Soulmeeting
So, what do you want to get out of your reading today? she asks, followed by
Okay, amazing—a response she’ll give many times. I tell her I’m in the midst of
ugly transformation: I am the golden goo inside the chrysalis, dissolving, digesting myself
longing for the day I gain wings and antennae. The spirits, she reports, describe me as
methodical, a person that could write system process manuals, an excellent employee—
except there is a heaviness that surrounds me. Like spiritual smog? Was there, she probes, an
ending, a sudden change that inspired my awakening? Fine, I sigh to myself, I will
tell you: Yes. A man served, backhanded and volleyed my heart until
I no longer recognized myself, and even now that I’m healed—I don’t feel that. You want to
not carry it anymore, you want to… mic drop! Were there red flags in the beginning?
Generously, I’d like to say they were red herrings, brine and smoke scents that led me astray.
Psychedelic
Psychic hooking is what she labels it. I call it
Stalking. Abuse. Maybe just Bullshit. When someone hits
you, it’s because there’s a part of you that wants to be hit and feels you deserve it.
Change can only
happen when you truly own that. Because he was so
entitled, I tell her, it gave me permission to want success and brilliance for myself.
Do you see how you were in the relationship looking at him with
envy? Soulmeeting. Not soulmate. We need to talk about the
language of teaching. Teaching? You’re going to look back and think:
I taught him this, he taught me that. And-and-and-and-and- You have to get so far with your
creative artistry—you’ll look back at him—I’m not saying you’ll look down—
Manifestation
Melancholy, she says of writers as a whole, I’ve never met
a chirpy writer. You’re meant to see the shadow of humanity. You’re
not meant to stop. She tells me books are healing, that once she wrote her book:
I started to heal people. And then it got translated into
French.
Everything that has happened to me, apparently, will be in
service of my book; I couldn’t write my book without it. I agree, somewhat? Except, surely
there’s too much mystery to the creative process to say it’s simply experience, recounted…
Ayahuasca! (I do a double-take.) Do you know what ayahuasca is? You’re at
the whim of the medicine until
it ends. Her point is that psychedelic drugs inspired her to quit her corporate job to
offer psychic readings instead. And to write a book—that got translated into French. I’ve
never cared for epiphanic endings—however, it’s not my narrative.
Pendulate
Potent experiences, that’s what I’m craving—and she says there’s an
element of Peter Pan syndrome in my approach to life: You must pendulate. You
need to have parts of your week where you get to be juvenile
do what you want, then switch back into adult mode. This I
understand and actually find helpful. Okay, amazing. Then she recalls the golden bubble of
light! a representation of
Archangel Michael! who gives me guidance and protection! to make sure
the wisdom is of the highest frequency possible! Did you
ever meet your grandfathers…?
Oracly
Okay, amazing. We’re connected emotionally, mentally, oracly, physically, spiritually…
Readings with a “psychic” are a step too far, I silently admit, when my eyes
are shut, won’t send signals. Prayer, mushrooms, meditation, tarot—even examining Turkish
coffee grounds—but this is my final woo-woo wall. I just can’t. And yet. This less-than-
lucid chat, with jargon that could resurrect Orwell, still yields truth, surrenders beauty:
You’re creating the ending, and the ending is going to be the art.
Suzannah Watchorn is an English-Irish writer who grew up outside of London, UK and now lives in the United States. Her poetry and prose are featured or forthcoming in Red Noise Collective, Passengers, Neologism Poetry, Sky Island, and Half Mystic. Her internet home is suzannahwatchorn.com