People often ask me when and how I started reading Tarot Cards. The following is my answer:
When I was in high school I received a gift certificate for a book store for $25 from my paternal grandmother, Grandma Margaret. I put that gift in my jewelry box to use when I was ready.
For over a year I would find myself shopping in the large chain bookstore and at the checkout I would remember that at home in my jewelry box was that gift. My grandmothers gift, just sitting there unused.
Finally one day, I was cleaning out my jewelry box and reread the card Grandma had sent with it. The card read, “Buy something special with this.” I stopped what I was doing, put the gift certificate in my purse and drove straight to the store.
When I arrived and was sitting in the parking lot I decided to let the item I was to buy to tell me for sure it was the right thing…whether it was to vibrate when I walked past, be oddly present in my minds eye or be strangely suggested by an unsolicited person. My deal with myself was that I had to feel psychic and magical.
I walked into the large double door entrance of this huge 2 story business excited about my plan. With nothing but cleaning on my agenda for the rest of the day the thought of having a few hours gobbled up inside a giant book store made me giddy with excitement. The distinctive smell of retail books greeted me as I swung open the second set of doors. My me-time had begun.
I browsed upstairs first. I like starting up there and then descending down into an ever bigger layer of a bookstore always, and still do. Just knowing that there is no pressure to find something on that first layer of my bookstore sprees makes shopping an even more savored experience. This time though, I was not filling a basket with goodies. This time I was to find one thing only. One item around $25 in value, that felt “special” to me, according to Grandmas wishes.
After sitting, reading, browsing and touching a massive array possibilities upstairs I descended downstairs empty handed but still excited. Maybe even more then when I first entered the store. I remember holding myself back almost as if I was teasing and bought a cup of tea first. I sat at a seat so I could visually see as much of the first floors shelves, rows and seemingly endless categories to pick from. I remember drinking that whole cup of tea. I drank it intentionally slow, savoring the anticipation of the next exciting browsing session. Oh how I love bookstores!
As I roamed and browsed I reminded myself that I had an agenda. It had to feel “special.” Just one thing. I would know it when I saw it. It would let me know it was the right thing. Nothing called to me. Nothing psychically persuaded me to need it. The only words I heard from or spoke to the mingling strangers were simple, polite and courteous chit chats as we all do when awkwardly breezing so close, yet so separate from other shoppers.
There were no signs, no special moments and at one point before giving up, I sat at a counter at the other side of the store and meditated. Not weirdly so as to draw attention to myself, but casually. I flew around the whole store in my minds eye looking for the glowing shelf or a floating book. Even a word, feeling or topic I mentally begged for. Yet, felt nothing. I questioned my silly challenge. Felt really nerdy making such a grand magical plan, invested hours and was leaving empty handed. Worse yet, now that I had made this magical pact with myself, I had to follow through and not use the gift until I felt something “special”.in the future. I wondered how long the gift certificate would sit in my jewelry box again. I wondered if my next try would or even could feel nearly as adventurous and exciting as this failed mission.
I turned my back on the interior, accepting magical defeat and walked to the first set of doors. There was a woosh when I pushed them open from the odd mixing between double door space. I was symbolically closing the door of an adventure gone wrong and leaving it behind to return to cleaning. A bummer indeed.
As I approached the door to the outside I heard a flat bang. It made me jump and then stop in my tracks. There, face down in a locked glass display cabinet between the two doors was a large deck of Tarot cards. I had never even seem one in person before. Because it was face down, I could clear as day see its price tag. It read, “$25.00”, the exact amount of my gift from Grandma Margaret.
I bought it and have never been the same again. Who would have guessed that I now have hundreds of Tarot decks, have learned to read anything from crystals to jewelry, tea leaves to shoes. (THAT’s another story in itself) I teach classes in psychic development and how to read Tarot, meditation and manifestation. I have been self employed as a professional psychic for decades with an extensive media portfolio, a radio show and used to own a metaphysical gift and book store. To think that it all began from a teenager playing a magical game with herself and a gift from her grandmother.
