby, I really wanted to take care of her instead of doing the reading. She was accustomed to having her dinner prepared by me and that was what caused the fussing.

Aaaack!

I'm sick again: fever, chills, sore throat, etc. I think it was only two weeks ago that I was sick with something similar; in fact, we all were. Scully has been very good about taking care of me and the baby.

I had a light day for readings today and this worked out well for me.

Today, the bathroom door was difficult to open when a client was trying to exit and I'm afraid she worried that it might be a ghost. It was just an old door in an old house that refused to cooperate but I could see how it might have been frightening considering that it was my house.

Ken Burns's Jazz documentary is on right now and my laptop battery is running low.

New York Photo Exhibit


Metropolitan Museum of Art"The Medium Eva C. with a Materialization on Her Head and a Luminous Apparition Between Her Hands," Albert von Schrenck-Notzing, 1912

If you happen to be in New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art offers an exhibit of photographs entitled, "The Perfect Medium: Photography and the Occult".

According to the above-linked article, the exhibit itself makes no claim about the authenticity of the phenomena depicted in the photographs.

It runs until the end of December.

Mind Over Matter

All those who believe in psychokinesis raise my hand. - Stephen Wright

I once sat in the same room with a person who seriously believed that he could alter time. He also believed that, if I looked hard enough, I could watch him astrally project. Frankly, I couldn't find an excuse quickly enough to leave. My university years were, indeed, difficult: I found some solace in academia because it distracted me from...well, from myself.

As a teen, however, I had a voracious appetite for books about ghosts: it was largely due to the fact that I felt comforted by the sense that others experienced what I did. One area of the 'paranormal', however, always troubled me: psychokinesis.

"Hey," you might object. "You see dead people and make a living by telling people about their past, present and future. Why is the leap to a belief in mind-moving-matter so difficult to make?"

After a lifetime of experience in the area of the paranormal, I can honestly say that I don't know. It just is. (Years of studying Philosophy really paid off :-) The aforementioned gentleman was for this belief and other reasons, I believe, delusional; there are, however, presumably sane people who make claims about moving objects or determining outcomes using their mind.

Well, maybe it's because I can't do it that I find it hard to believe. It may exist, this mind-power, but I haven't yet witnessed it. (I was never convinced by Uri Gellar). Perhaps I'm not your typical psychic. I'm not saying that it doesn't happen; I'm saying that I simply don't actively believe in it.

Mind Under Matter

I also don't believe in the efficacy of throat lozenges, either, but I'm sucking on them constantly because I'm sick. We're all sick with the flu.

I'd like to will us to get better.

Vicissitudes

Yay, I have a babysitter - March 2005
Do I? - May 2005
Well, no I don't - June 2005
No and then yes! - July 2005
Alas, no again - July 2005
But, yes...- August 2005

And, again, no.

Oh, well, my troubles notwithstanding, I have managed to get out to do the DVD bargain-bin rounds:


The Lost Voyage (2001)


Killer Instinct (2000)


A Bucket of Blood (1959)


Attack of the Giant Leeches (1959)


The Terror (1963)


The Little Shop of Horrors (1960)

Where Do I Go To Complain?

I'm lagging behind in my posts to this blog. Admittedly, I have been feeling in need of a vacation from my job (i.e., readings) but I know that one is, indeed, far away: January.

I didn't want to whine, so I kept silent.

I had dreamt of the New Orleans/Mississippi catastrophe some time ago and I can't find the reference in my archives. I saw hundreds of angry ghosts marching down the street and they didn't know where to go. I know that I mentioned it but I can't remember when. I went looking for it just moments ago because I have been bothered about the dream.

Anyway, I promise to try to be less like Eeyore the next time I write. Er, not that I'm stuffed with sawdust or anything...

Scary Movies and Stuff

By far, I usually have more female clients than male but this summer has seen so many male clients. (My clients hear about me through word-of-mouth primarily but there are many who have seen me on television or heard me on radio or stumbled across my website.)

Gigi knows my work as "seeing my ladies".

I think many men are reluctant to seek help of a spiritual nature.

At any rate, the house has been quiet as far as activity goes though the cold spots are always with us.

I have had to turn down requests for investigations and parties due to the fact that I have no time.




I watched The Ring 2 yesterday with my sister and it seems likely that there will be The Ring 3 since so many questions are left unanswered. Still, I enjoyed it far more than I did the first; however, I didn't find this one frightening, either. I'm not sure what would frighten me.

