Let me just start out by saying, if I’m weird, I blame it on that woman I call “Mom.”
My mom apparently had her first psychic experience when she was only three. How she can remember anything from when she was three-years-old is beyond me. I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday. Wait a minute…did I even have lunch yesterday? Crap. No wonder I’m hungry. Anyway, I didn’t think I grew up differently than most kids. Ya know, except my mom was the only divorced mother in my whole sixth grade class, oh, and that she occasionally talked to dead people. Standard stuff. She also gave cheap psychic readings to help bring in extra money.
Our hallway bookshelf was filled with classics like Hemingway Steinbeck and Margaret Mitchell. I read all these when I was eleven. Little did I know that the books by Edward Cayce and Jean Dixon on the shelf were considered ‘esoteric.’ I read those too, and still don’t understand why JFK didn’t listen when Jean Dixon told him not to go to Dallas. I mean, why pay a famous astrologer for a reading and then ignore her advice? And speaking of Dallas, I still do not care who shot JR, but I am curious how many face-lifts he’s had.
Now, you won’t find me on any ghost-busting adventures because frankly, that stuff scares me. When I was 13, my best friend and I decided to have a seance We lit my blue cat-candle and turned the lights off. The candle blew out on its own and we screamed our Clearasil-covered faces off. If I saw a dead person talking to me, I am fairly sure I would faint.
I remembered all this today when my mom sends me a text. (please note: mothers with texting capabilities should be legally banned in most states, except for Nevada and Washington, for personal reasons). Anyway, her text said, “ I’ve got two readings today.” And, it occurred to me; not everyone’s mother reads tarot cards for money. Weird.
It also occurred to me that not everyone has annual astrology readings, occasional energy clearings, and let’s not forgot a little acupuncture to clear my meridians every now and then (note to self: meridians feeling clogged). Admittedly, I’ve been researching this stuff for years. I’m curious about the subconscious mind, quantum physics, and if Lady Ga Ga thinks her hair looks good (don’t even get me started on her make-up).
That said, I know enough to know that some things people consider “paranormal” are pretty darn normal. Remote viewing, for example, is actually used in criminal investigations. So, when an editor friend of mine suggested Casey’s Quest, one of my upcoming novels, should be categorized as ‘paranormal,’ I nearly choked on my organic edamame. I mean, what’s so esoteric about a girl who discovers her birth was part of a secret military experiment designed to create super-minds, and now she possess remote viewing skills that help her uncover bank fraud? Some people are so judgmental.
Paranormal, by definition simply means the stuff that science can’t explain. However, it is supposed to mean real stuff. Not vampires and werewolves and self-cleaning ovens—what? My oven STILL has not cleaned itself and I’ve asked it nicely several times now. People can take pictures of your aura with special high-powered equipment (and if you think your aura is a small town in Illinois, you need to go read Twilight and call me in the morning). I mean, Harry Potter sold a zillion and 64 copies, and while that was considered a fantasy series, it renews my faith in the idea that even if people roll their eyes when I say I have to go Feng Shui my fish tank, they like the idea of thinking there are things beyond our scope of current understanding. Things even the egg-head scientists may never figure out. Things like why my mom starts 16 games of Words With Friends and nudges me when I don’t play back. That woman.
Now if you’ll excuse me, my chalkras need a tune up and my oven is being sassy.
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