Call it the second coming of spiritualism--from psychic hotlines
tolaboratory studies on mind over matter, America is newly enchanted by
all things paranormal. Why are we taking these magical mystical
tours--and are we being taken for a ride?
I conjure you, by that which you profess--Howere you come to know
it--answer me.
-- Shakespeare
In have always had a secret and embarassing love of psychics. But
I'm an unfaithful lover: I wander from one to the next, infatuated and
then disillusioned, on the hunt for something I can hardly set a name to.
A cosmic compass in this crazy world? My own wiretap on God? Or just the
scoop on an old boyfriend?
There have been some uncanny, spine-tingling "hits"--psychic
parlance for accurate predictions--in my psychic readings over the years,
and just as many misses. It's the hits that keep me coming back,
jockeying between faith and doubt. The moment I sit for a reading, I am
admitting a whole starry night of possibilities: that my life has
narrative force and heft; that time may not travel in a straight line;
that there is sacred order in seeming disorder.
Even stopping by the table of a blue-haired, red-lipsticked tarot
card reader in New York City's East Village, I am on a haft-acknowledged
quest. As physician Larry Dossey, M.D., author of Prayer Is Good
Medicine, puts it, "I have a passion for psychic phenomena, because they
tell us we may have to think in new ways about how consciousness
behaves."
He's not alone in his passion. As of this writing, Betty J. Eadie's
Embraced by the Light has been on the best-seller list for 93 weeks.
Television's cult hit, The X Files, reels in 8 million households per
show. And Many Lives, Many Masters, the book in which psychiatrist Brian
Weiss, M.D., describes the benefits of past-life therapy, has now been
printed in 17 languages. At California Pacific Medical Center in San
Francisco, Elizabeth Targ, M.D., is overseeing a national study to
determine the effect of remote prayer on healing AIDS patients. A
previous study showed results that were promising enough to warrant
further research.
Even the CIA came out of the closet last year with its abashed
confession that the government agency had spent $20 million on psychic
research in the last two decades (see "I Was a Psychic Spy," page 52).
Gallup polls show that 69 percent of Americans believe in angels, half
believe they have their own guardian angels, and 48 percent believe UFOs
are real. Last April, Robert Miller, the governor of Nevada, renamed
State Route 375 the Extraterrestrial Highway, supposedly because of the
frequency of UFO sightings. Dionne Warwick's Psychic Friends Network logs
4 million minutes a month at $3.99 a minute and last spring celebrated
its 10 millionth caller. Even that wonderful relic of my childhood, the
Magic 8-Ball, has resurfaced, reaching record-breaking sales of a million
balls a year.
Not that our culture hasn't always had a mystical bent; think
Emerson and the transcendentalists. But why are we now turning to oracles
in huge numbers? Who is this new "vast middle-class of credulous
neospiritualists"--as Newsweek so aptly referred to them in a recent
cover story?
Traveling through the Twilight Zone
As a serial monogamist, I've always been able to preserve the
illusion that my psychics were better than they actually were. I got to
know and like them. Above all--probably like most of us--I tended to sift
out and remember only the remarkable moments. There was the time a healer
and clairvoyant named Jason Schulman sat across the room from me and
without knowing a single fact about my history, described down to the
point of a pinhead exactly where pain was throbbing in my body, despite
no outward sign to clue him in. There was the morning my friend called me
before and after a phone reading with a psychic named Rochelle. He said
the first words out of the visionary's mouth were, "What's this about
Romania?" He and I marveled over the peculiarity of extrasensory
perception--it was I who was flying to Romania the following week, not
he. Had our talk about my trip that morning lingered around him, in some
electromagnetic corona around his head, one that she'd picked up but not
precisely?
For this article I wantonly sampled readings--eight of them in a
single week---culled from friends' recommendations, books, and newspaper
articles. I followed a reporters' mandate for objectivity, and so
prepared myself by talking to skeptics as well as believers. And, for the
first time in my life, even with a glut of readings, I came up nearly
empty-handed.
I had never before compared and contrasted readings; but as soon as
I did it became clear they were like verbal Rorschach prints, their
interpretation dependant on the beholder. They were all different; they
could all have been at least somewhat true. Then, because the senior
editor of this magazine emphatically de-dared that he was "horrified" to
see this subject taken seriously, we assembled a list of simple questions
for the intuitives to answer: How many siblings do I have? What does my
uncle do for a living? Almost uniformly, they either got the facts wrong
or claimed their "guides" did not allow them to see such trivia because
it had no spiritual significance, Even if I give professional seers
leeway for working creatively and intuitively, for accessing a part and
not a whole, I can't help wondering why it was hard for them to retrieve
such simple information.
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