Walk Like a Psychic
Sometimes, it Just Sounds Nuts
Everybody knows how to walk on a sidewalk. You know, if you step off of it, you’re going to be on the grass, in the mud, or on the street. It’s pretty straightforward. There are nuances like when it is cold outside, and the sidewalk has been wet, there might now be ice. Now, you will walk carefully, not wanting to fall or lose your balance. When we are young, it helps to have somebody hold your hand. As you get older but still not cautious, it helps to have somebody who can run after you and save you from running into the street or danger.
This is just walking. We know how to do this.
The way of the psychic is a little different. You know a dream is not just a dream. A dream is a conduit to other places and other people. You can meet with your loved ones who have passed on and say hello. You can hold them in your arms and awaken sobbing with joy. You can learn new words. You can talk to other psychics, both alive and dead. A dream is a conduit. It’s not just a sidewalk.
Like tea leaves, there are signs that can be seen in your dreams to lend an understanding of a particularly thorny problem you have been wrestling with. You might find a loophole you have not seen before. You might find a new approach to a procedure that has been in place for ages and which, now, doesn’t quite hit all the dots. A huge wave about to wipe you away could be a big change coming.
Your approach could be updated.
It doesn’t have to be updated. Things need not all be streamlined, but it might help you.
For instance, my writing. I think part of my problem now as I look for a steady stream of ideas to write about and am not succeeding particularly well. Perhaps, instead of throwing the hook into the water as often as I have been of late, I allow it to drift without tugging and playing with it.
Creatures like fish are like creatures anywhere. They are wary. Allow them to enjoy the afternoon quiet of the water. Just before the midges and other insects start flying about and they rise for dinner, give them the solitude to listen to their own heart beating.
If I can approach my writing that way, just wait patiently for the ideas to come, my midges. My dinner. My writing might be easier.
I look for that. I look for an easier way to write, to coax, to inveigle the words into the semblance of a bouquet — a clutch of flowers held by a hot little fist of a three-year-old. I will press some of these flowers between wax paper and put them in a book. I will save this moment to see years from now. The flowers, the gift from a little chubby hand. To me. For me especially. For love.