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Psychic Diaries is a self–help book that has its root in psychic awareness. Lysa has channelled Chandra Levy, heroes that died on September 11, and many many more. Throughout these experiences, she gives lessons, and points the reader in a direction for the future. Alternative dimensions and wavelengths are things we cannot see but that are essential for daily living, and Lysa uses psychic phenomena as that foundation, to help us unlock new ways that we can all break through problems like anger, stress, grief and...
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Psychic Diaries is a self–help book that has its root in psychic awareness. Lysa has channelled Chandra Levy, heroes that died on September 11, and many many more. Throughout these experiences, she gives lessons, and points the reader in a direction for the future. Alternative dimensions and wavelengths are things we cannot see but that are essential for daily living, and Lysa uses psychic phenomena as that foundation, to help us unlock new ways that we can all break through problems like anger, stress, grief and loss, to move beyond our ordinary experiences and live the life we've always dreamed.
Growing Up Normal
The first time I saw a dead body I was seven years old.
It was sprawled out on the beach, like a whale, in Acapulco, Mexico. A group of people had gathered around this immense object that had washed ashore.
I wiggled my way to the center of the crowd and there he was -- a naked man -- lying on his stomach -- three hundred pounds of solid flesh.
My dad quickly yanked me away.
It was an automatic reaction, an irrational fear of what might happen if I came too close, as if the man might suddenly wake up, as if that would be a bad thing.
I managed to break free from my father to get close enough to touch this man's flesh. It felt like rubber.
Then, I heard it: the sound one hears when confronted with death -- a scream so loud, so piercing, more like a sick animal than a human voice.
It showed me this man wasn't just a spectacle. He was a father, a husband, a brother, a son. His entire family came running toward the shore, shrieking with pain, cursing at the sky, falling into one another's arms, collapsing with grief.
I became paralyzed.
I watched as his mother slapped his hands, yelling, demanding him to wake up! When he didn't, she cursed God, cursed the voyeurs of her pain, and then she did the most awful thing I have ever seen -- she ripped off her shirt and went charging into the ocean shouting, "Take me, God! Take me now! Take me, you bastard!"
People didn't seem shocked when she ripped off her shirt, or when she ran toward the ocean, but when she called God a bastard, that shocked the hell out of them. Not me.
I didn't recoil from this woman's uncontrollable display of grief. I ran with her.
She looked at me, tears rolling down her cheeks, shaking her head at the unfairness of it all. I must have done something because the only thing I remember is her smile -- this slow smile that crept up the edges of her lips and spread outward. A smile filled with tenderness and pain.
"Your son won't leave you. He'll always be around."
I said these words without opening my mouth.
She nodded and smiled as her husband wrapped a towel around her.
Her eyes never left mine. Not as she hugged her family. Not as paramedics carted her son away. We stared at each other -- two souls who meet for only a moment and connect on a level that comes when we are fully present for another human being.
At age seven, I knew how to do this really well -- to be there for someone without having to stop their pain or put a lid on what they were feeling.
As I got older and more protective, I became less comfortable with being and more comfortable with doing. Then, when someone was in pain, I had to fix it.
So, at the ripe old age of nine, I made my new post in life official. I became the Dear Abby of my third grade class.
Every Friday, a group of girls would write down their problems and put them in my cubby at school. Over the weekend, I would ponder how to help Diane get over a crush on our teacher, or how to help Kerry deal with her parents.
At age ten, I fell in love for the first time with a boy named Jimmy Delmonte. His dark hair, almond eyes, and rugged body were enough to make me want to quit third grade and run off with him forever. Every Wednesday, he'd come to my house and we'd sneak down to my basement where, between eating oatmeal cookies and drinking chocolate milk, we'd tell each other scary stories and stare into each other's eyes.
On my birthday, Jimmy presented me with a heart pendant, told me he loved me, and promised we'd be together forever.
Forever lasted approximately sixty-four days.
"I need to be free to explore my options," I told him. "It's not about you, Jimmy. I've gotta get focused on what I want to do with my life." I was a serious kid with serious goals. I told my dad: "When I'm older, I'm going to live in California on the beach, drive a Porsche 911, marry a man with brown hair, have a little boy, and leave a mark on the world bigger than Freud."
I knew about Sigmund Freud because my mom took me to enlightenment courses where people cried over stuff that happened to them when they were young.
The first seminar was called EST. It took place in a big room in New York City. I was thirteen.
All I knew was they didn't let you leave the room to pee. This bothered me because I had to pee a lot. Not every five minutes a lot, but being restricted felt like torture. We also couldn't snack between meals. Not a piece of gum. Not a soda. Not a sucking candy. Only water. Nothing else.
Oh, and once you committed to staying for the weekend, you couldn't leave. They didn't lock you in or anything, but you know how uncomfortable it feels when you get up in the middle of a lecture to leave? Well, add to that having the instructor shout what a loser and coward you are if you go.
"What are the benefits of doing this course?" I ask my mom.
"Happiness," she tells me. "Inner peace."
"You took the course, right, Mom?"
"You know I did."
"Does it only work on some people?"
"Don't be a smart ass."
"I'm serious. Are you a portrait of happiness and peace?"
"Happiness is a process, not a permanent state."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've never permanently experienced happiness. It comes and goes. The key is to make sure it comes more than it goes."
So there it was: The beginning of a belief system that claimed happiness was something outside of me; it came and went, just like the mailman, just like nice weather. Happiness was something to be found not created. It existed when everything was exactly the way I wanted it to be.
It would take fifteen years before a wise sage by the name of David Adams, age five, would answer a question that would forever change my life.
We'd be sitting together, waiting for his mom to pick him up from the karate school my future husband, Satori, and I would own.
I would turn to him and ask, "David, what is the meaning of life?"
He would look at me, shaking his little blond head with disgust, as if I'd just asked a question to which the answer is painfully obvious.
"To be happy," he'd say, raising his eyebrows.
Of course, finding that answer far too simplistic, I would repeat the question. "No, really, David, tell me. What is the meaning of life?"
He'd smack his tiny hand against his forehead, completely flabbergasted that we adults just didn't get it, and he'd repeat, slowly, as if comprehension were my problem. "The meaning of life is to BE happy. Just BE happy now, ya get it?"
I did get it, for glimpses at a time: When I was riding the train to New York City eating Chicken McNuggets and reading the latest Betty and Veronica comic book. When I entered acting class on Saturday morning and the students cheered because I was there. When my brother and I put Jell-O in our hair and made funky hairstyles, laughing hysterically in the mirror. Happiness.
When it would come, I would try to hang on to it.Psychic Diaries
Posted August 20, 2004
Posted April 6, 2004
Posted March 28, 2004
this book rocks. i went there picked it up just to chek it out and then ended up readen as much as i possibly could, im saven up ot but it its soo good, i normally dont like books but this one is awesomeWas this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted February 16, 2004
This is a wonderful book which covers the gamit of everything you could want to hear from a professional psychic. It has a bit of her life story, gives a sense of what it's like to be her, go on tour, have to 'prove' herself, and have the dead always wanting to talk to you. But it also tries to empower the reader. Gives truly insightful advice about how to approach life, find and keep love, and be willing to be true to yourself. As if that weren't more than enough for the money, she then gives some excellent tips on how to develop your own intuition and includes illustrative transcripts of readings she has done which show it is possible to move forward, regardless of whether your grief is large or small. 'Psychic Diaries' is written in an easy, conversational style that is a joy to read, and has the kind of pearls of wisdom that have earned it a permanent place of honor on my bookshelf. Buy this book in hardback, or wait if you must for a paperback edition, but buy this book!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted April 9, 2010
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