A Daily Decision

Yearly in Minnesota I’d visit a psychic or an astrologer. Of the psychics, four read cards, one used a crystal ball, one held my hands and absorbed the vibes.

            When I called to set up appointments with the astrologers—whether they practiced Eastern or Western astrology—they always asked for the date, time, and place of my birth. In our sessions they related the aspects of my birth chart that influenced my life.

            Before each yearly visit to a psychic or astrologer, I asked Oneness to protect me so that I heard only that which was for my good. I asked for the white protective light of Presence that would keep me far from Darkness.

            The truth is that I enjoyed these forays into what the Catholic Church would condemn as mortal sin. I always came away from a session surer of my own intuitions. I trusted my deepest heart-wishes more and felt at peace with the promptings of the Spirit.

            Periodically I’ll share with you some of what was said to me that shored up my surety about myself. Today I’d like to share with you the fine art of nice and naughty.

            Here goes.

            I met with this particular psychic in Minneapolis only once. Our hour session was nearly up when she says, “Dee, you’ve been a nice little girl all your life.”

            “I’ve tried to be,” I admit.

            “I can feel that about you,” she says. Then she adds, “The thing is, Dee, you need to shake up your life a little. Do something different. Do something naughty every once in a while.”

            I sit stupefied. This goes against every religion class I’ve ever taken at the Catholic schools I’ve attended—grade, high, college. More importantly, it goes against everything my mother had ever wished for me.

            When I say nothing, she prods. “Tell me something naughty you can do in the coming week.”

            I think. Long and hard. In silence. Nothing comes to mind. And then I get it—what will really be naughty. “I know what I can do!” I say, unable to suppress excitement over what I’m proposing.

            “Yes,” she prompts.

            “The next time I go to Cub, I won't leave the grocery cart in the corral."

            “That’s it? That’s the best you can do?”

            “You asked for something naughty. I gave it my best.”

            She takes my hand in hers, pats it sympathetically, and says, “You may be a lost cause.”

            She prods some more. I'm clueless. 
            Still shaking her head, she concludes, "You have nice down to a fine art. You need to work on naughty."
            I leave her apartment feeling somewhat bemused.

            For Christmas that year two friends give me a gaily wrapped and beribboned box. I shake it. No sound. Its weight is negligible. Intrigued, I open the box. Nestled in the tissue paper is a green velvet pillow with the word Nice embroidered on it.

            I gaze at it, perplexed. What use do I have for a pillow so little that my head won’t even fit on it?

            “Turn it over, Dee.” They stifle their laughter.

            I lift the pillow out of the box and look at the reverse side: NAUGHTY.

            “When we visit,” one friend confides, “we’ll see which side’s facing out. Then we’ll know what to expect.”

            One pillow. Two sides. Two words. Daily decision.

            Nice looks nice.

            NAUGHTY looks bold. Independent. In your face. It dares the world to disagree.

            Which to be? Which to be?