The Exorcism of Emily Rose. That looks frightening and I don't even believe in demonic possession. We'll have to wait and see if it actually does scare me. If anyone reading this sees this movie, I'd be interested to know what you thought of it.

Body and Soul

A marching band consisting of Scully and Gigi beat loudly, hand and foot, while my sister scraped uneaten portions of a cereal bar from the bottom of her feet. She was cleaning the nursery while I was running around getting ready to do my readings.

"It must be Friday," my husband joked.

Fridays are insane even when my reading load is relatively light: the logistics of childcare before, during and after readings; ironing Scully's clothes for work (I know, I should do it earlier), cleaning the house to make it presentable while picking up constantly after a two-year-old bundle of energy.

Even in the motion, activity and noise, I was able to stop and think: They are the reason that I do everything.

Grey Lines

It's muggy and hot today making it difficult to do much around here.

My dreams have been steeped in the past but not in a bad or unpleasant manner. People, places and shades of my former self have been revisited as if it's meant to be a gentle reminder of how I arrived here. Issues that had once been stamped in black and white were actually grey and I was surprised upon waking.

It must have something to do with my sister visiting for extended lengths of time and the past coming up in our conversations.

Alabama's ashes will be here tonight and, then, we need to decide what we want to do with them. This is something I've never had to do before. We loved her, our grey cat, and respected her deeply.

The last comical memory that I have of her occurred about a week before her death: while in the front yard watering the gardens, I caught a grey glimpse scuttling through the hedges. My first thought was that Alabama had escaped from the house.

"Oh, no!" I thought. "She's not supposed to be outdoors." I ran alongside the bushes until they ended at the driveway, hoping to catch her and take her back inside.

Imagine my surprise when the grey line of fur became black, then black with a white line along its body and then definitely not my cat.

"Aaaaaack!" I jumped and ran inside.

Ghosts

Gigi wanted to watch The Backyardigans. If you haven't watched it: the central characters engage each other in imaginative play and the show is predicated upon the idea that they can be anything of their choosing.

We only had one episode recorded: "It's Great To Be A Ghost." The music of this cartoon is, in general, excellent: polka, jazz, rock, etc. This particular episode featured a 1920s soundtrack and great gothic outdoor scenery as well as a detailed, decrepit house.

The opening title song in this episode is my favourite of their entire repertoire.

Anyway, today, there was a ghost in my backyard and one in my bedroom. The bedroom ghost was actually my maternal grandfather and he was there for only a few seconds. I'm definitely not getting along with my mother at the moment so that might explain his presence.

I figured out why I didn't perceive anything when Gigi's musical toy went off a little while ago. I think it could be a manufacturer's program to attract attention to itself if it has been unused for long periods of time.

I'm glad that it's actually Friday now. Even though it's my busiest day as Mummy and Psychic and Housewife, it's still the promise of a weekend.

My sister has come up to babysit while I do all my readings this week. It is such a great help and she insists that she won't bail on me again. Please keep your fingers crossed for me.

Just Rambling

Wow, I've been neglecting this blog lately. Forgive me. I've been so busy trying to get organized that I appear even LESS organized.

I can't believe the number of paranormal-inspired television shows that are coming up in the Fall. Apparently, people find it quite funny that I don't watch these kinds of shows EVER.

That being said, I absolutely loved Dead Like Me and Six Feet Under: these series were darkly comical, tongue-in-cheek and too short-lived. Dead Like Me was not picked up for a third season and Six Feet Under ended last week in its fourth season.

Movies are another story entirely. I enjoy a good film. I love those crafted in the gothic genre and avoid the blood-and-gore horror.

While Mini-Me sleeps, I think I'll see what's new on Video-on-Demand.

Digging In

I threw myself into work yesterday and dug through piles of paperwork and correspondence with clients. I actually got caught up! I can be so damned efficient when I'm postponing grief.

I think the stress of not having things done was getting to be too much for me. I couldn't enjoy my rare spare time knowing that there was so much to do. I should hire a secretary.

I really felt the pull between motherhood and working: Mini-Me was being babysat in my home and I was working on the floor beneath. She would call me. When she came down the stairs at different points, she would run to me and ask to be held. Of course, I held her and I felt guilty for wondering why my babysitter wouldn't keep her entertained in her large nursery as I had requested: wanting to work and wanting not to want to work. At times, I really wanted to send the sitter home and just hold my baby some more.

