Second Sight (18 page)

Locating this vessel, after one hundred and fifty years and much searching by others, was a valuable archaeological and historical find, as the
Leander
was one of the most well-preserved remains discovered in the Bahama Banks area. It had lain undisturbed, buried under the sea floor, for well over a century. Imagine unearthing an entire ship beneath the sand, looking very much like it did before it sank. Not only did it provide knowledge of how sailing vessels were constructed in the early 1800s, but it gave us a firsthand record of personal artifacts of the period. Very specific objects belonging to the passengers were recovered from the wreckage which our group of psychics had described: a pearl-handled razor, parts of a drafting set, a pewter cruet. Of special interest were several small bottles on board, because glass rarely manages to remain intact due to the constant shifting of the current and sand on the treacherous limestone banks.

The search for other wrecks continued, and a total of eighteen sunken ships were found, most of recent origin, many foreseen by the psychics and confirmed by magnetometer readings. What's striking to me is that these sites had been pinpointed by our remote viewings two years before any of us had even traveled to the Bahamas. Time and space didn't stand in our way. The information was there to perceive psychically.

Later in the expedition, using blowers, our crew uncovered a lengthy dyewood trail lining the ocean floor. Used to create the rich reds and blacks of Renaissance painting, dyewood was transported to Spain from the New World. So valuable was dye-wood that only galleons and rich merchant ships transported it. The dyewood trail, therefore, suggested a high probability that we were close to discovering a Spanish galleon from between the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries.

It was all the more exciting because dyewood has no metallic content—no technological device could have located it. This was an exceptional example of how the psychic functioned as an essential part of our project. Other members of our team, the historians and archaeologists, then dated the dyewood and established its significance. Always the psychic, the analytical, and the technological collaborated. (I didn't know it then, but the project's funding would soon run out, though now the search for the Spanish galleon has resumed. A wreck has been found at the dyewood site that contained several dozen emeralds. The work is ongoing.)

The day I left the Bahamas to return to Los Angeles, I felt I was leaving a part of myself behind. Taking off from Bimini in a twin-engine white seaplane, I sadly watched the golden silhouettes of the islands recede behind me. And yet I felt triumphant, filled with the adventurous spirit of the project, the close camaraderie that had developed among us, the knowledge of how beautifully science and the intuitive had mixed. Aboard
Seaview,
I had been a valued member of a psychic family. This was a reversal of my childhood, a vindication. I'd been deeply influenced by the unity—the community—of our incredible voyage. Born of a dream,
Seaview
had been made real.

Heading home, we all viewed our experiment with enormous elation. Our aim had been to conduct a psychic archaeology project. We had succeeded in this, confirming the practical uses of remote viewing by psychically locating eighteen ships. Yet our expedition had meant so much more. Our voyage on the
Seaview
had been a spiritual pilgrimage, a mission into which we all threw ourselves heart and soul. The energy that comes from such an inspired group undertaking is dazzling. We learned that the psychic is an efficient technical skill, sometimes exceeding the capacity of radar, sonar, and magnetometers. But most important, the psychic was telling us something vital about human nature: that we're all part of an interconnected network, privy to information that exists beyond the confines of the rational mind. By exploring the psychic aspect of ourselves, we discover that we're linked to a greater whole, a wisdom that allows us to know the grandeur and the possibilities humans can achieve.

Having glimpsed a great mystery, I came away in awe of how much we still didn't know. I realized that we were just at the first stages of learning how to work with our intuitive side. Questions filled my mind: Where does this information really come from? How is it stored? Can we have more consistent access to it? Even more intriguing, How could I put remote viewing to use in my psychiatric practice? Until now, I had been cautious about incorporating the psychic into sessions with my patients. If I had a clear-cut premonition, I would listen to it, but this happened only infrequently. I had no formal routine to integrate the more subtle aspects of intuition. It had taken a few years at Mobius before I became confident of my own abilities. My practice was precious to me. I didn't want to experiment with any technique until I was first comfortable with it. But my experience aboard
Seaview
had instilled certainty in me: I was now ready to begin a new phase in my work.

