Last Saturday, after eight months on a waiting list, I attended a private reading with a medium named Wendy. We sat together in a yurt behind her Sherman Oaks home as she rubbed my hands with oil and instructed me to look intently into her third eye. On her cue, I pressed “record” on my voice memo app. She then fixed her gaze to the upper right corner of the room, as if she was attempting to recall a distant memory. “When I go into your field I want to set intentions,” she said. “Have you been setting intentions lately?”

 

In fact, I had.

 

Wendy told me that I have an artist’s soul. That I need to be drawing “like all the time.” That my writing is “beautiful, almost poetic” and that I “can describe things in a really clear way.” She said that it’s time for me to make a big change in my life. That my Solar Plexus — the energy center in the abdomen responsible for personal power — could be stronger. She affirmed my hunch that my Grandma Paula has been acting as my guardian angel and sending me signs, especially when I’m in the car. “Have you been seeing any numbers lately?” Wendy asked, “I’m seeing a big 2-2-2.”

 

“Oh my god,” I gasped. “I knew you were going to say that.”

 

“Of course you knew.” She replied, her focus still somewhere other than here. “You’re intuitive and empathic. You have this gift, too.”

 

I left her house feeling seen and perplexed. I got into my car, which was parallel parked on Magnolia Avenue, and took a deep breath in and out. Before pulling away, my eye caught the license plate of the car parked in front of me. DVG 222. I smiled and shook my head as we drove off. Just me, my newly affirmed feelings, and Grandma Paula in the passenger seat.

 

On Monday night, Connor, Tess and I went to dinner with their hometown friend, Owen, and his buddy, Trace — both of whom I had never met before. “What are your signs?” I asked (as one does).

 

“Guess.”

 

I looked at Owen. Without consciously thinking, I assessed his energy. He felt sturdy to me. I saw the color green. The number four. “Taurus,” I said.

 

“Yeah! Taurus,” he said with a smile. I was one for one.

 

I looked to Trace. His energy was more scribbly. Airy. I saw dark red. The number five. “Gemini,” I guessed.

 

“Yep,” he nodded. “Gemini.” Two for two.

 

“Whoa,” I said, surprised by my own accuracy. “Maybe I am psychic!”

 

We laughed and the conversation continued on, though it wasn’t long before my logical mind brought me back down to Earth. It was probably just a lucky guess. Not a moment later, though, I felt a shift. A feeling of terror. An imminent doom began to brew in the pit of my stomach. A wave of fire took over my arms. I became dizzy and disassociated in the head. What if I can trust myself? I thought. What if I am psychic? The idea terrified me.

 

I took a deep breath in an attempt to swallow the voice down. I let out an audible laugh to pretend like I was still listening. Like I was still present in the conversation happening around me. But my eyes had gone blurry, pulling their attention away from the outside world to tend to the danger inside of me. What if I can trust myself? My mind said again. What if I can trust all of me? What if my thoughts are actually premonitions? What if everything I fear is true?

 

The terror within me did not subside for the rest of the night. As I laid in bed, I attempted to surrender to my demons as they battled to the death within me. A war of three worlds — my intuition, my logic, my fears. My muscles spasmed as each part of me attempted to eradicate the others. Thoughts pierced through my mind in every direction. I didn’t know which to trust — the ones that told me I was safe or the ones that told me I wasn’t. I clenched my eyes and did my best to wait out the storm — to become bigger than the turmoil within me. I can trust myself, I said over and over and over again, poison crawling through my skin. I can trust myself. I tossed and turned as my mind continued to lob bombs at itself. Eventually — by the grace of God — I fell asleep.

 

When I woke up, it was light out. I heard birds chirping outside my window. The storm had passed, it seemed. The war was over — though it wasn’t yet clear who had won. I sat up straight and, despite my every desire not to, closed my eyes to meditate.

 

Upon opening my eyes, I felt an urge to write. To articulate a feeling I couldn’t quite place. I stood up, walked to my kitchen table and jotted down one sentence:

 

If I am truly trustworthy — if I’ve been trustworthy all along — then what do I do with my power?

 

I stared at the words on the page in front of me and took in what I now knew to be true. The winner of the war was me. As I sat in that truth, I noticed my posture. Usually I slump back and let my neck and shoulders carry the burden of my body. But right now I was holding myself up from my center. My Solar Plexus. Then suddenly, to my surprise, I began to weep. The tears felt like they were coming from deep within me. Like I was grieving a lifetime of not trusting myself. A lifetime of searching for hope anywhere other than me.

 

As the tears dried to my cheek, I stood up and took in the full truth of my new reality. I could feel it in my muscles. I could feel it in my bones. My savior wasn’t coming. My savior was me.

 

____

 

A few things I’m thankful for:

- Music that makes me cry

- Rest

- Picking up where I left off with old friends

 

 

Pop culture things I’m thinking about:

I think this album is like truly a masterpiece. So emotive. So deep. The production is timeless. The writing inspires mine greatly. One of my all-time favorites.

 

 

A random journal entry:

7.13.20

thinking and doing are both forms of productivity

thinking are doing are also both forms of destruction

 

depends on what you’re thinking about

depends on what you’re doing

 

depends on how you’re thinking about it

depends on how you’re doing

 

 

A random thought:

I was going to skip sending a newsletter this week. I needed a break. But then I spent two afternoons sitting outside at a coffee shop and began writing as more of a way to process my feelings. I was craving the joy and fun of creating without the pressure that it needed to turn into something. And then by the end, it turned into something I really love. What a gift.

 

It’s nice to be reminded now and then why I write and create and come up with stories and essays and poems and drawings and thoughts.

 

Because I love it. Because the process of creating brings me joy and satisfaction and healing.

 

Anything beyond that is just a big, lucky, tremendous bonus.

 

____

 

Thanks for reading :) Talk again soon.