A Message From “The Family”: Why Psychic Readings Fail

When Mister Rand first began psychic work, it was because he sought specialness and meaning for his life. In college, he was very shy, and hung back from socializing, preferring the company of one or two friends, his books, and fantasies of finding the perfect mate. He was twenty years old.

In a bookshop he discovered the first Tarot deck he had ever seen, The Aquarian Tarot, an art nouveau deck of limited trance-inducing usefulness [for him] but of considerable graphic beauty. To the friends and girlfriends of dormitory acquaintances, Mister Rand gave readings for free, and he was surprised by the positive reactions he got from those he read for. “I assumed they were remembering the things that applied to them and forgetting all the many other things that didn’t,” Mister Rand says. He had no belief in a spiritual reality or in psychic ability.

We speak of these things now because, forty-six years later, Mister Rand is still pulled from one belief system to another. His many years of experience as a consulting intuitive have given him evidence after evidence that, while much of what passes for psychic accuracy can be attributed to (1) common sense, (2) conscious or unconscious body language and voice tone reading, or (3) accident, a significant percentage of each reading contains elements that cannot be easily attributed to chance. Why, then, do so many critics of the psychic process declare that no evidence exists for psychic ability or a spiritual reality?

We find it amusing that we are discussing this, given that, as “The Family,” we embody various information gathering vectors, most of them located in Mister Rand’s unconscious.

From our viewpoint, the human mind is a doorway into a multidimensional reality connected to probability lines; other selves in other lives; and the consciousnesses of animals, plants, and the Earth itself. The Greater Self of the individual human creates a reality in which that individual human can experience spacetime directly rather than via detached observation. And part of the experience of spacetime is a narrowing of focus in which the individual human’s awareness of the nonphysical retreats from waking consciousness. This is necessary because only in physical reality and thought reality can pain exist. Therefore the individual’s consciousness must be equipped to notice spacetime opportunities for nurturance and safety, so that pain is kept if possible to a minimum.

The great challenge, therefore, for an incarnated consciousness, is to keep enough of a focus on spacetime conditions and events that the physicalized body and mind can survive and thrive the various challenges that physical reality affords, while simultaneously develop and maintain enough of an awareness of, and access to, the nonphysical realities that hope, consolation, wonder, and Divine Love may serve as tools and framing mechanisms for the individual’s spacetime experiences.

As your quantum physicists are discovering, atomic particles and processes, when observed by a human consciousness, behave differently than when they are observed by a mechanism. On the macrocosmic level, this process manifests for psychics as a shifting variability of successful psychic insight conditional upon not only the skill and detachment of the psychic reader, but also upon the willingness of the experimenter or scientific observer to allow for an expansion of his or her belief systems. In other words, Mister Rand cannot read anyone who, consciously or unconsciously, does not wish the experiment to succeed, either because of intellectual bias; a fear of being penetrated and violated by another’s consciousness; a fear of the information the reader comes up with; or emotional prejudice against “New Age” practices.

Mister Rand says to us, “Do you mean to claim that all experimenters and scientific observers participating in unsuccessful psychic experiments are biased against objective results?” We do not claim this. For there is another vector involved in failed attempts to read a subject, and that is the reader’s fear of those he or she is reading for. Mister Rand has found that if he is afraid of possible negative repercussions of participating in a reading, his fear will shut down the objective detachment necessary for a reading to succeed.

Mister Rand has experienced public humiliation as a result of a reading experiment before an audience containing significant numbers of individuals hostile to the reality of psychic abilities, and the shock of finding he could not pick up any information from those in the audience nearly caused  him to quit his psychic work entirely.

Sexual attraction to the one being read can also block a successful reading. •

Channeled November 4, 2017 by Rand B. Lee

A Message From “The Family”: Seasons of the Soul

There are many seasons in the soul. Some are fresh and green; others, old and brittle; others, a rampage of hungers and searches for satiation. When one is caught up in a wash of internal seasonal weather, one can feel cast adrift, out of control, spinning into unknown waters.

At such times, Knowers—those for whom reality is best perceived [and dealt with] via spiritual, religious, intellectual, or scientific practices—often seek to stand back from their [emotional] experiences, observing them [from a distance], whether in meditation or scientific study. Other Knowers may seek to avoid getting in touch with their internal experiences [at all], sometimes even going so far as to insist that humans have no internal consciousness; that consciousness is an illusion manufactured by the chemical factory of the brain.

Consciousness deniers frequently seek solace in their intellectual constructs, which reduce the world to biological process, and treat emotions as no more meaningful than sparks emerging from a car battery, mechanical problems that distract from the broad tasks of pattern assessment and phenomena analysis.

