My 1989 Psychic Experience

In my posting of 2/9/20, I began to discuss my experience with psychics and said I’d first met one in 1990. However, on reflection, I realized that’s incorrect. The year was 1989. Also, in the past two weeks, I’ve remembered an earlier visit with a psychic—two decades before that 1990 session. 

While studying at a local university in 1970, I took a week off and visited friends in a nearby state. One of them urged me to put aside my hesitation about psychics. She’d booked an hour session for me with a man who’d previously told her something amazing about her family; she wanted to discover what my thoughts on his abilities were. 

      

This man, I’ll call him Ephraim, began by telling me about how he’d discovered his gift. After at least a half hour, if not more, Ephraim suddenly shook himself as if to awaken to my being there. Then he proceeded to tell me several things about myself that I thought he could have discovered from my speech patterns and regional dialect. So I wasn’t impressed.

      

Next, he talked about my family life. That did impress me for he knew many things about my extended family. (When I later asked Betty what she’d told him about me, she replied, “Just that I wanted to reserve an hour for a friend.”)

            

After telling me several things about my family—all of which were true—he told me that I had a spiritual guide whose name was “Arthur” and that he watched over me and was my great-uncle. Once again, I thought that he was off target. I’d never heard of an uncle called Arthur. The only Arthur I knew was the imaginary lion who’d accompanied me everywhere from the time I was in kindergarten and got me through the trauma of seeming abandonment. 

            

The next summer, while visiting my aunt, I asked her about her uncles. It was then I learned that indeed I did have a great-uncle Arthur, the brother of my grandpa Ready. I wondered then if Great-Uncle Arthur was the indwelling spirit who lived in Arthur, the lion who’d befriended me throughout my youth. 

So until 1989, that was the extent of my experience of the “occult”—the term Cynthia used in her comment for my last posting. Here’s a brief journey through that experience: After Dulcy died in early July 1989, I lost my usual exuberance and love of life. A friend—an ex-nun—urged me to see a psychic. “You might hear something,” she said, “that’ll really make you laugh and lighten up! Help you get your equilibrium back!”

The next day, I researched and found a well-recommended psychic. At our session, she wore a T-shirt and jeans; her only jewelry was a wedding ring. Immediately, I felt myself relax. She seemed like someone who could become a friend.

I’d told her only my name, nothing else about myself. Yet when we sat down and she dealt the cards, she looked at me with concern, then reached over to grasp my left hand. “You’ve experienced great sorrow recently. The death of someone. Not a human. A cat. She’s your soulmate. It’s like your heart is broken.”

I burst into tears.

When I was calm again, she told me that the cat and I were going to write a book about our relationship and it would touch the lives of many people.

A Cat’s Life: Dulcy’s Story happened.

Peace.

PS: In my next posting, I hope to sum up other experiences and then share with you what happened in March 2019 that left me bereft. 

Background Posting on My Experience with Psychics

The initial story behind this posting took place in 1957 when I was a junior in college. During a math class, I experienced transcendence. Drawn into what neither mind nor heart, nor word nor speech can understand or explain, I knew pure joy. My words cannot capture its essence. I have been able to arrive only at this lackluster definition: For me, joy is the totality of bliss at the height and depth of my being.

As I left the classroom that day, I knew three things: I was going to enter the convent the following year; I’d become a Benedictine nun; and I’d devote my life to prayer for all creation. 

Before that class, I’d not known that in the next hour, I’d come to two divergent roads: One, which I’d cherished for ten years, was to become an engineer. The other had never occurred to me; it was not even drawn on the map of my consciousness. After that class, I knew as well as I knew the sun rises daily that I’d enter the convent in fourteen months. 

The next story behind this posting took place the following year. I was taking a one-credit-hour course in religion. Father Francis, a Benedictine monk, taught the class. He took seriously his responsibility to inculcate the Roman Catholic dogmas and doctrines into the young women sitting before him in that classroom.

On one particular day, he used both the Hebrew and Christian testaments to talk about “false prophets.” He said that when someone predicts a happening, we should be wary if that person gives a definitive time and place. We might have intuitions about the future, he said, but only God knew anything for sure. We were not in control. 

So, he concluded, steer clear of those who shouted from the rooftops that the world would end at such and such a time; or that something dire would happen according to the intoxicating words of a self-proclaimed prophet.

As I listened, I thought of my transcendent experience of the year before. Was I being a false prophet to myself in predicting when I’d enter and where and what I’d do for the rest of my life?  For all those months, I’d felt so sure. As I sat there, examining my experience and my response to it, I could not let go of the belief that I’d somehow been called to a life of service as a nun. I wasn’t being a false prophet.

Then Father Francis began to denounce psychics, tarot-card readers, mediums. He said they were false prophets who claimed to be able to tell the future. As Roman Catholics, we had to resist the lure of exploring our life beyond the present. In fact, he said, to do so was to commit a mortal sin. (According to the catechism I’d begun to study in first-grade, a mortal sin sent an unrepentant person to hell.) Father Francis then explained what might happen to a person who self-indulgently explored the “dark side” of life.

