Second Sight (25 page)
Sophie had never had a vision before. She'd led a modest life. A strong-willed woman, she pulled herself up by her bootstraps whenever things got tough. There was nothing about her behavior to indicate that Sophie was or ever had been psychotic. Except for the overwhelming grief she felt, her mind was sharp and clear. Was Sophie hallucinating? Had she conjured up this image of her son out of loneliness? I didn't think so.
Because of the encounters with my mother, my profound belief in an afterlife, and the accounts I had heard over the years of dead relatives visiting patients and friends, I took Sophie's claim seriously. The description of her son was convincing and vivid; I was inclined to consider it real. Though he never materialized to me, I could feel his presence with us—a subtle veil of warmth, imbued with a focused intelligence, communicating love and concern for his mother. It was like standing silently in a room, eyes closed, with other persons nearby: Just because we can't see or hear them doesn't mean they're not there. When we are quiet, instincts finely tuned, we may sense them.
This was no imagining or picture that I reconstructed from Sophie's memories. During my medical training, I'd witnessed the identical thing time and again soon after a patient died: It was often possible to sense the dead psychically. However, I also understand there's no way to prove of disprove this. It's simply a matter of belief. More important was the relevance this vision had for Sophie. Even if I hadn't considered it authentic, my approach would have been the same: to focus on the message of her experience.
Western medicine has traditionally been uncomfortable with visions, particularly those conjuring up the dead. Given this bias, it's not surprising that many physicians would have interpreted Sophie's vision as resulting from a biochemical imbalance set in motion by grief. In research studies, extreme stress has been shown to throw our neurotransmitters out of whack, resulting in pathological “symptoms,” a tenet ingrained in the fabric of my medical training.
Although physiologically this may often be true, it doesn't tell the full story; it locks us into viewing the psychic in a narrow way. Yes, when we're in crisis our systems react and change, yet that may be exactly the reason our awareness expands. Of course we will have discomfort, but so it is with growth. To see crises as opportunities, not just in psychological terms but as a gateway into the psychic, is the key.
As a psychiatrist, I believe that we must acknowledge the integrity of our visions, to recognize them as a potential opening, so we may access a deeply resourceful part of ourselves. We don't have to lead bifurcated lives, splitting off our psychic side. The price we pay is too high. By appreciating the full scope of our depths and capabilities, we can then strive for true emotional and spiritual health. Some of us are fortunate to have many such chances, but for Sophie this was the first. Her time had come and she was ready.
Sophie had harbored her secret for many months. It had been festering inside her, fueling her anxieties. When I assured her that I believed her experience was genuine, she grabbed my hand and kissed it. To be validated by even one other person when we're afraid we might be losing our mind restores our confidence. Then we can regroup and evaluate what's happening from a different angle, undistorted by fear.
There's a line from “The Covenant,” by C. K. Williams, which has always spoken to me: “In my unlikeliest dreams, the dead are with me again, companions again, in an ordinary way.” In this spirit, I neither overdramatized Sophie's situation nor did I minimize its significance. The essential question I asked myself was, How can I use this information to help Sophie find peace?
“If our loved ones feel they have unfinished business with us, their presence may linger after the body has gone,” I said. “It's as if they have to make sure we're all right before they can leave. When you're ready, you must give your son permission to go.”
It was easy for me to appreciate why Sophie had been unable to accomplish this right away. I would have done anything to keep my mother alive. Losing her had been inconceivable. It felt terribly unfair. Sophie's vision linked her to her son; in releasing him she would have to confront his death fully. I knew that situation well. But I also knew the strength that comes from listening to psychic visions. It fortified my courage to move on so that I could share the legacy of love I had been given. I wanted to convey this to Sophie.
Her vision was the perfect vehicle. Through many conversations with her son, some of which took place in my office, Sophie slowly adjusted to his death. It was so abrupt; there had been no way to prepare. The vision gave Sophie time. Its message was always the same: Her son would be there as long as she needed him, until she could sort through her grief. In fact, his presence was often so strong I felt I knew him. Over the next few months, as Sophie resumed her life again—joining a seniors' group at her synagogue, making new friends—her son appeared less frequently. Finally, when she was ready to say good-bye to him, his visits stopped.
