I’m sitting in Andrea’s kitchen.  The chairs are white, the table is white (although it’s covered in a red velvet tasselled throw for now) white voile drapes the windows, and the white shelves are prettily littered with clear polythene bags filled with pink and white marshmallows and tied with white ribbons.  “Sweets for the fairies,” she tells me.

I suspect Andrea is away with the fairies, but I decide to reserve judgement for now.

Andrea is a psychic and a medium. I’m here for a reading.  It’s not the sort of thing I normally do, but she was highly recommended by the girl who does my toenails. Let’s face it,  I was after all considering leaving my job without another to go to and moving to the other end of the country simply on a hunch. It would be interesting to know what clairvoyant Andrea had to say about it all.

 

She has her back to me as I sit waiting at the small table. She is taking her time filling the kettle at the sink.

“You’ve cried a lot of tears,” she says as she spoons coffee granules into the cup.

It hits me in the gut. I don’t know what to say.  My eyes fill, but I swallow hard.

What did she just say?  How could she know that?  I arrived all cheery and bubbly making small-talk about the good weather.  How could she possibly know about my silent years trapped in an abusive marriage; about the unexpected and untimely death of my first husband and the strange mixture of guilt and relief it left me with?  How could she know about the depression that swallowed the memories of that precious first year with my newborn –  the slow stream of tears in the darkness that no one saw?

 

Then another casual comment as she approaches the table – she’s hitting me with them hard and fast.

“Did you know you were a doctor in a past life?”

She pulls up her chair – lights a cigarette.

“No,” I answer truthfully, “But I am interested in healing.”

This seems to interest her. Something with a bit more juice than “will my new boyfriend be faithful?” or “should I buy the Corsa or the Kia?”

“Let’s try and find your guides then,” she says, rubbing her hands.

I’m scribbling in my journal. It’s a tapestry-bound special book I always have beside me during ‘quiet times’ in case I get inspired or hear a new idea.

But it’s quickstream and I’m struggling to keep up.

 

She tells me I’m going to live near the sea. She can see a house, a white house, ‘only small mind’, and she can see dark tall rocks, ‘what do you call them… cliffs’, behind me.  She can see green fields, countryside, open landscape,  and it’s  warm.  There’s a horse.  My son wants a dog, he will write songs and live next door.  Whereas my daughter’s a different kettle of fish altogether.  She will fly the nest and wants to travel.

She’s good, Andrea. Spot on.

 

She tells me the name of my main guide who has been with me since birth. (They can come and go at different times for different purposes apparently).   I write his name in my notebook…

Ortheus.

She is sitting across from me at the other side of the table. She sees him wearing a long, black hooded cloak.  He is a mythical creature who has never incarnated on Earth.  He is magical, and brings magic and fun into my life.  I need to talk to him more.   Now she’s pointing out the spelling of his name.   It’s P-H, she says. She’s nowhere near my notebook.  “He’s looking over your shoulder.  He’s telling me you’ve spelt it wrong.”

I look down at what I’ve written. I cross out the ‘th’ and replace it with ‘ph’.  “Of course, Orpheus… as in Orpheus and the Underworld?”  I say.

She looks at me blankly.

“It’s a Greek myth.”

Andrea’s never heard of it, but tells me again he’s saying that’s the right spelling.

 

She goes on to give detailed information about my family history, some of which I knew, some of which is verified later. My late husband tells me he doesn’t know what I was doing with him – that I was ‘out of his league’, and that he is sorry about it all.  He was mentally ill, and can see that now.

 

Most significantly she talks about healing.   ‘They’ are rubbing their hands, showing her I will use my hands to heal. Andrea tells me I have potential.  I have a lot of power. “You could be a ….”  She hesitates.

A what?

“… a Master” she says.

 

Later Andrea suggests I should take up Reiki. She gives me a business card of someone she knows to get in contact with.

 

Back at home I try to take it all in.

Was it really possible I could become a healer?

I had always thought it was a gift only for a chosen few.     And These select few were born with the gift and usually aware of psychic abilities from an early age.  About 8 or 9.

 

I was 45 and definitely not psychic.

 

I looked into Reiki. Read a bit of background about it.

But if I’m honest, I feel slightly indignant about this.  So now I’m dabbling in Japanese Buddhism?  Where’s my foundation, for goodness sake!  Why should I need to look outside my home tradition to become a healer when I was a follower of Jesus – The Great Healer?  Didn’t he say to his followers, ‘the things I do, you shall do also.’

In fact I seem to remember it says, ‘even greater things.’

As a Protestant I’m supposed to have direct access to Jesus and the Father and Holy Spirit and all his gifts.

Why then do I have to look up some stranger in the Yellow Pages to do some attunement initiation thing on me?

If I’m meant to use my hands to heal, God will need to show me how, and make it clear.

That’s what I tell him anyway.

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