While I let go of the idea of hell and mortal sin in the next three decades, I still remembered his caution about psychics and never sought a session with one. Then in 1990, following a loss, I visited a psychic and came away with my intuitions shored up by what she had said.

In my next posting, I’ll share my experience with psychics, especially the one I spoke with last March. His words tunneled into my mind and left me bereft. 

Peace.

PS: This posting’s first story is detailed in my convent memoir: Prayer Wasn’t Enough.

Photo from Wikipedia.

Angels in Our Midst

This story was prompted by a heart-warming posting of Arkansas Patti in November of 2019. In it, she encouraged her readers to share their own stories of unexpected generosity. Before sharing mine, I need to give you some background.

Between 1980 and 1984, I was the curriculum director for Winston Press in Minneapolis, Minnesota. For the position, which required traveling throughout the United States, I had to buy and wear professional clothing—suits, high heels, make-up. I never felt comfortable in those costumes. In truth, I felt like a painted mannequin. 

When I resigned and began to work in my home as a freelancer (1984-2001), I wore comfortable clothes: summer—shorts, T-shirts, sandals; winter—sweats, turtlenecks, loafers. And . . . no makeup. I always wore a size or two larger than necessary because I like my clothes to enfold me. 

Once, an acquaintance said, “Dee, you look like a bag lady. I know you don’t care how you look, but I’m embarrassed when I lunch with you.”

“Then don’t,” I said. And that was the end of that. 

Perhaps, in my oversized clothes, I do look like a bag lady. At least one experience shores up that possibility. It’s the story I’ll share with you today. (By the way, being a bag lady simply means that someone—it could be me—or you—is down on our luck.)

At 83, my hair is gray, my face lined. I’ve lost two inches in height, so I’m somewhat stooped. One winter afternoon, I went to Price Chopper to take advantage of a sale in the large grocery store. I was wearing sweats and a somewhat tattered and stained green winter jacket I’d bought from L. L. Bean in 1979. 

As I put my groceries on the check-out counter, I heard, “Mam?” 

I kept putting the cans on the counter. 

Then, a little louder, “Mam?” 

I looked beyond my cart. Next in line stood a young man, perhaps in his late twenties. He looked anxious.

“You mean me?” I asked.

“Yes, Mam. I want to fill up your cart. Anything in the store.”

Puzzled, I said, “Thanks so much, but I don’t need anything. Really.”

He glanced down at my cart. “Mam, I hate to think of you eating that.”

I looked at my items: 39 cans of Friskies cat food and 6 loaves of Cobblestone rye bread—both on sale that day. 

 “Mam, I can’t let you live on cat-food sandwiches. Please let me fill your cart. Please.”

The check-out clerk, overhearing the conversation, asked, “Mam, do you want to check out? Or shop some more?”

Bemused, I stretched a hand toward this benevolent stranger and said, “Thank you, but the cat food is for the three cats with whom I live—Ellie, Maggie, and Matthew. The bread’s for me. I have food at home. Truly. But you’re so wonderful to offer to do this. You’ve made my day.”

“Mam, please.”

“Truly, I’m fine,” I said. “But so many others need help.” 

He frowned, momentarily looked down at the floor, then raised his head, his eyes bright with a new idea. “Well, he said cheerfully, “could I give you some money?”

I broke into a wide smile. He was so dear. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m really okay. But maybe you could send a check to Harvesters or the City Union Mission for the hungry and homeless.”

He accepted my refusal with good grace, then, smiling, said, “I will, Mam. Really I will.”

 “I know you will,” I assured him. 

I checked out, thanked him again, and came home, my faith in the deep-down goodness of humanity reaffirmed. I hold that young man dear in my heart. 

Peace 

Photograph of bread from Wikipedia.

My Christmas Gift This Year

I’ve not blogged since November 3. The interval between then and now has schooled me in my own fragility. For several months before November, I’d dealt with the pain of bone on bone. Then on November 18, I had total left knee replacement. 

I’d had the same surgery—with the same orthopedic surgeon—nine years before on the right knee. All had gone well then. In fact, I looked back at the whole thing as almost “a walk in the park!”

However, from the 18^thto about a week ago, nothing went as I thought it would. There were mishaps: two weeks of unexpected drainage; misinformation; much more pain than I’d anticipated—all because of the new protocol the surgeon now uses. One word describes these weeks: grueling.

Having no appetite, I’ve lost 8 pounds. For four weeks, I got no more than 2 hours of sleep a night because of knee and back pain caused by the new protocol. My spirits have been down. My family and friends have said, “We’ve never seen you this way before.” Normally, I ignore pain and look always for the best. I’ve been unable to do that this time.

But Tim, the outpatient therapist has been encouraging. Because of his suggestions and gentle prodding, I’ve left the despair of the first four weeks and entered a room lit by my hopes for full recovery. In the past week, I’ve become less self-absorbed, more aware of the wide world beyond my home. A plethora of wonderful human beings inhabit this world.

For me, this is the great gift of Christmas.

Nativity scene in Jerusalem in 2014 at the Church of the Assumption

Many of us may doubt whether the Bethlehem Christmas story every happened. We believe that Yeshua was born to Mary. But were there shepherds, kings, and angels? Did a star announce glad tidings? 

