Angelia smiled patiently, waiting for me to formulate my next question. I wish I could say it was as detailed and as brilliant as the first one, but I was still thrown by the fact that she had chosen to label me a writer.
A creative person, sure. An independent person, obviously. An artist, even. Artist is a generic term. How in the world did she guess writer?
“Um,” I said. “Well. I guess my living arrangement is a little up in the air.”
“Ah,” said Angelia and launched into a basic analysis of my renting conditions and my potential to buy the home of my dreams within the next couple of years. Again, it was really nothing that I could confirm or deny.
It was after she gave me this friendly advice that she once again veered off into a direction I couldn’t have expected.
“Your time to buy a house is coming up much sooner than you think. You’re now in the time when you are finally getting your finances together after a lot of old debts.” She paused. “2009 was a very hard year for you,” she said solemnly. “In fact, it was the year when everything just turned upside down for you.”
I felt my mouth slip open.
Swiftly, I thought back to that moment in my life, one year after moving from my small Florida town to Atlanta, to confirm it was indeed the year that I was recalling. Of all the years she could have said, she could not have named a more distinct one.
2009, in a nutshell, was what I liked to dub my Year of Hell.
Very few people know the details of that year, because I’ve done my damndest not to tell anyone.
In a nutshell, I lost my biggest paying job that year.
My first “relationship” of the time, with my first love, went severely sour.
I was stuck in the middle of a huge city with maxed-out credit cards, no financial means and less than a hundred dollars in the bank.
I was rejected for unemployment and owed more than I cared to think about in back taxes.
Things had not been pretty, and I had contemplated several ways to escape—ways that I never thought I would allow myself to think.
I swallowed a lump in my throat as I listened to the psychic gently continue. “You’re ready for a change. This year, especially, has been impactful for you. You’re experiencing people and things that you never have before. Everything is different.” She nodded encouragingly. “Better.”
Years before I was even near 30, I told my mother on multiple occasions that the moment I reached the triple decades, everything would be different. “I won’t have it any other way,” I had announced. “It’ll be as if I’m a completely different person, living a completely different life.”
To hear it from the mouth of the stranger, to hear my own words echoing back at me, was more than I could realize. The only reason I waited to cry until that evening, safe in the sanctity of my apartment, was because I think I was in shock. Someone from outside the room hollered, “Mom!” but then trudged past when Angelia remained silent.
She made sure I was alright, and I’m sure I nodded. She didn’t rush me at all, and I didn’t feel rushed. I thought, momentarily, that even if she was a fake, she was a better therapist than almost any I had been to in the past—and extensively cheaper.
My last question came out more like a plea than a request. “I used to be more…spiritual than I used to be. I used to be able to hear spirit guides, like—“ I almost said like you. Instead, I rushed ahead. “I used to be so calm in my mind, so in touch with what was around me. How can I get that back?” My eyes began to burn. “How can I be that way again?”
How can I be myself again?
Angelia smiled warmly. Her excessive eyeliner no longer seemed as ridiculous as it used to. “Are you familiar with the aura?” I nodded. “Well, you have an imbalance with your chakras, namely your heart and your crown chakras. It’s not a blockage, but it is an imbalance. I want you to research more on the crown chakra, learn what it affects in the body, and develop your meditation to regulate it.
“I also recommend performing this simple meditation. Light a white candle—scented or no—one hour before bedtime each night. Concentrate on it; let the light fill you. That will be a good place to start.
She grinned and straightened up. “Well, I hope I answered your questions! Now, I mean it about you giving me a call in November. I want to know how your writing turns out. Free,” she assured me when I sucked in to confirm. The payment transaction and goodbye was quick and efficient, but not at all cold.
I called my mother as soon as I was settled in my car. Having been to a few psychics in the past and being spiritually enhanced herself, she would offer objective insight without judging me.
“Oh, my goodness,” she said without exaggeration or sarcasm when I had finished. “It sounds like you had an interesting day.”
I was a child after her first day of kindergarten, and I was alright with that. I could tell that she was more guarded about the experience than I was, namely because I would never be able to explain it the way it truly was.
After I hung up and drove to the grocery store at last, I reviewed the full day of events myself. I thought about what Angelia said about me. About how I was a healer. Maybe I had been wrong to brush that off so quickly. Maybe the very reason that I had lost the spiritual awareness of my earlier years was because I had allowed myself to be consumed with disbelief and cynicism—the very sensations that I had felt when I first walked into the appointment.
I hadn’t been truly as receptive as I thought I was. The revelation that I had completely missed the point was—and is—humbling.
Maybe I hadn’t explained myself very well with my mother. But I wanted to try again—not necessarily to express my belief in psychics, but to share the freedom I felt for taking a risk—minor though it may be—that I never would have taken before.
I wanted to grow. I wanted to change. I didn’t want to stay the same, caught in my own mind, day in and day out.
I wanted to continue to wander aimlessly and find something inside myself that I didn’t think still existed. Spontaneity. Self-commitment.
Maybe it wasn’t bungee-jumping, but it was still something, dagnabbit.
As I complete this post, a small white candle burns to my right. The flame is incomplete and flutters, but it burns. The circle of melted wax slowly expands as the heat grows. It’s been years since I lit a candle for comfort, not since 2009 or even longer.
Behind me are my books on auras and chakras and meditation. Smooth jazz plays “Take 5” in the background.
To anyone looking for answers in their life, I highly recommend taking a Sunday drive. Take it at two in the morning, or take it at five in the evening.
Take it in the middle of a Thursday.
Just take what you need to get lost and find something new.