It followed that if I could accurately describe a distant person, place, or event before it ever happened during a remote viewing, the same principle could be applied to obtaining information about my patients, particularly new ones. I decided, accordingly, that before I met a patient I would try tuning in. Then I could compare my reading with actual information they gave me once we met. This initial screening would be the ideal opportunity to test out the reliability of remote viewing as it pertained to my psychiatric work.

One morning, after doing remote viewings on patients for several months and finding them accurate, I received a call on my answering service from a woman named Robin. She told the operator that she was looking for a new therapist and she wanted to set up an appointment with me. There had been no referral—it was a cold call—nor had she explained why she wanted to come in. She simply left her first name and a San Fernando Valley phone number.

I scribbled this information on a notepad and put it on my desk. At lunchtime, my first uninterrupted break in a full morning, I set aside ten minutes to read Robin. Turning off the phone, I lay down on the couch and closed my eyes. I passively focused only on her name. Shifting my awareness from the sounds, smells, and sights of my physical environment, I emptied my mind. I had no specific questions; I simply remained open to any impressions I might perceive.

Within seconds I became restless, antsy. I was oddly repelled by Robin. I had the sensation of being pushed and pulled in opposite directions. There was something about her I didn't trust; I found myself questioning her motives for coming to see me. Although I suspected she had a hidden agenda, I couldn't say what it was. All I could see was a clear image of a bottle of scotch on a kitchen table, and I smelled alcohol permeating the air.

I jotted down all of this in my notebook, initially intending to compare it with what Robin told me about herself. But the reading had made me so uneasy I was wary of scheduling an appointment for her. This was rare: Even my most difficult patients didn't trigger such loud alarm signals. The fact that my past remote viewings had been so much on target added to my decision to postpone contacting Robin. Instead, I waited.

A few hours later, I received a call from a Mr. Young of the Los Angeles County District Attorney's Office. He told me that he'd been assigned to a suit filed against Robin.

“Robin is under a court order to receive psychotherapy and treatment for drug addiction and alcoholism,” he explained. “You should also know the district attorney is processing a complaint against her by two of her former psychotherapists, both women. It seems she became obsessed with them. They're charging her with harassment.”

Mr. Young went on to describe how Robin would show up at the therapists' offices unscheduled and call them at all hours of the day and night. A restraining order was finally issued by the Superior Court. Now, learning from Robin that she was planning to start treatment with me, Mr. Young advised that I not take her on, suggesting that she would do better with a male therapist.

I agreed and thanked him, not mentioning anything about my psychic impressions. I was relieved to have been let off the hook. Robin sounded like a therapist's nightmare. The scenario could have gone an entirely different way. But thanks to my remote viewing and Mr. Young's fortuitous call, I was spared unnecessary grief.

Later, I phoned Robin to let her know why I couldn't see her. I informed her that Mr. Young and I had talked, and that we both recommended she seek out a male therapist. Although she angrily balked at the suggestion, I later learned from Mr. Young that she did take it. He and I were both hopeful that with this man's help Robin would progress.

From then on, I made it a policy to “read” every new patient prior to our initial appointment. It provided me with a quick and easy breakdown of their basic issues, both physical and emotional, and acted as a signpost that set the course their psychotherapy would take. Remote viewing turned out to be a godsend. It helped me to sort quickly through the many calls I received each day. If, during a reading, I determined that a patient and I were not well matched, I would decline to take them on. In each case, however, I tried to refer the caller to a therapist I instinctively felt would be better suited to them. This not only eliminated unnecessary expense for them, but was a time-saver for both of us. From the feedback I later received, I learned I was a pretty good matchmaker: The therapeutic relationships I instigated tended to work out.

