Right after breakfast one morning, I drove to a Brentwood home straight out of
Architectural Digest
where the sessions were being held. This man was in such demand that people were herded into the living room, waiting their turn. I felt odd, disturbingly like a child. Here we were, by all appearances a group of successful professionals, turning to him to fix us. It was sad, absurd, and naively hopeful all at the same time. Finally, after two hours, when everyone else had gone, my name was called. I was led into a private room in the back, as if entering an inner sanctum. The shaman looked so authentic that he could have been hired by central casting. A bone-thin, hunched over Mayan in his late sixties, he spoke no English. The woman who sponsored his trip to the United States served as his translator. This is going to be good, I thought.
After greeting me, nodding his head, he then uttered some words in Spanish. The translator asked, “What are your symptoms?”
“Lately I've felt these waves of anxiety,” I said candidly. “I haven't been sleeping well, and my stomach's been killing me.”
Never once looking me in the eyes, the shaman picked up a small mirror and ran it up and down the underside of both my forearms. He pinched the skin on my wrists. Then, staring grimly at the floor, he shook his head and mumbled something under his breath in Spanish. The only word I recognized was
loco,
and the rest didn't sound much better.
“What did he say?” I asked, panic beginning to overtake me.
The translator hesitated, as if not wanting to break the bad news. “He apologizes but he can't do anything for you.”
“What are you talking about?” I managed to squeak out.
“I hate to tell you this,” the translator said, “but there's no hope. Soon your stomach will get so bad you won't be able to eat. You'll grow thinner and weaker. Eventually you'll just waste away and die.”
I was shocked. For a few horrible seconds, half of me believed him, deferring to this man as if he were an all-knowing sage. I felt about an inch high, terrified that I already had one foot in the grave. “Isn't there anything more you can advise?” I asked. The shaman turned his back to me, as if irritated, and replied he'd have to consult his dreams. The translator looked at me with such pity it made my skin crawl, and solemnly whispered, “I'm so sorry.”
Suddenly, the melodrama of it all shook me to my senses. I felt like I was playing a leading role in a B movie. Why was I listening to this man? He was using fear tactics to hook me in and I, a trained psychiatrist and psychic with years of solid spiritual practice behind me, was taking the bait. The entire scene had been one giant setup. Of course, the obvious next question I was expected to ask was “How much more would it cost for you to look in your dreams?” But, thank God, I didn't. Grateful that my presence of mind had returned, I knew that nothing he'd said was true. The spell now broken, I was furious, and blasted them: “You mean to say you've known me only five minutes, condemn me to suffering a horrible death, and then send me off completely stripped of hope! How can you be so irresponsible? Even if you are right, where is your compassion?”
I left, marveling at how ready I'd been to sacrifice my power to a complete stranger, sucked in by the awe of his followers. Such blind devotion should have been a tip-off. Just because someone claims to be a great shaman doesn't mean he is. Unfortunately, I later discovered that at least a couple of people fell for almost exactly the same line that this man handed me and ended up doling out ungodly sums of money to be healed. The irony is that some actually felt better. Whether they were simply suggestible or this man had some real skill, I don't know. What I do know for certain, however, is that controlling people through fear is unconscionable, a red flag that a psychic is unbalanced, and should be avoided.
Meeting this man was a harsh reminder of the dangers of so-called healers who are domineering and motivated by greed rather than compassion. Because I was going through a hard time and wanted immediate relief, I was susceptible to being tricked. No matter how knowledgeable we are, we may be tempted to go to any lengths to get well. But sustained healing can take place only when a teacher ignites resources we already have within, not if he professes to do it for us, creating a false dependency.
I am also angered by charismatic psychics and spiritual teachers who exploit students sexually, promising an inside track to spiritual advancement. Some of these “gurus” may even believe it themselves; they have no remorse.
Once, out of curiosity I attended a talk given by a popular but controversial spiritual teacher based in Los Angeles. By this time he was infamous for having sex with his female students, but still the lecture hall was packed. I saw at once that he was incredibly funny, attractive, and radiated a charismatic appeal. Actually, he was too charming; I was immediately put off. Nonetheless, I recognized from his responses to the audience's questions that he was a stunningly sharp clairvoyant with an astute understanding of how energy moved. Seductive, full of himself, and talented: a deadly mix.
Soon after that night, accounts of his flagrant sexual escapades with students appeared in the press. Promised enlightenment, many women had gone along with him, not because they wanted sex, but as an act of unconditional surrender to their guru. He would buy them jewelry and fine gifts, wine and dine them at expensive hotels—then move on to another conquest. Not surprisingly, these women felt abandoned, abused, outraged. Many had given him large donations they couldn't afford, had sacrificed their jobs, even their families. Finally they got fed up and left the group, often struggling to rebuild their lives from scratch. His following scattered, and with the press on his back, this man eventually was run out of town.
It is never necessary to have sex with our teachers in order to grow spiritually. Even the ancient mystical discipline of Tantra, which focuses on sexuality as a vehicle for transcendence, is never forced upon anyone. If a teacher ever insists that sex with him—or her—is the only way to enlightenment, run in the opposite direction as fast as you can.
In my own life, as a therapist and psychic, I've strived to be clear about sexuality, maintaining firm boundaries with people I'm reading. Looking into someone's life so closely, particularly if I don't know them well, can breed an instant intimacy that may be easily misinterpreted. Once I was introduced to a man on a remote-viewing project I was doing. Thrilled to learn I was a psychic, he asked to come to my office for a reading. This was not unusual—I often give readings to people I work with—so I gladly agreed. But from then on, he began laying it on too thick about how incredibly wise I was, blushing like a smitten schoolboy: He'd clearly developed a crush on me. I was flattered, but I knew it wasn't real. He had the unmistakable glazed look of someone all too eager to relinquish his own power and project onto me an elevated status that had no bearing on who I was. Realizing how unhealthy it would be to feed into this, I gently explained what I thought was happening and put a stop to the whole thing.
