Meditation is the most powerful tool I have found to become more psychically attuned. It allows us to cross over boundaries we may not know existed until we've moved beyond them. The reason many of you may not realize you're psychic is that you have become conditioned to hearing only your mind. The intensity of your thoughts overrides everything else. Meditation gives you more options. Even if you have never thought of yourself as the “type” or have tried and been unsuccessful, when properly guided everyone can meditate.
I teach my patients to practice the same simple technique my teacher taught me. First, sit on a comfortable cushion, back upright, legs crossed. If sitting on a cushion is too uncomfortable, sit on a chair, making sure to keep your back straight. If you lie down it's too easy to fall asleep. With the palms of your hands resting together in the traditional prayer position, begin by making a reverential bow in honor of yourself and your spiritual source. Then, most important, start to breathe. Paying attention only to the rhythm of your in-breath and out-breath, notice the nuances of each inhalation and exhalation as the flow of air passes through your lungs and out past your nostrils and mouth. If thoughts come—and they will—note them but try not to get involved in them, and always return to the breath. In Yogic thought, this is the
prana,
our vital energy, the essence of life. Concentrating on it singly leads to the stillness as nothing else can.
You may be like me. I've always rebelled against regimentation of any kind. If someone tells me one way of doing some thing, I'm sure to do the opposite. I'm not saying that this is a commendable quality, but it's how I often feel. Respecting this about myself, I've chosen a method of meditating that suits my character. It's more free flowing, instinctual, without a lot of rules. But meditation is extremely personal. There are many excellent methods—including Zen, Vipassanna, Yoga, transcendental meditation—some more structured than others. It may help to experiment with a few. In the final analysis, how or where you meditate is less important than the outcome of the practice.
I know of a blackjack dealer in Reno who uses meditation to center himself amidst the chaos and confusion of the gambling casino. Inspired by the Hindu tradition, he's renamed himself Hanuman after the monkey god, recognized for being the devoted servant of Rama. During his breaks, he sits cross-legged beneath the glare of the bright lights, eyes closed, surrounded by the din of slot machines and people shouting. There he meditates as peacefully as he might on a mountain in Tibet. His practice has taught him to cope with external distractions and keeps him focused and astute.
To be able to meditate, no matter what the physical conditions, you must begin slowly. Meditation requires loyalty and perseverance. Initially, you can limit yourself to five minutes a day. Once you become more accustomed to sitting, gradually build up to twenty minutes over the next few weeks or months. You may stay at that level for a while. When you're ready, in crease to a full hour. But don't worry if your mind is busy. It takes practice to sense the stillness, so try to be patient. If at first nothing much seems to be happening, you're not doing anything wrong. There's no rush. Just keep your attention focused on the breath as much as possible. Be gentle with yourself. Change takes time.
The psychic flourishes when you give it space to grow. Meditation can provide this. It is an organic process that allows prescience to mature gradually, in a healthy way. With time to assimilate this change, you will never be given more than you can handle. There's a natural tempo to opening that occurs if you don't force it before you're ready. Sometimes we may move ahead in leaps and bounds, at other times take only tiny steps forward, or even think that we're sliding backward. Bur however it may appear, this is an ongoing process of growth. Wisely prepare yourself to see. Make space for your own brilliance. Meditation can be your first step, a solid, well-grounded send-off to a truly amazing journey.
When I was a child, I had a fantasy that a space ship had dropped me off on Earth. I took comfort in believing that my actual home was far out in the stars on another planet, a place where I really belonged. Many nights, yearning to feel complete, I would sit up on the roof and gaze at the sky, searching, feeling an intangible presence just beyond reach. I hoped that if I stared out into space long enough I would make it my own.
Through meditation I later discovered what I had been looking for: a seamless continuity between myself and this very force. More than just offering a psychic link, meditation brought my spirituality alive, wove into my life a sacred texture. A source of replenishment and solace, meditation amplified what was most holy to me and made it recognizable so that I could take it in.
