Second Sight (29 page)
For a solid month he aggressively voiced his protests. Empathizing with Matt's position, knowing how hard it was to begin again while he was still so consumed with anger, I just listened and gave him a lot of room. Matt's anger enlivened him. I felt goose bumps and appreciated this much-needed relief of tension, excited that Matt was letting loose. It wasn't the poisonous anger that some patients spew out with no intention of releasing it. This was a purifying rage, a sign that old defenses were melting. I had seen it in others many times before. Loss of faith is so devastating that it can become a wound that will not heal. People try to make do, deny or minimize the loss, or shield it with anger. But it is never really gone. Matt needed to vent his rage; beneath it lay a reservoir of pain he would have to confront if he continued therapy. Deep inside it lay the healing. Such a wound takes trust and time to reopen, and not everyone is willing to do this. But Matt was. In our work together, he dealt with his sense of betrayal, and eventually put much of it behind him. Only then could he redefine his spiritual views. He never felt comfortable using the term
God.
But in the context of seeking inner guidance and communicating with his higher self, Matt became willing to pray.
Together, in my office, we sat beside each other on the couch and closed our eyes. For me prayer is a joining of hearts and minds, all distancing gone. It is innately therapeutic, a humble act, that can prepare us to see.
“What should I do first?” Matt asked. He sounded uneasy. Because it had taken so much for him to come this far, I wanted to keep everything as straightforward as possible. “Simply pray to make contact with your higher self,” I said. “Then listen for a response. It might be an image, a sense of knowing, or even a voice. The exact form doesn't matter. What's crucial is that you learn to recognize it. Let's just sit quietly together in prayer and see what happens.”
A few minutes passed. As is often true, the response Matt received wasn't highly dramatic—no burning bush or voice of God. Rather, it was a subtle shift, a peaceful feeling that he could now return to. When we opened our eyes again, he knew that by taking this step old barriers had been broken down; a door had opened.
Matt began praying every day but not in the formal tradition of his church. He was finding his own style, was able to ask for direction and then listen to the guidance. In the past, he often had difficulty with decisions, depending on his friends and wife to advise him. Now he was training himself to make his own choices.
Early one morning Matt's son, who was in film school in New York, called to say he had a terrible stomachache. Sensing that something was seriously wrong, Matt prayed for guidance. Immediately, he knew he had to fly to New York right away. Both his wife and son felt he was overreacting, that it was probably nothing more than a flu. But he canceled his classes at UCLA, hopped on a plane, and was at his son's Greenwich Village apartment by evening. Shortly after arriving, his son's stomachache got so bad that Matt rushed him to the emergency room. Diagnosed with an acute case of appendicitis, his son had surgery that night. Because Matt had prayed and acted on the response, not dissuaded by anyone else's opinions, he was able to be at his son's side during this crucial time.
As a source of guidance, prayers have enormous worth, particularly during emergencies. There may be times when we feel compelled to pray, to send out a loud and clear SOS. We reach a crisis point with nowhere to turn. In these situations, we must speak our needs—pray with a specific intent. Instead of saying simply “Thy will be done” or reciting the Saint Francis prayer, we can request direct intervention as long as we aren't too explicit about what an acceptable response would be.
Recently, my father had a health scare. For months he had been experiencing excruciating lower back pain from arthritis. Stoic by nature, he kept this mostly to himself, but finally consulted an orthopedic surgeon, who recommended surgery—an extensive procedure that could require months of recuperation with no guarantee it would succeed. Nevertheless, my father saw it as his only hope and wanted to schedule surgery as soon as possible. I panicked, intuitively certain that surgery would only lead to trouble. But nothing I said to my father made any difference.
I didn't know what to do. It was like watching a train wreck about to happen and not being able to stop it. The person I loved most in the world was, I believed, in danger. Frantic, one morning I headed toward a rock jetty about a half mile down the beach from my house. It's a place where I've gone for years to think, or sometimes pray, and watch the sailboats glide out of the channel from the Marina into the open ocean. Sitting on a bench, I had a panoramic view of the Malibu coast, but nonetheless felt utterly alone. Gazing out on the still, blue water, the only thought I had was, I can't do this by myself. I need somebody to help me get through to my father. And so I prayed. Quietly weeping, trying not to draw attention to myself, I stayed glued to that spot for about a half hour. When I left, there was still no answer. But by then I'd relaxed, and was ready to begin work.