Psychic experiences such as Sophie's are our birthright, and it's up to us to claim it. There's no elite to which this gift belongs—the seeds have been planted in everyone. To harvest them, we must first reprogram ourselves by envisioning the extent of our vastness, challenge anyone who insists on making us small. That we are limited as psychic beings is a myth stemming from ignorance and false assumptions: Each one of us is multifaceted, radiant, and teeming with possibilities.
Imagine that you're gazing through a window onto a magnificent countryside. The view is unobstructed. For miles you're able to see green rolling hills, an expansive blue sky, hawks soaring past the sun, the outline of a distant village. The longer you look, the mote there is to take in. There are exquisite details you might have missed out on, had that same window been clouded over. So it is with our psychic sight. It can offer beauty and insight we may not even know is there. We have grown so accustomed to viewing the world through tarnished lenses that we've forgotten what it means to really see.
Whether you're a skeptic, simply curious, or already a believer, this journey is open for all. It doesn't matter if you've never had a psychic experience or have been wary of such things. Once you are ready to take a second look, to open the door a crack and reevaluate, everything is possible. Because we so often create our own prisons, we also have the power to set ourselves free. All that is required is a willingness to suspend disbelief temporarily, daring to blow apart constraints that have held you back for so long. To awaken is an act of courage.
There's an integrity to the psychic process that flows with a certain rhythm. Like a great river, it moves us along if we allow it. To be psychic doesn't mean that we're enlightened or special. As we grow accustomed to seeing, it becomes completely natural, though our culture offers little support. Prescience is not something we can master in a day, a week, or even a year. Intimately related to the spiritual, it is a path that will take us as deep as we are ready to go. Our spiritual awareness keeps us honest, preventing our egos from ballooning out of control.
At the onset, you must approach the psychic with the proper attitude: The power that comes with it can be very seductive, and should always be treated with the utmost respect. For that reason, one must find a mature teacher, both knowledgeable and humble, to guide the initial stages. After returning from Brugh Joy's conference, I was looking to meet someone locally, to establish regular contact and a consistent routine. My search for such a person began in fits and starts.
Over the following year I sampled a smorgasbord of gurus in Los Angeles, from a San Fernando ex-housewife who channeled an ancient entity bringing messages from the dead to a psychic astrologer who catered to Hollywood stars. It was a colorful circus of diverse personalities and styles, some more palatable than others. But since for me they all lacked a certain depth, I wasn't motivated to study with anyone longer than a weekend.
One day, a friend suggested that I see a newly immigrated Malaysian man whose meditation methods had impressed her. I was intrigued, knowing from Brugh that meditation could deepen my spiritual practice and enhance the psychic. The only problem was that by then I was becoming discouraged; I thought I'd exhausted the spiritual circuit and doubted that I would encounter anything new. But, certain that this particular friend was quick to see through metaphysical hype and hypocrisy, I decided to make an appointment.
A week later, in a modest fifties-style office building in downtown Santa Monica, I walked up a flight of creaky stairs and entered a sparsely decorated office with a single Formica desk and two worn armchairs. Sitting quietly in the corner was a man in his midforties, dressed in a simple gray cotton shirt and pants that might have come from Sears. He waited patiently for me to arrive, no hoopla or fanfare. When I looked carefully at him, suddenly all I could see were his eyes, two clear pools of light I'd known from somewhere before. Those eyes, which felt as if they'd always been gazing at me, could see my every hiding place, my faults and gifts alike. Ecstatic at the sight of him, I wanted to explode like a comet streaking across the sky. And all this before he uttered a word.
In the next hour, I poured out my life story, though he hadn't asked: The details just kept flowing out of my mouth as if from a spigot that wouldn't shut off. He listened in stillness, in complete respect, never once interrupting. When, finally, I was finished he spoke slowly and unassumingly in broken English about his background and meditation philosophy, making only a very few comments about me. In truth, it wasn't so much what he said but the radiance of his face. In his gentle, reserved way, he looked at me with so much love that I instinctively trusted him. I knew I had found my teacher.