But I wasn't able to achieve this overnight. Until I met my teacher in 1985, my meditation habits were irregular, without focus or form. I had tried meditating on the bed, propped up on a large silk pillow; in the living room twisted like a pretzel in the lotus position on the couch; and even in the bathtub at night soaking in deliciously warm water, surrounded by a circle of flickering votive candles. Still, I couldn't get it right. I felt like a restless old dog, shifting positions, never really settling into a comfortable one.
To solve this predicament, my teacher suggested that I set up an altar, a simple but ingenious idea that immediately intrigued me. He had pinpointed exactly what had been lacking. Rather than being haphazard about meditating, roaming from room to room, I needed a specific place where I could settle in. Meant to be a tribute to the Tao, our spiritual source, an altar is a physical touchstone joining us to it. In constructing one, my teacher had only a few instructions: It was to face the east (in the Taoist tradition, the birthplace of spiritual power); and I was to place a red candle on the right (symbol of knowledge), a white candle on the left (symbol of purity), and provide a container to burn incense. The rest my teacher would leave up to me.
Excited, I began right away. Rummaging around in my garage I found a small wooden table about two feet wide that I had used years before in my Venice apartment. Intentionally, I hadn't rushed out to buy a new table: I wanted one that already had part of me in it, reflected my history. So I brought it upstairs, dusted it off, and placed it on the far wall of my office at home, across from my computer. For a while I just looked at it, deciding what to do next. A few days later, while I was browsing in Bullock's, a roll of fabric jumped out at me. A beige background patterned with beautiful Asian women dressed in blue kimonos, it felt perfect. I got a piece large enough to cover the table's surface. With it in place, I added the objects my teacher recommended plus a small white porcelain statue of Quan Yin, the goddess of compassion. I was all set to go.
Little did I know the dynamic role my altar would play in both my meditation practice and my life. When my mother was dying, it was the place I sought at moments when I thought I couldn't go on. So many nights I slept next to it for the comfort it offered. Sometimes I would place on it a bouquet of colorful flowers or a bowl of fresh fruit—symbols of beauty and vibrancy I clung to in my need. Gazing at the radiant face of Quan Yin, often through a blur of tears, enabled me to remain focused on the truths I believed in, to forgive myself when I fell short, and to begin the next day anew.
When my life gets hectic, I know that I can return to my altar to rejuvenate myself. No matter how stressed out I am or how fast my mind is spinning, just sitting in stillness makes everything slow down. I meditate in front of it each day, though sometimes I'm drawn there in the middle of the night as well. If I am having trouble sleeping, it's the first place I head. Calming, a constant reminder of the power of faith, my altar helps me to relax so that I can rest comfortably again. I always leave feeling nourished, as if I had just drunk fresh water from a mountain stream.
One of my patients, Maggie, didn't enter psychotherapy to become psychic, to meditate, or to learn about altars. She simply was having trouble with her boyfriend. Throughout her life, Maggie had had a series of relationships with dominant men. They had wanted to control her, and she'd relinquished her power to them, becoming passive and compliant, never speaking her own needs. Each time it was the same: She felt overlooked, undervalued. Now, after years of being single, she had once again met a guy who swept her away. They had been dating for only three months and already the relationship had become strained. The familiar pattern was repeating itself; she was beginning to have doubts.
Maggie, a media consultant, had been in lengthy psychoanalysis, so she had a sophisticated intellectual understanding of the unconscious factors that motivated her relationship choices. Still, she was enslaved by her repetitive behavior. I knew that I needed to guide her in a different direction.
Maggie maintained two sets of friends. One group, including her present boyfriend, had fairly conservative beliefs, and they mocked anything that was considered “spiritual.” The other, comprised of avid meditators, was devoted to pursuing a spiritual life. These were the people with whom Maggie felt most at home. Still, she limited her involvement with them because she was afraid of going overboard. Having studied meditation in the past, Maggie held back, reluctant to commit herself to a regular practice. Convinced that her conservative friends would condemn such an activity as “flaky” or “insubstantial,” she never brought it up in their company.
