A friend of mine claims to have a spirit guide. This guide is apparently an angel, and she "communes" with him all day long over even the smallest decisions.
Frankly, if there is an afterlife and I come back as somebody's spirit guide I'm going to be really pissed at having to tell some fruitcake whether to buy the organic soy milk or regular every day.
My friend feels at one with the universe at all times, and will occasionally stop mid-sentence because the energy flow is too overwhelming in that moment, and she needs to just "be in that moment."
I foolishly assume that if I can see her standing there that qualifies as her being in that moment, but her definition of being seems to be much deeper than mine.
I'm not entirely sure how it is we're still friends.
I do appreciate being exposed to such a different perspective however, even if that perspective is batshit most of the time. This appreciation was why I chose to attend an annual event and exhibition she coordinates every year, dedicated to the intuitive arts.
There were all the usual suspects. People selling Tibetan prayer flags and singing bowls, aura photography, chair massages, laser therapy where you pay actual money to lie on a cot with a cloth over your face while a multi-bulbed lamp blinks different colours at different times over your body. Actual. Money.
There were palm readers and tarot readers, hippie drum circles and several people touting the benefits of EFT Therapy.
(For those without the benefit of a friend who claims to talk to angels and arranges an annual festival dedicated to anything science can't prove, EFT Therapy stands for The Emotional Freedom technique, some times known as Tapping Therapy. Because that's what you do - tap.
If you're dealing with stress, trauma, anxiety, addictions or pain you can supposedly free yourself from any and all issues by gently tapping your finger on one or more of ten acupressure points on your body.
I know this because when I was going through some pretty serious fucking trauma, a counsellor referred me to an EFT therapist who would "absolutely cure" me. I would be a changed person, with no trauma, no issues and no physical pain. Success rate is claimed at over 90% and I would never have another panic attack again.
An hour of alternating between tapping the side of my head and the inside of my wrist while being forced to listen to whale sounds on a cd did absolutely cure me of two things -- not feeling like an utter moron and my faith in humanity.)
(Also, it is actually physically impossible to walk for 50 metres in this city and not encounter a hippie drum circle. I swear to God there are more hippie drum circles then there are fire hydrants, and this is terrifying.)
The friend I went with was having her tarot cards read and her wrist tapped at the same time so I wandered away to price out singing bowls. A young looking guy sat alone in the booth next door, with a sign that advertised his natural intuitive abilities.
His price for a 15 minute reading was a bargain compared to others, so I decided I'd sit down at his table and find out if he could tell me anything I might already know.
Even though I'm a cynical, skeptical, pessimistic bitch I do enjoy the odd psychic reading now and then. I've actually had a few readings that were eerily, eerily prescient.
One psychic I saw listed off the names of all of my friends and knew my nickname in university before I even said a word. Another warned me I'd have problems with my pelvic bones and I thought she was full of shite. Years later I really wish I'd kept her phone number.
Too many people who choose to frequent psychics give away too much information. The psychic who has no supernatural abilities at all is just really good at reading the client and making educated guesses. Real or imagined, feeling as though you have a handle on what's happening next is still more comforting than a repeated tap to the forehead.
Much like the advertised benefits of EFT, psychics often attract the desperate, the sad, the confused or anybody who simply wants to know it will be OK in the end. If a person calling herself a psychic can provide some comfort that way, then it really doesn't matter to me if she's making it up as she goes.
My psychic was taking a moment with his eyes scrunched and closed, attempting to "see." Apparently communing with the universe looks a lot like having a really hard bowel movement.
His eyes flew open and he told me a door was opening for me. Do I know what that means?
I had no idea what that means. Personally? Professionally? Trap door? Doggie door?
His eyes scrunched shut again. I was starting to feel responsible for his psychic constipation, because I could see how I might be difficult to read.
I'm currently choosing to deal with any of the more hurtful situations in my life by allowing myself a long period of denial. If I don't think about something then it doesn't exist. Perhaps this attitude was blocking whatever signal he was tuning into.
Finally he got something. There are doors opening professionally, but romantically a door seems to be closing.
Goddammit.
The psychic must have received some kind of cosmic laxative, because there was more.
It's so demoralizing isn't it? All the doubts and terribly negative emotions that come when that door closes. He kept something from you. Kept you in the dark. Kept it hidden, didn't want you to know about it. He's shared it now but not all of it. He's passionate about something and you can't be a part of that. Give it six months though. That's all - six months. But in the mean time do NOT do anything to compromise yourself. You MUST be true to yourself. Do you know what I'm referring to?
Umm...I might.
The universe had some insights regarding my working life too.
You're somebody at work that everybody goes to with questions all the time. They want your time, they want your help and you have no idea why at all. They know to go to you but you don't understand why they do. You need a better job. Find something you love doing and just do that.
This part is very true. I do need a better job and I have no idea why anybody comes to me for anything at work. More than 90% of the time I'm talking out of my ass and the rest of the time I'm at lunch.
Time was running out considering he sat there so long with his face scrunched, and there were only a few minutes left for one more question.
For the first time I told him something about myself. I told him that I write sometimes and I'm going after some free-lance contracts. Is that a waste of time?
No scrunching this time.
You write about what's made you embittered and you write because you're angry and don't stop doing that. Whether you make money at it depends on how hard you work.
Admittedly I was a little surprised at how specific his answer was. I decided to test him, and so I acted slightly indignant and asked what if I might be writing children's books?
He actually laughed at that.
You are not writing children's books.
Now he was starting to scare me a little. Do I just look like a naturally embittered and angry person who can't stand children? Actually...I probably do.
He told me he sees the answer to my question being surrounded by a pink aura, which is a good thing. It gives him a warm and fuzzy feeling.
I felt instantly relieved, because I knew right then this guy was full of shit. I could be wearing a Snuggie, cradling a kitten and holding a cup of hot cocoa and I still wouldn't inspire warm and fuzzy.
Good for him though - he really did have me going for a little while.
No comments:
Post a Comment