Working as a professional psychic for over 24 years has sure brought some of the most beautiful people and blessings into my life. It has also brought some bizarre and quirky characters through it too.
One day I had a man come for a reading. I had already read for his wife, adult daughter and son. He was dressed in business casual clothing. A bulky tall man standing about 6’4”. He was clean cut and made great eye contact when he entered my office.
When the reading commenced, I found that there did not seem to be a lot of messages for him or topics to touch into. He had a good life, good health, happy family, good marriage, career success, plenty of money and more. Because I had been reading for so many years, I know that when I start to get results like this usually the person with me is there because they were pushed by friends or family to come or received a gift certificate and are just using it up.
Ethically, if I cannot help someone I will not charge them for the reading. I was gearing up to say this very thing to him. I started off by saying, “I have been reading a long time and only every now and then do I get a client with me who has a very good life with no real ups or downs. I am curious as to why you have come to talk to me and …”
He aggressively interrupted me at that moment and slammed his fists onto my antique reading table. He hit it with such power that the entire table jumped. I jumped in my seat and immediately felt threatened. Then he slammed those fists into it again lurching forward in his seat and yelled, “I’m not happy! Can’t you see that I’m not happy!”
I changed my tone very quickly, stood up, moved within inches away from him and looked this irate, large, yelling upper middle class man in the eye pointing my finger in his face and said, “I don’t know who you think you are taking a tone like that with, sir, but you picked the wrong woman! At this point I am not a psychic anymore, I am the woman whose house you are in yelling and punching her table!”
Then I proceeded to rant for an hour and a half… I ranted until I exhausted this man. It was he who said the session was over because he could no longer think. My rant started off demanding that he settle down… and inquired if he knew how the human brain works. I went into great description about how the synapse jump with electric currents. I explained that our tendency towards moods, perceptions and feelings are like water on a hill… over time if you keep pouring water its tendency is to follow the familiar path where water has run before. Water will follow the path of least resistance and the path that becomes familiar. Feelings are like water on the hill.
I encouraged him to work to train his thoughts to go a new direction. Nudged him to be patient and that change takes time. I asked him to recall the last time he felt happy. He at first said he did not know… but as I continued to rant, he interrupted bellowing,” It was when the Beatles played on the Ed Sullivan show!” That was the last time this man recalls feeling happy. That sure was a long time ago. It took me back a bit, but then I settled in to his Truth.
I congratulated him on being able to recall that memory. I encouraged him to spend time meditating with that memory, to become increasingly aware of how happiness feels inside again. I suggested he work to teach his mind to recognize happy feelings again. I encouraged him to do it daily. Practice to notice fleeting feelings of happiness, even if it was for a tiny moment. A great golf swing, eating a delicious olive, the comfortable feel of drifting off to sleep and more. I told him to work with his emotions like training water to go down the hill a different way. Awakening his brains synapses to begin to conduct and electrically vibrate with feelings of happiness whether they are through memories or fleeting daily moments of awareness.
What I stressed to him over and over again until he tired was that happiness is a choice. Happiness is not a thing we can hold or buy. It is not something we earn. Happiness is something we choose to experience no matter what our circumstance.
Some of the most joyous people I have ever met live some of the most humble existences I have ever seen. Some of the wealthiest people I have met are some of the most unhappy. Running away from his current existence, divorcing his wife, having an affair, buying more things was not going to make him happy. He had to learn to cultivate happiness from deep inside of his own mind and heart. He was the reason he was not happy and only he could transform and create change from within.
When it was all said and done, I realized that the cassette recorder had recorded our entire meeting. I plucked the tape from the machine, handed it to him, walked him to the door and said good bye, charging him nothing. Honestly, I wanted him to leave my sacred space and never return. My adrenaline had been in high gear for an hour and a half. I was exhausted.