Slowly, between experiments at Mobius and using remote viewing to screen patients, I became more secure with my psychic abilities. By constantly engaging them, I fueled the flame that kept them alive. As I increasingly included them in my work, they felt less alien. In the beginning, I treated my psychic impressions suspiciously, like strangers, vigilantly scrutinizing their every move. Bur as time passed and I saw that they weren't going to turn on me, that the quality of my work was improving, I let down my guard and relaxed. If anything, I was overly cautious, bur I had witnessed time and again the benefits of remote viewing. More confident, I was ready to take it one step farther.

Remote viewing had proved an invaluable tool prior to meeting a patient. Why couldn't I also use it to read someone when they were in therapy with me? Just as I had done with Robin, I selectively tuned in to a few of my patients' names. But now I gave myself more room to experiment. Rather than restricting myself to my office, I tried this in any quiet place where I felt at ease: at home sitting in front of my altar, by the ocean, and in my bathtub in the dark, surrounded by flickering candles. First I would aim for total emptiness, without thoughts or goals. Then, with my mind stilled, I'd direct my attention to a name and allow impressions to come. It was like opening a door and waiting for someone to enter No expectations. No judgments. I was a witness watching scenes unfold before me. Passively concentrating on a name set a tone, created an open-ended atmosphere conducive to receiving rich imagery and sensations.

As a result of meeting Brugh, and subsequently studying for many years with an Eastern meditation teacher in Los Angeles, I came to believe that by meditating in this way a divine connection is established. From this, our psychic awareness expands and we're able to see into people more clearly. Thus I approached every remote viewing with an attitude of reverence, holding the name I was reading sacred.

Cynthia had been in therapy with me for a year. A twenty-six-year-old Harvard graduate, a vivacious journalist, she came in because of difficulties with her boyfriend, a managing editor at the same newspaper where she worked. They'd had a volatile five-year relationship: He wanted them to spend more time together and for Cynthia to cut down her workload. Ten years her senior, he was anxious to start a family, but she defended her right to have a high-powered job, wanting to rethink the question in a few years. Infuriated, he'd argue that nothing would change. But then he'd back down and they would passionately make up. For a few weeks he'd stay away from these charged subjects, but inevitably there would be yet another blowup.

One evening, after a particularly agonizing argument, Cynthia's boyfriend announced that he was leaving her. The next week he moved his things out of their home. He refused to answer her calls or to talk to her at work. Cynthia felt betrayed, abandoned. Despite their disagreements, she loved this man and clung to the hope that they would work out their differences. But he wasn't willing to try. Devastated, she mourned for months.

I knew that it was important for Cynthia to grieve. She was increasingly depressed, fixated on a reconciliation that seemed unlikely. Struggling with how to help her, I needed more information, and decided to turn to a remote viewing for guidance. Sitting in front of my altar at home, I went into meditation, focusing on Cynthia's name. After a few minutes, a distinct image of her boyfriend came to me. (I had met him once when he came in for a couple's session with Cynthia.) He appeared happy, his arm around the shoulders of another woman. They seemed very much in love. And the woman was pregnant!

I took a second look, wondering if somehow I'd gotten my wires crossed. Cynthia's boyfriend in another relationship with a baby on the way? My critical mind wanted to explain away what I was seeing. But I stopped myself from overanalyzing the image, not wanting to break concentration, trying to remain neutral. I kept waiting for the image to fade, to change form, or to explain itself better. But it held strong—sharp, clear, unmistakable.

In meditation, eyes closed, as I watched the image hovering before me, I realized that Cynthia's boyfriend sincerely wanted me to understand his situation so I could assist Cynthia. Contrary to my expectations, which derived in part from Cynthia's stories about him, he exuded no malice, was filled with goodwill for her. Such love was a tip-off of the image's authenticity. Yet his stand was also firm, conveying, “This is my life now; nothing is going to change.”

I had to trust the message and let it shape the course of Cynthia's therapy. Following the remote viewing, I could no longer convey the possibility that they might get back together. However, although Cynthia believed in the psychic and knew I utilized it in my work, I decided not to share the impression at this point. The timing wasn't right. She was despondent, vulnerable; such knowledge would have been hurtful and without benefit.