There are Doers, [those for whom reality is best perceived as a series of practical problems to be solved or tasks to be accomplished], who also treat internal experience as unworthy of contemplation, unless they can see its practical applications for survival, task completion, and biological needs gratification. “Of what use is a feeling unless it triggers action of some kind?” these Doers may think. So for them, Love is not real  unless it is expressed in giving another objects of value, enjoyable shared [physical] experiences sexual and otherwise, and enhancement of physical and economic stability and power.

For Feelers, reality is what is experienced internally, and Love is an internal sensation of longing, belonging, and consolation. What to Knowers is a pattern of understanding and identification with the Other, and to Doers is a relationship useful for creating mutual external experience, to Feelers [is what fills the emptiness they feel at their core].

–Channeled October 14-21, 2017

 

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread

Rand_holding_light     I’ve worked as a psychic in Santa Fe and nationwide for many years. Around 20 years ago I was invited to attend a local skeptics conference. I was interested because I had long thought intuition and reason are both crucial to a balanced understanding of psychophysical phenomena, and I had been yearning to find a group that honestly and without bias investigated paranormal claims, experiences, and practices. To me a “skeptic” was an honest seeker of truth, in contrast to a “debunker,” an ideologue whose mind had already been made up, and whose purpose was to reveal as fake or erroneous a practitioner and his or her practices.
     When I arrived at the conference I sat with my host in the audience. The leader of the conference, a distinguished looking academic type, called the meeting to order and introduced me as the guest speaker. I politely informed him that I had not been told I was the guest speaker; I thought I had been invited as just another attender and observer. I noticed that he had on his table a compilation of fliers and other literature I had posted on bulletin boards around town to advertise my workshops and services; there had clearly been planning involved in the event.
     The conference leader acted confused and surprised that I had not been told I was to be the guest speaker. I glanced at the man who had invited me—the husband of a client—and the grin on his face made it clear that he was enjoying the situation. (I later realized that he resented the work I had been doing with his then-wife and that this was a form of retaliation meant to lower me in his wife’s estimation.)
     They invited me to give a demonstration of my trancework. I explained to them, essentially, that I was an agnostic spiritualist—that I did not know anything for sure about the existence of the paranormal—and I informed the group that I told my clients that I did not speak from any spiritual “authority.” A woman politely asked me if she could take my pulse as I did my trance; I told her I did not like being touched when I was in trance. Another woman asked me if my psychic abilities were proven to be imaginary, would I be willing to give up my career as a psychic? My honest answer was, “I hope I would have the courage to do so.”
     I attempted a demonstration, and it was a complete disaster. I felt surrounded by a 6 foot high, 6 foot thick, impenetrable wall. Absolutely no impressions of any kind reached me until the very end of the session, when I picked up a few mini-“hits” about two of the men in the audience. One set of impressions I received spontaneously, about a man’s popularity with his young students; the other set of impressions came as a response to a question that later proved to be a complete fabrication. At one point I saw an elderly man at the back of the audience staring at me, and the look on his face was pure unmitigated contempt. When I was done, I saw the delighted looks on the faces of a number of the audience members, and it was clear that I was not in a skeptics group, but in a debunkers group, and that they had gotten the experience they desired.
     After the meeting I was ignored by everyone in the group, and left quietly. A week or so later one of the audience members interviewed me privately, and although he was very polite, it was clear from the questions he asked, and the details he dropped about himself, that he was a conservative Catholic who believed that spiritual guides were Satanic deceivers promoting humanism above the revealed doctrines of the Church. Later he wrote a letter to the local paper claiming “Rand Lee may be the only honest psychic in Santa Fe,” a reference I believe to my hope that I would have the courage to quit my profession if proven a fake–and though some might take this as damning with faint praise, it did console me a trifle that at least one person at the conference did not believe I was a charlatan, just self-deluded.
     It took me many years to regain my confidence in my abilities. But I learned from this experience that (1) when I am in an altered psycho-receptive state my critical analytical faculties are offline, and I am unable to detect when I am being conned or lied to; (2) that I cannot read through my own fears—I must feel safe in order to relax and get objective impressions of my audiences; (3) that I cannot read people who do not wish to be read; and (4) that I have the right to say “No” to any situation aimed at humiliating me. I see now that I should have refused to give a demonstration at that meeting, and called out the man who invited me for his act of passive aggression. Not to have done so was, I fear, foolish. I regret that decision to this day.
—October 2, 2017
I’ve recently come across a very enlightening website that addresses the issue of honest skepticism vs. the current fashion in verbally abusive online pseudoskepticism. The site is http://www.skepticalaboutskeptics.org.