I nibbled away at that man’s excuses for his misery, with science, logic and common sense. I pleaded to his subconscious that he was in charge and no one else. He was one of my 3 most challenging clients all these years. When he yelled and became violent my initial instinct was to get him out of my office as quickly as possible. When I began to defend my harmony and my personal space I suppose I also seized the moment to hopefully teach or enlighten him. What started off frightening turned into a very purposeful exchange. I believe that session, as uncomfortable and as weird as it was, happened for a reason.
Back in the early 90’s I was working in health care. I worked a full time position in one facility and had part-time jobs as a “float” at 2 other facilities. As a float, you go to whatever floor the facility needs you on for your shift. I worked all overnight shifts (11pm-7am) with an occasional day or evening shift sprinkled in. I had been doing this already for years. In Rochester, NY working in healthcare facility to facility you get to know a lot of people.
One night I was scheduled at one of the float jobs. When I woke up before the shift my eyes were itchy, red, gooey and irritated. I had slept until the very last moment and did not have much time to get ready. As I drove to the other side of the city, my eyes got worse and worse. I was really concerned. I’d had pink eye before and knew this is what it felt like.
When I arrived to work, I went right to the nursing supervisor’s office. When I walked in, the evening supervisor was there with an agency supervisor covering for the night shift. I told both supervisors that I woke up with a terrible case of pink eye that seemed to be worsening by the moment.
The agency night supervisor took a long look at my eyes and announced that there was no way I had pink eye. She then said that she would fix whatever it was and proceeded to tape a gauze patch over one eye and told me to get up to the 7th floor. I objected and told her that I really know its pink eye, it’s unmistakable and that it would not be in the best interest for the patients or other staff. She told me I was off base, wrong and to go to work. As I was walking away from the supervisor’s office I heard her say to the evening supervisor that she was sure I had purposely irritated my eyes in my car to get out of working. I turned around and walked back into the doorway. I said, “If I did not want to work tonight I would have called in sick from home, not gotten up, dressed in my uniform and drove 30 minutes across the city, that’s for sure.”
When I got home from work the next day after an awful, itchy, messy, painful night, even more exacerbated by the gauze I went to my doctor immediately. Guess what? I had a really bad case of pink eye. My doctor’s office called the facility right away and they had to quarantine the unit I had been on for several days.
A few weeks later I was given another floating shift there. When I showed up to the supervisor’s office for my floor assignment, there she was. She spun around like a misfit Barbie smiling at me. Her bright red lipstick matched her healthcare-senseless shiny red stilettos.
She said grinning evilly, “I’m your new weekend night shift supervisor.”
So, I replied, “Let me get this straight. You are now my supervisor if I continue to work here?”
She said, “That’s right.”
“Then I quit. Good night ladies.” I responded and out I went. I only worked at that location two or three nights every few weeks and was fine letting it go, but felt really badly for the staff that was left behind to be mismanaged and abused by that woman.
Jump ahead a few years. I had a full time position on a new 15 bed locked, experimental, restraint-free unit for brain damaged, violent and sexually aggressive adults. It was the first pilot program of its kind in New York State. It was a wonderful job and I worked with great people.
All was moving along great one night when we heard the familiar beep of someone key-carding into our unit. I heard a clip-clop clicking echo, turned to see red stilettos attached to the Barbie-like, red lipstick wearing grinner. She was being introduced to all the night shift because she was going to be our new part-time supervisor. She walked up to me and grinned.
I said, “Hello again. Welcome to MY facility.” After touring our unit she left. As soon as the doors locked behind her I told my coworkers the whole story from before.
It was only one shift later when I was called into a supervisor friend’s office. He closed the door and told me how grateful he was to have heard my story about that red-shoed woman a few years prior over some beers on a day off. He said that she had immediately written a report against me letting the facility know that we had had conflict in the past because she caught me purposely irritating my eyes to get out of a shift and was a problem at her past job. He encouraged me to tell my side of the story, for documentation purposes right away, and I did.