I just knew that if I could plough through, things would be better for all of us. There would be more of me to give my family.

I spoke with Scully about my desire to take a month off to do nothing but write while I have childcare. He agreed that it would be a good idea. Unfortunately, that only leaves January since I'm already booking into December. A writing vacation! Well, it won't really be a vacation but I look forward to it with the same kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for such occasions.

I just discovered that my mother inadvertantly referred two clients to me today. They called for appointments and mentioned having spoken with my mother. My mother has it that she was talking about me to someone else, was overheard and that's how it happened.

Alabama, c.1990 - August 16, 2005



This morning, after a long illness, our other cat passed away.

She was very old for a cat and a dear friend. She always reminded me of a little old lady.

We will miss her.

Still Relatively Common

Grandma had diabetes. She had tremendous difficulty in sticking to a strict diet. In the late 80s, she came to live with us.

My mother converted the dining room into a bedroom by adding both a bathroom and an extra set of doors: Grandma slept right beside the kitchen.

In the middle of the night, it wasn't uncommon to hear her scrabbling across the kitchen floor and opening the fridge.

By day, she always seemed so slow and lumbering but, my father maintains, by night, she practically ran to the kitchen once everyone was in bed.

She died in 1989. During my sister's stay this week, I was reminded that, to this day, people still hear her making her way to the kitchen and they swear that they hear the fridge door slamming.

The Armchair Director



This is a disappointment in general. There are some truly fantastic, Hitchcockian spins but it doesn't deliver in the end. In fact, it doesn't really deliver in the middle either.

My suggestion? Remake it, use the fantastic gothic elements more fully and leave some questions unanswered.

Of course, I've been a little irritable since I finished my readings tonight.

Back At the Family Manse

My sister has reported more activity back at my family's home.

(1) Last week, at the beginning of the month as she turned off the television in the living room with the remote control, it turned itself back on and this happened three times throughout the week.

(2) Back in July, the kitchen cupboard door closest to the stove swung open slowly. There were no breezes, the windows were shut and the cupboard door had been latched.

I can remember these events from my time living there: the television was the most annoying. No matter what television, no matter in which room, the television would always come on by itself or shut off by itself or change channels. There was no predicting when this would occur but I would end up reading instead or watching the channel that "it" selected. Do our ghosts have control issues?!?

I've Looked At Clouds From Both Sides Now...

We're all still grieving poor Avery's death. It was so sudden and unexpected. The grief is pulling at me, making it hard for me to do anything. It feels as if I'm trying to walk in deep water.

I didn't want to do my readings on Friday. Then, when I met the people, I was glad that I had done the readings.

One of my clients was a soldier who had been to the world's political hotspots. In the past, I didn't think that I could put myself in the boots of a soldier but I found myself doing so quite easily.

There are some psychic similarities between soldiers and psychics: we both carry around images that most people will never see or have to see.

Though I couldn't ever imagine myself in the role of a soldier, I have grown spiritually through reading for him. He was, in fact, a very spiritual person. I think the fact that I'm not a flake and, in fact, that I am quite practical, impressed him.

Immediately afterwards, instead of "decompressing" as I normally would, Scully and I took Mini-Me to the park for some swinging and sliding. It was nice to get out in the evening but I still carried all the readings around in my head and it made me irritable.

Note to self: do some kind of mental exercises after a day's worth of readings.

My Beloved Cat

My beloved cat died yesterday.

This illustrates perfectly that I oftentimes have no prescience when it comes to my OWN life.

We were all saying good-bye to our other cat, Alabama, who appeared to be dying of renal failure. With the farewell over, my husband put her into the vehicle and drove to our animal hospital.

I looked behind me at the back porch and saw something small and dark for a second near Avery, then it disappeared.

Not a second later, Avery let out a howl of sorts. I ran over to the back porch because it seemed as if he might have had a hairball. I didn't think he was dying: it hadn't even occurred to me. After some few minutes, I realized that he was gone and I called my husband.

He was waiting in the Vet's office with the other cat when I reached him.

"Avery's dead!" I shouted.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Hurry home, honey. Avery is DEAD!!!"

It was an unbelievable day. Scully stayed home from work and we were all sick with grief. I had to explain to our two-year-old daughter that Avery "was sick and had to go stay with other cats now." I think it helped her to process the absence without unnecessary detail that could frighten and confuse her.

After she went to bed, we held a tiny funeral for him.


Avery, June 1995 - August 2, 2005