acceptable: My mother began to speak about them once again and my father actually showed a visible interest. Compared to my being on drugs or drifting from job to job or dropping out of college, of course, they thought this was an improvement. As for Thelma, though my parents were skeptics, they were willing to keep an open mind about her work, mostly because she was a clinical psychologist.
Overall, I was relieved by their reaction, though still cautious. We took it slow, but my parents and I were beginning to trust each other. Nonetheless, my mother's response continued to possess a spin that made it less credible for me. She'd say that my childhood psychic experiences were “something I don't understand,” and she would again and again convey her fear that they would preclude me from fitting in, that others would deem me crazy. My mother believed in the importance of observing social norms, and she valued the opinion of the medical community. I knew that. Even so, I sensed that some other truth was being withheld. In any case, now I was a “research assistant” at NPI, something, it seemed, we could all live with.
Despite this validation, I didn't approach being at the lab with an attitude of deadly seriousness. I viewed the whole thing more with a sense of play. I didn't scrutinize the events I witnessed nor was I overly critical of them. After all, when someone is released from prison after many years they don't question their own freedom. For me, the lab was a wondrous gift, plain and simple.
Before drugs and the accident, I used to dance alone in my bedroom at sunset. With my arms spread wide, I would imagine myself flying like an eagle high above the canyon floor or twirling wildly like a whirling dervish, uncontrollable and free. Then, when life got painful and complicated, I shut down. I'd now begun to open up again. Sometimes after a day at the lab, I would come home and turn on Miles Davis, Vivaldi, or the Stones, depending on my mood, and let my body move in whatever way it liked. With nobody watching, as the sun set over the ocean, I'd once again extend my arms and begin to dance.
I was being born, but birth is seldom easy. I needed all the help I could get. Thank goodness for Barry; he nudged me along. If it had not been for him I might have put off going to his special group forever. I really wanted to check it out, but the mere thought terrified me. Once a week, members of this group got together to develop their psychic abilities—it wasn't a lecture course where I could hide in the back row and just listen. If I attended, I'd have to participate and practice my readings out loud in front of everyone. What if I couldn't do it? Suppose I wasn't able to perform on command? Though I'd been successful with Thelma, I was afraid my reading was a fluke. It had just spilled out of me, but I didn't have a clue what I did to make it happen or how to repeat it.
“You don't even need to open your mouth,” Barry assured me. “You can just sit there and observe.” His promise of no expectations and no pressure eased my fears. I was hooked.
On a Wednesday night at eight, there I sat on a green vinyl chair in a large conference room on the C-floor of the NPI. At age eighteen, I stared at five strangers sitting across from me, and to my surprise they were all cute men, and even friendly. This was an angle I'd never considered—that I might like the other members of the group, or that it would be fun. I still generally viewed others as “the enemy” during this period of my life, especially when it came to dealing with my psychic abilities, and I was slow to believe that I wouldn't be mocked or shot down.
These guys were paying a lot of attention to me. It felt good and I began to relax. Barry introduced them: Jim, an ex-cop, who looked more like a male model; Kerry, Barry's colleague, who was wearing a pooka shell necklace and flowered Hawaiian shirt; Steve, a television writer; Dick, an astronomer; and
Overall, I was relieved by their reaction, though still cautious. We took it slow, but my parents and I were beginning to trust each other. Nonetheless, my mother's response continued to possess a spin that made it less credible for me. She'd say that my childhood psychic experiences were “something I don't understand,” and she would again and again convey her fear that they would preclude me from fitting in, that others would deem me crazy. My mother believed in the importance of observing social norms, and she valued the opinion of the medical community. I knew that. Even so, I sensed that some other truth was being withheld. In any case, now I was a “research assistant” at NPI, something, it seemed, we could all live with.
Despite this validation, I didn't approach being at the lab with an attitude of deadly seriousness. I viewed the whole thing more with a sense of play. I didn't scrutinize the events I witnessed nor was I overly critical of them. After all, when someone is released from prison after many years they don't question their own freedom. For me, the lab was a wondrous gift, plain and simple.
Before drugs and the accident, I used to dance alone in my bedroom at sunset. With my arms spread wide, I would imagine myself flying like an eagle high above the canyon floor or twirling wildly like a whirling dervish, uncontrollable and free. Then, when life got painful and complicated, I shut down. I'd now begun to open up again. Sometimes after a day at the lab, I would come home and turn on Miles Davis, Vivaldi, or the Stones, depending on my mood, and let my body move in whatever way it liked. With nobody watching, as the sun set over the ocean, I'd once again extend my arms and begin to dance.
I was being born, but birth is seldom easy. I needed all the help I could get. Thank goodness for Barry; he nudged me along. If it had not been for him I might have put off going to his special group forever. I really wanted to check it out, but the mere thought terrified me. Once a week, members of this group got together to develop their psychic abilities—it wasn't a lecture course where I could hide in the back row and just listen. If I attended, I'd have to participate and practice my readings out loud in front of everyone. What if I couldn't do it? Suppose I wasn't able to perform on command? Though I'd been successful with Thelma, I was afraid my reading was a fluke. It had just spilled out of me, but I didn't have a clue what I did to make it happen or how to repeat it.
“You don't even need to open your mouth,” Barry assured me. “You can just sit there and observe.” His promise of no expectations and no pressure eased my fears. I was hooked.
On a Wednesday night at eight, there I sat on a green vinyl chair in a large conference room on the C-floor of the NPI. At age eighteen, I stared at five strangers sitting across from me, and to my surprise they were all cute men, and even friendly. This was an angle I'd never considered—that I might like the other members of the group, or that it would be fun. I still generally viewed others as “the enemy” during this period of my life, especially when it came to dealing with my psychic abilities, and I was slow to believe that I wouldn't be mocked or shot down.
These guys were paying a lot of attention to me. It felt good and I began to relax. Barry introduced them: Jim, an ex-cop, who looked more like a male model; Kerry, Barry's colleague, who was wearing a pooka shell necklace and flowered Hawaiian shirt; Steve, a television writer; Dick, an astronomer; and
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