The next shift she was on I let her know that I had read her report against me and that I documented my side of the event. She let me know that she would be sure myself and my friends would all soon be fired from my unit. That did not sit well with me, and I admit, I felt frightened that she was capable of twisting things and possibly firing my friends. It was within a week that she filed a report against one of my friends saying she had threatened her in an elevator. Then filed another report against me stating that she did not see my do my full rounds because she had supposedly watched through the windows from outside. All the staff wrote counter-reports stating the opposite. Stories of conflicts between her and staff on other floors were piling up. So I started a petition against her. I got signatures from staff of all 3 shifts on all floors of the building. There were 3 full 2 column pages of signatures from not just nursing staff but housekeeping, office staff, day services and more.
The facility called me during the day, as it always is when you are an overnight shift worker, to tell me to gather “my people” to have a meeting about this conflict. The meeting was to be a few days away. I had one more shift with her before then. It started off with a bang. She strutted onto our unit clicking those heels all the way down the hall. Dre, Onieda, Roderick and I all stood up. She stormed up to me pointing her overly long, fake red fingernail into my face and said, “I know what you are doing and you won’t get away with it. I will ruin you.” My girl Dre spoke before I could, and man oh man, Dre was one tough woman. She launched herself over the nurses station, not even bothering to open the gate and went off on little Miss. Red Shoes. Less than an inch from that woman’s frightened quivering nose Dre yelled that no one comes round threatening anyone like that and that she was in the mind to stomp the shit out of her. We restrained Dre dramatically and little Miss Red Shoes frantically ran away down the hall to the swipe pad yelling that this was all she needed now and we were all done for.
On this experimental unit we had a dog. This dog was pet-therapy and a member of the staff to all of us. We enjoyed the break to take him out for his walks and most of us were smokers too, so it was an even more welcomed break. After we had all calmed down, I took the dog out for his walk. I walked around our unit, pondering how to save Dre from being fired. The dog finally decided where he was to do his business so we stopped. I looked up into the star filled sky breathing deeply so worried that I had been the cause now of a worse yet- true report against my dear friend. As I was reaching into my pocket for a rubber glove to pick up the dogs deposit, I realized that the dog had chosen to poo right next to Miss. Red Shoes car. A sign maybe? I will never know. What I do know is that in that moment I grinned just like her and pushed that whole turd under the handle of her driver’s door, warm and fresh.
When I got back on the unit we all laughed until tears ran down our faces. It was so hard for me to even get it out I was laughing so damn hard. She did not come for rounds the rest of the shift. We knew she was no doubt frantically typing a crazy, scathing report against Dre and us all.
When our shift was over we all went outside and instead of getting into each of our own cars, we all piled into Dre’s van to watch. She did not come out for a long time, but eventually she did. We watched and laughed with our hands over our mouths like wild 9 year olds inside that van. There she was, pristine and red. She unlocked the car door and went to open it. She reeled back looking at her hand, then sniffed it. Gut busting laughter was pouring out of the van at that point. She turned and marched back into the facility aggressively.
The next night when we all reported to our shift, my friend supervisor was there to greet us with paperwork in his hand. He had some of the evening shift stay a few moments late so he could talk to all of us. We went into his office. He said, she had been fired. She was fired because that morning after filing awful papers against us and requesting police report against Dre she ran back into the facility screaming that I had put dog poo under the handle of her car and written a threatening note to her. When she could not produce the note, they assumed she had made the whole thing up.
Is that Karma? Was it some kind of divine plan that I ended up having to scoop poo right next to her car? I will never know, but to this day, remembering how hard we were all laughing in that van, trying to be quiet, is by far one of my funniest lifetime memories. For the record, I have been able to live with the truth of my actions with no guilt.