The problem with being psychic is that you're a puppet. I don't know what are really my ideas and which ones have been given to me by whoever comes through. And sometimes what I think I want is in contrast to what the ancestors request.
Every year I put out pictures of the ancestors along with some lights, and I put out the manger scene. I went to get the manger scene down this year, but the ancestors want white poinsettias and white lights instead. They told me to leave the manger scene in the box. And I know why.
I got a small set of lights and searched several stores for the fake white poinsettias. I can't have the real ones because they are poisonous to cats. Apparently no one has the fake ones anymore. Every time I can't find them, I tell the ancestors it's pointless. They tell me the flowers and lights draw them and bring them peace and will bring me peace. The manger scene, on the other hand is broken. It, like just about everything else in this house and in my heart and in my soul, has been fractured thanks to autism.
I've been restless over finding these flowers. Finally tonight, after another evening spent searching, I tell the ancestors I give up. We'll have the lights. Then they show me a picture of the flowers they speak of, white poinsettias on an ivy vine, in a tub in the basement. It may be dirty, tucked away in a tote, neglected, but you have what you're searching for already.
That is just one example of the kinda crap that drives me crazy, and that's just the stuff that comes from my people. There are all these other folks who come, especially if the deaths are tragic. They want answers or have a story to tell, and psychics are the path of least resistance, an outlet.
The more I read books about spirituality, religion, or magic, the more it stirs these folks up. This kid from Sandy Hook came to me today. Emilie Parker. I had completely forgotten about that anniversary coming up until she popped up. I had been reading a book about magic, and out of nowhere, she pops up and spells her name. That's how she came to me the night that tragedy happened. All of those babies came...
They came rushing into my room, ushered in by their teacher. I could hear the rustling of their lil feet, and I could hear their whispers. It all happened so quickly that they didn't even realize what happened. The way one of them put it: "He's going to open the door and hit us." This other kid tried to explain to me what happened. He said something like, "The world was over there, and it got picked up and shaken like a snow globe and put back down over here."
None of the kids mentioned their names, but then Emilie popped up right beside my bed, nearly nose to nose with me and such a beautiful child. I don't think I've seen a child with more mesmerizing eyes. This angel came to give me validation that this was a psychic visit and not just a nightmare. She said, "I'm Emilie, but it's spelled differently. E-M-I-L-I-E. You'll see it later, and you'll know." She spelled her name a couple times, trying to force me to remember..
The next morning, I called my mom and told her about the dream. When she got the paper later, she found my Emilie. When I saw her picture, I knew it was her.
These visions, dreams, voices come through sometimes in what seems like random fragments, but it's all connected, like the string of lights, like the white poinsettias on the vine the ancestors were trying to show me.
This time when she came through, she wasn't rushed or stressed or anything. It was more like a playful thing. Her small voice just coming out of nowhere, spelling out her name again. It gave me chills (this is why I'm always cold), but she only wants us to remember.
I hear you, baby, and I promise not to forget.