Immersed in my writing the rest of the afternoon, I forgot about the prayer. Then, toward five, the phone rang. It was my cousin Bobby, an orthopedic surgeon who lived in Ohio. I hadn't heard from him for over a year. The following week, he said, he was coming to L.A. for a medical convention and wanted to have dinner with me and my father. In all the confusion, I had never thought to ask my cousin for advice. My prayer had been answered, and so quickly. Bobby, an expert on the surgical treatment of backs, was one of the few people my father would listen to.
Thank God for Bobby's visit. As one doctor to another, he spoke to my father about the advantages and disadvantages of surgery. There were alternatives worth pursuing, he said. Of course I'd mentioned some of these to my father, although his surgeon had not, but my father could be stubborn. Yes, I was a doctor, but I was also his daughter. He needed to hear this from someone other than me. Bobby was perfect, a close relative and an orthopedic specialist. My father listened to and followed the advice that both Bobby and I urged on him—a course of medication that, as it turned out, saved him from major surgery—and his pain is now much improved. He is even back at Hillcrest Country Club again, at lunch and on the weekends, playing golf. I was grateful and touched that my prayer had been acknowledged.
Although we aren't guaranteed such direct response, the very act of prayer can be healing. It can instill faith, replenish our compassion when our well has run dry, provide stamina to survive even impossible circumstances. Try not to get locked into dictating the manner in which your prayers are answered. Help comes in a multitude of forms, some more obvious than others: a simple word from a friend or teacher, a dream, a message conveyed by a movie or book at just the right moment. By setting into motion our connection with the mystical, power flows where most needed. Our prayers send out a psychic signal, a calling to heal.
When Grace, a patient who had recently immigrated from the Philippines, came down with bronchial pneumonia, I didn't know how to help. She was much too sick to have visitors or even talk on the phone. In out last conversation, Grace said, “Please pray for me,” and I did. Later, she told me that during the two weeks when she was running a high fever, I often came to her in dreams. Grace appreciated the power of prayer, felt that my presence comforted her. I believe that through my prayers I was able to make contact with Grace, to lend her psychic support from a distance until she was well again.
Prayer is a means of invoking wisdom, of strengthening our spiritual and psychic link, of healing. It's never appropriate to pray for material gain—that would be a misuse of power. By asserting that love is the goal, however, we actualize the purpose of prayer, place the psychic in proper perspective. Rich in meaning, elegant and pure, prayer is a resource that can prepare us all to see.
When prayer is used in combination with altar, ritual, and meditation, we are beginning to build a psychic lifestyle. These tools beautifully complement each other and can be practiced individually or together. Rather than considering the psychic an isolated, mechanical skill, we can make it a cherished, integral part of our lives.
Starting this journey with a strong foundation, we're better able to navigate the road ahead. There's a magic in the beginning, a readiness, an anticipation. Just by taking the first steps forward, a chain reaction may take place. You meet exactly the right people at the right time who can guide you. Opportunities present themselves that are perfectly suited to your needs. A flow is established. However, the timing may differ for each of us; we must all proceed at our own pace.
If you're curious about the psychic yet uncertain about what direction to take, this is a period to experiment and see how far you want to go. Expose yourself to different teachers. Hear what they have to say; digest it. Take what makes sense; discard the rest. It doesn't matter whether you've had a psychic experience before. This could be the start.
Perhaps you've been skeptical but want to take a second look. It's important that you keep a critical eye, remain discerning. Unfortunately, psychic fraud is rampant, and many people are too easily taken in or fall prey to deception. But also be careful not to let charlatans destroy what is worthy and true. There are fine jewels to be found, psychics who are honest, talented, sincere. In your quest for truth, consider speaking to them before you write everyone off, then draw your own conclusions. Possibly something of value is awaiting you here, too.