For over two years, Maggie stayed on the fence, keeping her friends separate, leading a dual life. Looking at Maggie, I saw a reflection of myself ten years before: She was struggling with a similar split. I saw so much yearning and so much pain simmering just beneath the surface. I knew the massive amount of energy it took to keep these worlds separate. Always trying to please, to conform at any expense, even if it meant being untrue to yourself. I could also see that she was desperate to change but didn't know how. Her discomfort had finally grown so great that she was willing to try just about anything. I suggested that she set up an altar.
Out of touch with her intuition, uncentered, Maggie needed a designated place to regroup, a sacred spot in her home, formally defined, where she could learn to gather her power. That was the starting point. It is an easy action that any one of us can take if we feel confused or lost, needing to find ourselves again.
“An altar is a haven where you can go at any time to meditate and be alone,” I explained. “It's your own private sanctuary…like a church or synagogue. But it doesn't have to be conventionally religious unless you want it to be. The important thing is that you sit quietly with yourself, find your intuitive voice, and begin to listen.”
Maggie's face brightened. “An altar? A few of my friends who meditate have one. In fact, I almost set one up myself. But I was afraid other people would think it's weird. Especially my boyfriend. I didn't want to start a fight.”
“Then pick an out-of-the-way location,” I advised. “A back bedroom, office, even a hallway. Someplace where visitors don't usually go. An altar isn't meant to be a conversation piece. Actually, it's better not to discuss it with most people at all. No one should go there unless they're invited.”
Maggie's altar needed to be a place where she felt unviolated, a nurturing retreat. Unfortunately, she didn't have many such places in her life. Most of the time she felt as if she were on a battlefield, dodging bullets. I knew the feeling. Life can become frantic, even when we don't intend it to be. Our altar is a refuge to come home to, where we can kick off our shoes, breathe deeply again, reconnect.
For me, the altar was just a beginning. I've come to see my entire physical environment as an intimate extension of my inner life. I try to create a sense of sacredness throughout my home. I live by the ocean. As I fall asleep I can hear waves crashing on the shore. During rainstorms, the impact of the wind and water rattles my sliding glass windows and shakes the frame of my bed, keeping me tapped into the wildness of nature. I need to look out at vistas. I long to see expanses of sky. The ocean sunlight filters through my bay windows into every room. Reflecting through crystals hanging from my ceiling, it projects dancing rainbows on the walls. A ceramic vase full of fresh flowers rests on my dining room table. Potted plants of all sizes and shapes are everywhere. A mammoth creeping Charley drapes two stories down over my balcony. Though it's important that my living area feel safe and spiritually inspiring, you don't need a palace—any space can be made sacred if the desire is there.
Seeming as if she'd been just waiting for permission, Maggie jumped at the chance to set up an altar. But first she had to reinvent what spirituality meant to her. Raised a Roman Catholic, she had rebelled against the restrictions of her childhood religion. Since then there had been a spiritual vacuum in her life. She worried that the objects on the altar resembled idols. Associating ritual only with Catholicism, she had to start over again from scratch.
Maggie's altar was simple: a small wooden bench, a round, white candle, and a crystal vase just large enough to hold a single rose. Altars can take a variety of shapes and forms. The objects we place on them should inspire us: statues, pictures, incense, fruit, flowers, candles, or any other symbols that hold special meaning. I encouraged Maggie to meditate in front of her altar daily, even when she didn't feel like it or if there were a million other things to do. Through this discipline, she learned how to direct her attention inward, over and over again, until it became habit. “Listen closely,” I kept urging her, “until you can hear your intuitive voice again.”
“How do I know what it sounds like?” she asked. “There are so many voices in my head. How can I tell them apart?” I reflected on my work at Mobius, how I trained myself to recognize the difference between what was logical or expected and what was psychically true; the sense of rightness that's often present, a clarity, an immediacy, an unconflicted quality so resolute and impartial that the information received isn't open to debate. Explaining this to Maggie, I also advised her to be patient. “This voice is often quiet but steady. It might take some practice to hear.”