TYPICALLY I’m not a winter funk kind of girl, but this past January, nearly every moment that wasn’t occupied by work obligations was spent in bed.
The impetus for my depression was a column I tried to write about forgiving Randall Miller, the film producer prosecuted for manslaughter after camera assistant Sarah Jones was hit by a train.
Despite my best intentions, I wound up crying for two straight days and forfeiting my column for the week. That depression lingered, eventually resulting in a case of the flu and a second delinquent column.
Even my Airbnb business came to a halt. Every dirty dish I left in the sink, every pile of laundry left unfolded sent a signal to the Universe, “Go on ahead without me. I’m just gonna sit this one out.”
But the human spirit is a stubborn beast— it plods forward even when the ego says, “I quit!”
Last month, as I was showing up for only the most minimal of my obligations, (namely working as an artist’s model for SCAD and other local studios around town) my Spidey senses went into overdrive. Whenever I’d sit for a twenty-minute pose, visions would appear around the artists’ heads.
What began as streaks of color emanating from the auras of those most excited to do their work soon became light forms assuming human shape, sharing verifiable messages from loved ones who had passed.
Then last week, three soldiers in pith helmets appeared around a painter who had recently served our country. I could feel they had died in some sort of combat or military exercise. Their presence was so intense that I found myself chanting aloud, “Not now, not now, not now!”
During a break, I approached him and told him of their emergence, along with a specific message from one spirit who had deliberately set himself apart from the group. The painter confirmed that more than a dozen soldiers in his unit had been killed in a training exercise.
Being a psychic medium isn’t a parlor trick. I’m not some kind of carnival midway worker trying to guess your weight and age. I am a vessel used by spirit to answer our prayers and confirm that even in our darkest hours, we’re never alone.
It’s an honor, a privilege and a tremendous responsibility. As a psychic medium, I’m just your loved ones’ messenger. Ultimately, you’re the ones who live with the pain of their loss every day. That’s why I do my job with the utmost reverence and integrity.
You’re the reason I keep showing up, even when I’m ready to quit.
Looking back on that uncompleted Randall Miller column, I realize that the psychic pain surrounding Sarah Jones’ death was simply more than I could bear. I’ve tabled the subject for now, but it’s one I’ll definitely revisit. In my heart, I know that forgiving him is an allegory for healing a deeper wound in our humanity.
An interesting side note: each of the previous times I’ve referenced Randall Miller in this article, a silver spark has flashed in front of my computer screen, encouraging me to keep moving forward with his story.
Also, my unexpected detour through winter blahsville has taken my psychic medium work in a new direction that I wouldn’t have otherwise considered: group psychic readings similar to those offered by John Edward and Teresa Caputo. Right now it’s still in the planning stage, but stay tuned!
If anything about my recent funk resonates, then this week’s Faerie Fortune Cookie reading is especially for you:
Bodach, the faerie of self-sabotage (reversed).
“When things don’t work out as we had hoped, they’re actually turning out in our favor. Be sure to tip your hat to Bodach for these happy accidents. He’s standing right there in the corner, eager to accept our praise.”
Originally published in Connect Savannah