For myself, whether there were or not, doesn’t matter. The fact is I need this story each year to remind me that human beings are—by and large—wonderfully good.

I need to believe that I am freely given the gift of love without my having to deserve it. I’m given this gift daily from families and friends and from the unexpected stranger who journeys with me on the back-and-forth Uber/Lyft trips I take to therapy. During these trips, I’ve heard so many touching stories; been greeted by so much good will; been witness to the drivers’ hopes that all shall be well.

During this year, I’ve met kings—the famous and inspiring people whose words in books, songs, blogs, news stories inspired me. 

I’ve encountered shepherds—the homeless who live in cardboard boxes and who, in some ways, are the forgotten of society. They somehow hold on to life and look forward to good news—if not today, then tomorrow.

I’ve seen a star—a portent of the future and my hopes for it. I recognize its brilliance in the truth-filled lyrics of a song, the cadence of a poem, the compassion of a stranger, the pages of a book. All have encouraged me to hold on to my dream of writing until I can write no more. 

So you see, I need this Bethlehem story. It is a clarion call to me each year to embrace what life offers and to find the good in all. I forgot that during the weeks since the operation. I’m remembering it now. 

If it’s possible, let’s remember together.

May Bethlehem be the place where we all meet in good will and rejoice in the freely given gift of the good will of other human beings. 

Peace.  

A Friend Who Mentored Me

On Christmas Eve, 1966, I left the convent after spending eight-and-a-half years there. One of the first persons I met after leaving was Robert Kraske. A publishing house in Ohio, had offered me work as an assistant editor of its weekly reader for the primary grades of Catholic schools. Robert was my boss.

On Sunday evening, January 22, 1967, Bob picked me up at the Dayton airport. I was sure he wondered how one talked to an ex-nun who still wore the pallor of the convent. Forging right ahead into unchartered territory, he asked a question that reflected a real interest in what I might reply. Then and there began the multitudinous conversations we had for the next 52 years. 

Rather quickly, I learned that Bob was, in general, always deliberate in speech, especially with regard to words. He was the first person to quote to me the famous line of Mark Twain. He did this while critiquing my first assignment under his tutelage.

"Dolores," Bob instructed, "Follow Mark Twain's advice: 'The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter--'tis the difference between the lightning-bug and the lightning.'" I got his point and found a better word than the one he'd blue-penciled in the article.

Twain’s observation mattered to Bob who studied throughout his life the art of crafting words into books. He did this so successfully that twenty of his books for 10-to-14 year olds have been published. Often, during our long friendship, he’d stop me in mid-stream as I sounded off about writing, politics, aging. With genuine pleasure, he’d say, “That’s it, Dolores. That’s it. The right word.” He took delight in hearing or using the right word in any given sentence of composition or conversation. 

Bob became the mentor I needed so as to learn how to write for youngsters, how to delete excessive verbiage, how to hold fast to the thread that would guide the reader effortlessly through my writing.

In short, Bob taught me both to write and to edit. Thus, he gave me a career that lasted from 1967 to 2001 when I retired. During those years, he also taught me the art of writing longer books. It was Bob who gave me the advice that has kept me writing. 

Back in the 1990s, As I worked on a novel about Bronze-Age-Greece, he’d ask, whenever I visited him and his wife, Jan, “How’s the book coming?”

 “I’m still on Chapter 1. Polishing it.”

 “Dolores,” he’d say, “you’ve been on Chapter 1 for two months now. Start another chapter.”

“But, . . .”

“Keep going. Write each day and stop in the middle of a sentence. The next day, pick up from there. Do that until you get to the end of the first draft. Then. And Only Then. Will you know that you have a novel.”

“But, . . .”

“When you have the first draft, you have something to work with. You know you have a book in there somewhere. Then you rewrite. Edit. And finally, only after you know you’ve grabbed hold of the story, do you polish.”

“But, . . .”

“If you keep polishing Chapter 1, you’ll never get to the final chapter.” It was sound advice and I took it. Thus, Bob became the mentor of my writing to be published. 

Finally, Bob has been the mentor of my aging. I have watched him for years as he began to learn how to paint in acrylics, draw with charcoal sticks, and play jazz on a keyboard. Always and ever, he tried new avenues to explore. His curiosity about technique and process never faltered.

Always he read for new ideas and enjoyed nature during his daily walks around Stillwater, Minnesota. And always he embraced life: When Jan died, he learned to cook, collected recipes, paid bills, bought groceries, lived his life, adjusted to the new norm, welcomed his adult children home with meals he’d cooked for them, cherished their triumphs, helped them through the dark times, and remained steadfast. He was a man of great fortitude.

And always he was, for me, the living example of the following words by William Blake: “To see a World in a grain of sand. And a heaven in a Wild Flower. Hold infinity in the palm of your hand. And eternity in an hour.”

I shall be missing Bob for the rest of my life. 

Peace. 

The photo, taken by one of his sons, is for Bob's 90th birthday. He died a few weeks short of his 93rd birthday in late November.