The Wheel of Creation: Belief

ImageBelief—in the sense of trust or positive expectation—is, like passion, essential to any creative act. The word “belief” is ultimately derived from an ancient Indo-European root word meaning “to care, desire, love”, and the word “trust” from a root meaning “to be firm, solid, steadfast as a tree.”

If I wish to make a dream come true, I must trust that

(1) my dream is possible;

(2) my dream is possible for me; and

(3) that realizing my dream will not harm myself or another; and

(4) that I deserve my dream to come true as much as anybody does.

My belief must be strong enough to withstand apparent setbacks, as an oak tree weathers storms and blight. Learning such trust is not an overnight affair. It takes research: has anyone ever accomplished successfully something similar to what I dream of accomplishing? It takes self-inquiry: have I developed the skills necessary to do successfully what I dream of doing? If not, which skills do I lack? And it takes self-esteem: a reframing of past failures as part of a learning process that everyone undergoes at one time or another.

For spiritually inclined people, learning such trust also may require developing a concept of a completely accepting and supportive Greater Self (or Higher Power or Goddess or Invisible Sky Friend) that is as interested in my success as I am. 

I can have all the passion and belief in the world, however, but they will do me not a shred of good unless I also have a plan.

Next: Strategy.

Stuart In the Sky, With Diamonds

NM.Kaz_as_cub.1987-8

The week after my lover Stuart died, I took our wolf-dog, Kaz, out into the wintry New Mexican woods. Snow had softened the ground’s harsh clays. The sun was shining brilliantly off the white-clad junipers and little piñon trees. Kaz led me in a romp-and-tumble over the hills and down some arroyos until we both ended up, limp and panting, in a valley floored by a frozen brook.

I was in that state of heightened awareness that often accompanies deep grief. I’d hardly eaten for a week. For all the two years Stuart and I had spent together as lovers, best friends and channelers, his sudden death had taken me utterly unprepared.

He had developed ARC after having been infected with HIV in an accident at the Key West lab where he’d labored as a medical technologist. We had assumed that either AIDS would kill him some day or old age would. The former had seemed less of a possibility as, one by one, his ARC symptoms had gone into remission. We’d put it down to clean living and the effects of our metaphysical researches. (This was before advances in medical science provided AIDS patients with chemical cocktails designed to bolster immune response.)

But I had found him one morning anyhow, body cold, vacated, and neatly arranged on his bed. The medic who examined Stuart after I had called 9-1-1 later told me that Stuart’s death had been a reaction to a painkiller he had taken for an abscessed tooth due to be extracted the following Monday.

I came to a different conclusion. A month before Stuart had told me he had had a “dream” in which he had gone into a coma and I was sitting by his bed in the hospital. After his death, it struck me that, consciously or not, he had been warning me that he was planning to commit suicide. I still believe this to this day.

That winter afternoon in the valley, I hunkered down and watched Kaz nose cattails. Gradually the sunlight seemed to take on personality. It seemed to shine not on me but for me, and I knew, abruptly and impossibly, that the sunlight was Stuart, somehow. He seemed undismayed that I had been calling him a selfish bastard all week.

You must understand that I am not given to visions. My psychic experiences tend to be quiet, undramatic, noticeable mainly because I have trained myself to recognize them when they occur. Stuart was the visionary. Every time he surfaced from a deep trance channeling session, he said to me, “It’s so beautiful there, where I was; one of these days I’m just going to stay.”

In the valley, dusk fell. I called Kaz, started carward, and in my altered state got lost in the shadowed streamcourse. Nothing looked even remotely familiar to me. The moon came out, and there was Stuart again. Guard-dogs barked at a farm. I felt afraid. I glimpsed mental images of barbed wire, German uniforms, German shepherd dogs pulling at leashes, and myself at a dead run for a clipped fenceline. In my fantasy memory, Stuart was there, saying, “Through here!” He pushed me ahead of him so that it was he, not I, whom the dogs brought down.

As I have said, I am not given to visions. That night I asked the sky, “How do I get out of this arroyo?” A prominent star winked, then burned steady. By its light, I spied a side-track I had not noticed before. Following the track, Kaz and I found ourselves back on the road we had taken from the spot where I’d parked our station wagon.

Stuart again. You’ll have to take my word for it.

Up to that time, Stuart’s death had been the most devastating thing that had ever happened to me. This has changed in the years since. Since that winter I have climbed the years to sixty-two. I have lost Kaz, to a hit and run driver, and three subsequent dogs, one to old age, one to liver failure, and one to cancer. I have lost friends to AIDS, including my beloved little brother; lost my teeth, my health, my career in horticulture, my self-respect, and most of my financial resources. And since Stuart’s death I have never had another lover. I have kept love at arm’s length from fear of having to go through a loss like that again.

Stuart’s death was the most terrible thing that had ever happened to me. But I am certain that it was not the most terrible thing that ever happened to him. The night in the arroyo taught me that. I’m certain that death, for Stuart, had been an explosion of joy.

I drove home that night with Kaz’s paw on my right shoulder. Three months later, on an empty road near our house, some guys broke Kaz’s back with their speeding truck and I had to say goodbye to him, too. I buried his body in my rented garden, between the French tarragon and the double coreopsis. For two weeks I had nightmares that somehow the vet’s needle hadn’t put Kaz out of his misery; that somehow I had buried him alive; that he had awakened, stifling, with dirt in his lungs. Of course it was I who felt buried alive: trapped in the physical plane, unable to get free of the pain and horror of it.

Welcome to The Rational Psychic

Welcome to my website! My name is Rand B. Lee. Since 1984 I’ve worked as a psychic consultant, helping clients around the U.S.A. and abroad explore a wide variety of issues: career, love, relationship, prosperity, spirituality, life-purpose, and many others. My clients hail from all walks of life. I give them readings over the telephone, on the Internet, via email, and in person. I use a variety of techniques to get information, including Tarot-reading and automatic speaking (which New Agers often call “channeling”). But whichever technique I employ, the goal is the same: to achieve purposive ego dissociation, a highly focused waking trance state.

When I am in trance, I become exceptionally sensitive to minute nuances of client voice tone, body language, and emotion. From them, I can get a lot of insight into the client’s psyche and behavior. Chatting with clients often triggers what I call “meme-bubbles”: sudden wellings-up of meaning-heavy images that string themselves out into linear speech when I open my mouth. Sometimes I feel presences around me or around the client. Sometimes I get detailed stories of past, parallel, or future event-sequences which present themselves as other lives the client has lived, is living, or will live. When I hit on information that seems especially important, the insight is usually accompanied by “truth chills”: a shivery feeling that goes up and down my spine, back, neck, and the base of my skull. In such cases my client often feels truth chills, too.

I’m telling you all this because I believe very strongly that most people—and many animals—possess some form of psychic ability. I am willing to bet that you do, too. So I’ve set up this blog site as a medium through which I can communicate my spiritual, metaphysical, and intuitive experiences to you, and to encourage you to do the same with me. But I must warn you: although I call myself a psychic, I am also a skeptic. I do not necessarily believe that all psychic experiences are supernatural in origin, and I am all too aware that many claims of amazing psychic powers are fraudulent. Those that are not fraudulent can often be attributed to conscious or unconscious reading of client tone, body language, and emotion, as I mention above. On the other hand, I am not a dyed-in-the-wool atheist or debunker. That’s why I call myself the Skeptical Psychic: because I believe that reason and intuition should be partners, not enemies. I see both as essential tools for navigating the uncertainties of life in physical reality.

So welcome to The Skeptical Psychic.
Over the next few months I hope you’ll find lots to think about here. And I very much look forward to hearing from you.