Do You Believe In Fairies? Clap Your Hands

Spoiler Alert: Last night, on Netflix, I watched a British film called “Hippopotamus”. The main character and narrator is a  late middle aged British critic whose sardonic skepticism is equaled only by his sense of personal failure and self-loathing. In the film, he is called to an aristocratic country home to investigate rumors that a younger son there—the critic’s godson—has developed supernatural healing abilities. A man, a horse, and several women have been reported as cured of life-threatening illnesses when the boy laid hands upon them.

“Hippopotamus” is well scripted and well acted. The main character’s acerbic wit both appeals and appalls. But the ending is predictable. The critic—a former poet plagued with writer’s block for decades—unmasks the “healings” as a con on the part of the boy: one of the women dies, and the others’ symptoms return, except for the horse’s, who turns out to have been suffering from nothing worse than a hangover brought on by lapping up an alcoholic beverage accidentally dumped into its water bucket by the critic.

There is a happy ending of sorts: the boy admits to the con; is reconciled with his father, whom the con had been designed to impress; the critic’s writer’s block dissolves; and he starts making poems again. But the underlying assumptions of the film are what I’ve come to expect from modern secular media: there is no God; “miracles” are simply chance occurrences explicable by natural law; and anyone who believes in God, the supernatural, faith, or life after death is a self-deluded lamebrain.

True confession time: The movie depressed me. Against all experience and true expectation, I had deep down hoped that the main character would at least have been left with some doubts about the certitude of his materialism. When the hope was dashed, my ancient doubts concerning the true nature of my own mystical and psychic experiences rose up chattering. This is nothing new—my mind has always been a house divided, rationalist on one side, mystic on the other—and when such dark moods descend on me, I feel like a charlatan who has wasted his life living in a dream world.

Oddly enough, when I go into trance, or throw the cards for a client, or am in the presence of others who have had mystical experiences, my doubts recede, and the quiet joy of knowing that Divine Love is real, and that we are all,  ultimately, safe, returns.  But when I am alone in my flat, at night, it is more difficult to recapture that startling sense of peace I experience in the day.

This dualism is in part inherited: My father was an agnostic and purported rationalist; my mother, a high church Episcopalian who taught me from an early age “If I should die before I wake, I pray my Lord my soul to take.” I always felt torn between them, to the point where, as a child, I taught myself to sleep on my back rather than on my left or right side, because Daddy slept on the left side of the bed he shared with Mommy, and Mommy slept on the right side, and I felt if I chose right or left I would be siding with one parent against the other.

Tonight, as I lay in bed suffocating beneath the dread that the materialists are right, and that my mystic experiences are nothing more than brain farts, I could understand how some people believe in demon oppression or soulsucking negative thoughtform attacks—because I felt attacked, not by demons, but by the overwhelmingly pessimistic materialism of modern secular intellectual culture. And the thought came to me: You don’t have to give in to these doubts. You have a choice, based upon your experience, to believe in spirit guides, nature spirits, ghosts, reincarnation, soul travel, ESP, Tarot, channeling, and other manifestations of nonlinear consciousness, or not to believe in them. Which choice makes your life run more smoothly while not violating either your reason or your intuition? Choose now.

My lifelong difficulty reconciling my father’s agnosticism with my mother’s emotional religiosity was predicted, many years ago, when I was a sophomore at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. I developed a crush on a bisexual upperclassman who dabbled in the occult, inspired by the characters in John Fowles’ The Magus. One day, while in a pot-fueled trance, he predicted that I would spend my life standing on the crossroads showing the way for others to follow, while never taking that path myself.

Tonight I say: I choose to believe that life is more than a molecular dance, wondrous though that dance may be. Tonight I choose to believe that Spirit is real, and that my experiences of It are glimpses of a truth underlying, upholding, and surrounding the truths of physical reality. To put it another way, words deliberately chosen to irritate the the sophisticated atheist who lives inside me: tonight I choose to believe in fairies. And if you choose to believe in them, too? Why, do what Peter Pan invited us to do when Tinker Bell lay at death’s door. If you believe in fairies, clap your hands. •

 

The Invisible Irrelevant in the Living Room

Rand Lee is a freelance writer and psychic consultant based in Santa Fe, New Mexico..

Ever since Donald Trump was installed as President of the United States, I’ve had a hard time sitting down at the computer and trance-writing “Life On the Borderlands”. To be frank, given the enormity of the injustices being perpetrated in this country and around the world, I’ve come to feel that this blog is pretty irrelevant.