I began attending a two-hour meditation class he taught Sunday mornings in the back room of an acupuncturist's office in Culver City. To my dismay, these were very frustrating sessions. I expected to find at least some sense of inner peace, but from the moment I closed my eyes all I felt was anxiety. The first few minutes of sitting were always the hardest. I'd fidget; my mind chattered incessantly. I couldn't calm down. Worse, there was the born-again Christian group next door, whose fervent hymns were as loud as if they were sitting in the room with us. How were we expected to meditate with such a racket going on? My teacher didn't look concerned. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying the music. But I was impatient, antsy. Aware of my discomfort, he smiled and advised, “Try not to let the singing disturb you. Keep on meditating. Eventually it will get easier.” Since I respected him and he sounded so sure, I kept at it.
Before this, I had found it difficult to focus at home. Meditation wasn't as simple as just crossing your legs and closing your eyes. When writer and performer Spalding Gray told
Tricycle
magazine “I've been circling my meditation cushion for almost twenty years,” I could totally relate to what he said. The most painful part was getting to the cushion in the first place. My teacher said, “It takes discipline to meditate. Do it for just five minutes a day.” Easy enough, I thought. But I couldn't seem to pull it off. Carving out the time felt impossible. Full of good reasons why I couldn't sit, I always found something that stood in the way. I was too busy. The phone kept ringing. A neighbor needed me to move my car. I came up with a million “good” excuses. It wasn't that I didn't want to meditate, I just couldn't get myself to do it.
After about a month, suddenly, while meditating in class, something shifted. I don't know how or why. I hadn't really done anything different. With our neighbors belting out a particularly soulful “Rock of Ages,” I tried to ignore my irritation and closed my eyes. As usual, my thoughts chimed in on cue and started blaring with the intensity of a loud radio in a tiny room. I guess I finally just tuned it all out. I'd hashed over the same conversations in my mind so many times, but now the relentless jabbering became like white noise. I couldn't hear it or the music anymore. Instead there was stillness, a feeling of tranquillity—my first taste of the comfort meditation could bring.
I could never have forced this. I just had to sit there faithfully week after week, when I didn't seem to be making any progress. Although I didn't realize it, I was moving ahead. Consistency was the secret. By showing up each Sunday, I was making my meditation a discipline. Surrounded by twenty other people, carried along by their energy and enthusiasm, I wasn't so easily distracted. Most important, I didn't let my restlessness stop me. Although subtle at first, a momentum was building: Once able to feel the peace that comes from meditation, I could more easily find it again.
By regularly quieting my mind, I grew accustomed to a new kind of inner listening. Beneath the incessant buzzing of my thoughts, I aimed always to return to the stillness. Far from being a void, it was alive, possessed an inherent vitality. In this state, the psychic became more accessible, and not simply because of the lack of distractions. It was much more than that: The stillness seemed to have a language of its own. It would speak to me, tell me things during meditation and at other times. Issues I had been confused about would suddenly become clear: how to approach certain situations, deal with people, make decisions that felt right. Through the discipline of going inward and calming myself, my psychic voice took form, became more consistent. Rather than a sporadic, random perception, it was evolving into a regular part of my life.
My teacher, a Taoist, believed in a universal intelligence—referred to as the Tao—upon which all spiritual paths converge. The purpose of meditating, he said, was to contact this force, get to know ourselves better, and strengthen our spiritual link. A by-product of meditation, though not its main goal, was a kindling of our psychic awareness. It was a gift: We were never to blow it out of proportion or misuse it in any way.
And so, in this spirit, my meditation pracrice began. Initially I had to grow into it and go at my own pace. For the first few months, I meditated only two hours a week in class. Gradually, as I was able to do it on my own, the length of time I spent sitting increased. Now I make a point of meditating at least once a day. Early mornings are my favorite. Before reading the newspaper, answering phone calls, or preparing breakfast, I sit quietly for at least twenty minutes. This gets me off to a good start. Whenever I skip my morning meditation, I feel more frazzled and off center as the day goes on.