Or you might be one of those people who immediately takes to the psychic. It intrigues you, you're excited, there's not a moment to waste. Opening up is something you've been yearning for for a long time. Just remember, there's no urgency. Enthusiasm is wonderful, but as the great Tibetan saint Milarepa taught, “Hasten slowly.” Give yourself moments to pause, to take stock, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground. Remember your own strength; be wary of teachers who want to usurp your power or make claims about how much they know. Stay simple in your search.
What has drawn me most to the psychic is its mystery. Ever changing and often elusive, the better I come to understand it the more there is to learn. The same is true of meditation, altar, ritual, and prayer. These aren't static techniques. Their power is fluid, transparent, always offering us something new. Windows through which we can glimpse truths, they reveal psychic knowledge. By regularly utilizing these practices, we can acclimate to the psychic and strengthen ourselves to avoid being blinded by the exquisite brightness of out new sight. Rather, we can bathe naked in the brilliance, extending our arms wide open to receive it all.
THE ALCHEMY OF DREAMS
Man is a genius when be is dreaming.
—A
KIRA
K
UROSAWA
At different moments in my life, I am a psychiatrist, a lover, a friend, and a daughter, but at the core of my being I am most of all a dreamer. Whatever I'm doing, I hear my dreams echoing in a distant chamber, attuned to the rhythms of my body and the very substance of the earth. Dreams are my compass and my truth; they guide me and link me to the divine. They call out to me in an intimate whisper, always knowing how to find me. They speak my real name.
When my mother was five months pregnant with me, she required emergency surgery. Gigantic fibroid tumors had grown on the outside of her uterus, pressing inward, threatening to harm me. Something had to be done, and fast. But surgery could be complicated: The physical trauma of the procedure might result in bleeding or infection, or cause my mother to abort. Since my life was at stake, however, she had to risk it. She was put under general anesthesia and they operated.
Many years later, during a hypnotic regression session, I recalled this experience. So vivid was the interminable banging, the sound of metal grating against metal, the tearing of my mother's skin, that my ears buzzed from the intensity. This was my first awareness of being alive. I was awakened prematurely in a dark, claustrophobic space, with warm, salty fluid swishing past a strange form that felt like it was me—yet I didn't recognize myself. I struggled to escape from this alien place and return home, but I couldn't even begin to picture where that was. I was unable to break free; the deafening noise grew louder. I panicked and fell into a dream:
I'm standing in front of a small clapboard farmhouse surrounded by green rolling hills. A robust blond woman with long braided hair, about thirty, cheerfully greets me. There is something strikingly familiar about her—the white organdy apron, her soothing voice and touch. I'm relieved to see her, certain I know her from somewhere else. I respond just as strongly to her husband and two teenage sons. These people feel like my real family; this is my home. We all talk and laugh for hours, easing the tension of my predicament.
In my prenatal dreams, this loving family continued to keep me company until I was born. Although I never learned who they were or where they came from, their presence was always sustaining. I ached to remain with them, but they advised that for the time being it was best I stay where I was. Reassuring me that I would be all right and that they loved me, these dear people, particularly the woman, talked me through the remainder of my often disturbing stay in the womb.
For me, these dreams are absolutely real; they are not metaphors, symbolic representations, or wish fulfillments. Currently, in fact, scientific evidence suggests that memory, dreaming, and REM sleep exist in utero. Also, research indicates that sensation can be remembered in a primitive form, and that the senses can function before they are completely matured anatomically. Brain life is thought to begin between twenty-eight and thirty-two weeks of gestation, but the hormone connected with memory traces is in operation by the forty-ninth day after conception, and the very first cells of the central nervous system appear at twenty-two days. Furthermore, at six weeks the internal ear has begun to develop; at eight weeks, the external ear has formed. Thus some scientists now argue that fetuses have the equipment to register the earliest intrauterine experiences, and that the memory of embryonic days can later be recovered. Though perhaps they would concede that I dreamed in the womb, they would surely have difficulties accepting that as a fetus I received visitations from another realm. Here, it comes down to a matter of belief. I can only tell you what I psychically know to be true.