It’s not that “The Family” and I haven’t been able to help anybody. A fair number of you have told me you’ve felt inspired, consoled, and expanded by some of the words that have appeared here. It’s just that I feel the forces of darkness pushing, pushing, pushing to remake the USA into Putin’s Russia, and it’s difficult for me to believe that anything “The Family” and I say can make the slightest contribution toward staving off the final outcome.

mercyNo sooner do I voice this on my computer screen, than from deep within me a contrary set of memes wells up, challenging my pessimism. I am reminded of the I Ching ideogram often called in English “The Healing Power of the Small”: if this blog helps even one person, isn’t it worth doing? And I receive the gentle suggestion that perhaps part of my discouragement is rooted in noble hopes for the salvation of the world but in the fact that I feel, after years of striving, I have not “made something of myself”—i.e., earned enough money, fame, recognition, weight loss, and status in the “real” world to win the respect of my (mostly long dead) childhood critics and detractors.

In the late fall of 2013, I was leading a group heart chakra meditation when I dropped into a spontaneous and entirely unexpected experience of complete and utter safety. It was like waking from a rather troublesome dream, and realizing with a start of relief that what I had thought was real life—a world of force, threat, blame, and shame—was not the ultimate reality at all. The ultimate reality was that deep down in the core of myself I am, and always will be, safe. And the Love that pervades deep reality needs no praise, no worship, no gratitude, nothing at all, for It is complete in Itself, and therefore free to love without question everything in me and my reality that I call “good,” and everything in me and my reality that I call “bad.”

I wish to stress that this vision felt, when I was in it, entirely ordinary, entirely undramatic, and entirely familiar. But coming out of it, I realized that for the first time in my life I felt truly, deeply fed. And in the days that followed, my ambitions, jealousies, and pessimism were lifted from me, because I had everything I would ever need. Did this sense of completeness last? No. In time it faded, crowded out by my body’s cravings for food, touch, and safety. But the memory of it lingers, and when I share that memory with you, I feel hopeful again.

The healing power of the small. Take heart, my friends. The best is yet to come. •

To book a psychic reading or training session with Rand, contact him at chrononaut61@gmail.com.

 

 

On Seeking Safe Haven

stained_glass_spiral

I’ve spent most of my sixty-five years of life looking for a person, doctrine,  or organization that I could build my life around. I started out looking to my parents to fulfill this role. I found early on that I could depend upon my father to provide us with shelter, clothing, food, and the luxuries of upper middle class Anglo life, but that he was largely unavailable emotionally and could not protect me from my abusive older brother. My mother I found I could depend upon to provide me with delicious meals, delightful books, affection, and consolation, except when her alcoholism and borderline personality disorder symptoms turned her manipulative, vindictive, and sexually abusive.

For years I felt torn between the two of them, and my ambivalence took an odd turn.

Mother put pressure on me to choose her over my father, which—let’s be frank—it wasn’t hard to do, given his loud, gritted-teeth complaints, self-isolation, and demands for absolute obedience. But I liked the fact that he was a writer, and I think I sensed his self-loathing, and I identified with him more than I liked to admit at the time. Now in the bedroom they shared, my father slept on the left side of the bed, my mother on the right. So at night I felt torn. If I slept on the left side of my bed, would I be symbolically choosing my father over my mother? If I slept on the right side of my bed, would I be symbolically choosing my mother over my father? So I compromised: I taught myself to sleep flat on my back, a habit I tend to follow to this day.

Once I entered adolescence, I more or less gave up trying to find refuge in my parents’ world and I sought refuge in my private dream world of comic books, science fiction, fantasy, mythology, and chaste fantasies of joining Robin Hood’s band of Merry Men, or being adopted as innocent school mascot by my brother Anthony’s Air Force Academy classmates. When I became aware of my homosexuality, I began fantasizing about finding a Mister Right, the perfect man who, in exchange for my exclusive devotion and access to my body, would console, protect, and give shape and direction to the rest of my life.

The problem was that, owing to incest trauma, I felt sex was dirty—not just homosexuality, but all sex. I got this feeling from my mother. So I decided that I did not want to be sexual at all. After my father’s sudden death in early 1971, I sought out the sexuality-free surrogate family I’d always fantasized about: I became a celibate Fundamentalist Christian for seven years.

The people with whom I worshiped were good people, genuinely trying to live by Jesus’s teachings of love and forgiveness. Although my self-betrayal ate away at me, the love and acceptance they showed me had a healing effect on me. They gave me a refuge from the storm of my life. But in the end I left the church, and Fundamentalism, in large part because I felt I had been putting on an act. Though I was indeed celibate for most of the seven years I was with them, I now know the difference between celibacy, born of lifestyle conviction, and sexual anorexia born of abuse trauma. And I was not the only one who left. Several years ago I discovered that the pastor of the last church I attended had been gay, and had committed suicide because he had not been able to reconcile his faith with his physicality.

All this took place many decades ago. Today, at 65 years old, five feet seven inches tall, and 290 pounds, I am far from healed; I like to joke that I have more issues than National Geographic. But I have a renewed faith in Divine Love, from Whose womb I was born and to Whose womb I shall return, and for Whom my homosexuality is a natural species variation, not a monstrosity or a curse worthy of damnation. And I have been fortunate in meeting numerous fellow travelers, straight, gay, in between, and undecided, whose kindness has consistently reached out to me in dark times.

So if you are tempted to give up who you are to get love, don’t give in to that temptation. Start asking for help, and keep on asking until you start getting it. It can and does get better, but only if you refuse to let your abusers win. •

A Message From “The Family”: On The Beloved Dead

Victorian_seance[On January 27, 1988, I walked into my love Stuart’s bedroom and found him dead on the bed. He and I had been lovers for only 2 years. We worked as psychics together in Key West, Florida and Santa Fe, New Mexico; we met originally when he came to me seeking Louise Hay-type guided meditations for boosting his immune system. One day, during such a meditation (which he claimed did indeed make him feel better), Stuart manifested a feminine information source he called “Alexandra” whose calm, understated manner was a stark contrast to his Aries exuberance.

[About a month before he died, Stuart—who was suffering from AIDS symptoms at a time before the current, longevity promoting, AIDS “cocktail” of meds had been developed— told me that he had dreamed he was in a coma in hospital, and that I was sitting beside his bed. He said that in the dream, I understood that it was so beautiful where he went when he was in deep trance, that someday he would not come back from there, and that I was OK with it. When I found his body that morning in 1988, I realized then that his account of his “dream” had been his way of letting me know he was planning to kill himself with a heavy injection of painkiller that he had been hoarding since his job as a med tech at Key West Island Hospital.

[The following channeling discusses my experiences regarding Stuart since his passing. -RL]

When Mister Rand first walked into the room where he found his lover’s body, he had no sooner set eyes upon Stuart’s prone form than he felt, floating somewhere near the ceiling on the lefthand side of the bedroom, two energies or consciousnesses. One of the consciousnesses was in fact that of Stuart, Rand’s lover; the other, that of the so-called “channeled entity” that 2 years previously had, at its first appearance, announced its name as “Alexandra”.

Now “Alexandra” was the feminine persona of the channeler, Stuart. In a sense, Mister Rand feels she is still present in his life; at other times she seems a very distant memory. Stuart himself feels to Mister Rand even more distant. Mister Rand’s younger brother, Jeffrey Robert Lee, died in 1990 from AIDS; his consciousness, by contrast with Stuart’s, seems much more present in Mister Rand’s life, particularly when Mister Rand is channeling or doing psychic readings for clients.

Why do some dead feel more present to us than others? The answers in part depend upon our ultimate view of reality. An atheist-materialist-ethicist [might] say that the memories of the dead, not the dead themselves, are present with us in direct proportion to how willing we have been to release those relationships and move on to new ones in physical reality—in other words, the more emotionally attached you are to the memory of your dead friend or relative, the more present they will seem to be. By contrast, a spiritualist might say that some dead feel more present to us than others because some of our dead have been willing to “move on”—detach from identification with their former self, former life, and former acquaintances (us)—and others of our dead have not.

We see the situation as possessing elements of both explanations. Let us say that Mister Yiffniff dies. At first, depending upon his spiritual practises in the life just ended, Yiffniff [may be] a bit disoriented; he may even feel that his death is a mistake, that he has so much “unfinished business” to attend to before he is ready to depart fully. Other, less conflicted individuals, may be ready to “move on” immediately—may be even glad that they have died, for now, if they wish, they can take on a new physical form in a new place or position in spacetime. Still other beloved dead may select to remain focused in our physical plane in order to keep watch over the physically living—to act, in a sense, as spirit guides to those whom they have loved and still do love. Mister Jeffrey, Mister Rand’s baby brother, is just such a one—committed,  as it were, to stay by Mister Rand’s side until it is time for them to become balls of joyous light together. Each case is different, however, and must be evaluated as objectively as possible by the psychic researcher. •