I've seen many psychics and spiritual teachers fall into the trap of getting sexually involved with their students. It's a predictable challenge, and needs to be anticipated before serious damage occurs. Some teachers deal with it by becoming celibate. Others reach a crossroads where their integrity is tested—and many fail. Catered to by adoring students, they succumb. In the best of circumstances, they admit their indiscretions, sincerely learning from their mistakes. But a malignant few remain power hungry, ravenously feeding on attention like sharks but losing sight of their real purpose.
Psychics and spiritual teachers are human beings. No matter how wise, they all have obstacles to overcome. Beware of those who are eager to impress, encourage dependency, or charge outrageous amounts for their services. The most artful psychics and healers I've known, ones with authentic maturity, are straightforward and humble, and they charge reasonable fees. They don't coerce by fear and have nothing to prove. A true healer's skill lies in kindling your power.
A holy bond is formed in any healing relationship. Whenever I'm working with someone in therapy, it's always more than just the two of us involved. A third entity is born: the spirit of the therapy itself, an expanding spark with an inherent intelligence and character. It's a compass that marks the way, clarifying my job if I listen.
My office hours usually go nonstop from nine to five. For most of the day, I'm psychically wide open. I feel like a telephone operator on a gigantic switchboard, handling a rush of incoming calls. Listening to my patients both intuitively and with my intellect, I simultaneously track a myriad of images and sensations along with their words. Logic often lays the groundwork, the psychic filling in missing gaps, color, and detail. I'm hyper-alert, my body alive, but at the same time I'm detached, witnessing the session as an observer. I rarely know what I'm going to say until the moment I say it. Very little I do in therapy is preplanned. Trusting the direction the session is taking, I try not to exert undue control or superimpose my own agenda.
When I first began weaving the psychic into my work, I was afraid I wasn't doing enough if I simply allowed myself to be guided. In medical school I had been programmed to be ever vigilant, to scrutinize every situation, take full charge. Unless I shouldered the entire load, I was convinced, I'd be cheating, cutting corners. Thus I often ended up trying too hard when it wasn't necessary. At night I would drag my body home exhausted, limp as a rag doll. I didn't have the slightest idea how to conserve my strength.
Now whenever my energy is depleted, I know to back off. The tougher sessions especially begin to exact a toll. To avoid this I pause for meditation breaks, psychically disengaging throughout the day. Reconnecting with my spiritual source feels like standing beneath a waterfall, being bathed in pristine water. It's my shield and protection, easing the heaviness, infusing the light once more. Only then can I be fully present in my work.
Sometimes my role is simply to mirror the psychic in someone else. But I have to be careful. Too often, patients expect me to give magic answers. They make me into an authority figure, disempowering themselves by believing they can't be psychic as well. Time and again I try to confront that illusion, realizing how destructive it is. But even in people who know better, this impulse is amazingly tenacious.
One of my patients, Sam, a computer whiz at a local think tank, hounded me constantly. Naively in awe of anything psychic, he imagined me to be all-knowing. Even worse, he craved solutions to his problems without making an effort himself, which got on my nerves. ‘'Can't you just tell me this one thing,” he'd persist, grilling me about his problem of the day. Had I allowed it, Sam would have been willing to defer to me completely. It never dawned on him that he could do this himself. “Why don't you give it a shot?” I urged when he once again demanded a reading. Sam resisted, citing all the usual excuses: “I don't know what I'm doing. What if I'm wrong? Only special people are psychic.” Nonsense. Because I was fond of Sam, knew how capable he was, I stood firm.
Finally we struck a deal. He'd initially risk a reading himself, then I would follow with mine. We began by practicing. Typically I'd repeat a name of someone I knew well and then “send” it to him. He'd relate his impressions, right or wrong, and I'd respond with feedback. As we proceeded this way, intuitive images came to Sam more freely, and he began putting pictures and feelings together like pieces of a puzzle. The insights he gained from this method later helped him to deal with dilemmas he had been pressing me to read. There's no substitute for jumping right in and doing the work.
I have no hard-and-fast rules governing when to give a direct psychic response. It's a matter of discretion: The timing has to feel right. If someone is an ardent disbeliever, out of respect I steer clear of the issue unless an interest is expressed. Nor, as I've said, do I stress this point in the emotionally unstable, who might misinterpret the information. Then there are people like Sam, obsessively enamored of the psychic, who need to view it more realistically. The same is true for those who wrongly turn to it to overmanage their lives. “Let's tune in to the whole week,” one patient of mine frequently asks, expecting a blow-by-blow accounting of the next seven days' events. I don't encourage this, however. For critical issues, maybe. But first she must do a reading herself. Then I'll chime in. I believe that the joy of life is in discovery, not in plotting out our every move. Even if that were possible.
To me, the best use of the psychic is when I can help define a problem, allowing a person to apply such knowledge constructively. With someone who is well grounded and doesn't over-glorify the psychic or abuse it, I'm more apt to be direct. Also, if I sense that real danger is involved—for example, the time when a patient came to me alarmed his plane was going to crash and I intuitively agreed—I will be forthright.
Joan, a movie producer and long-term patient, had been listless for over a month. In the middle of shooting a film, she could barely keep up with the harrowing schedule. Usually overflowing with energy, she found her fatigue so debilitating that she called from location and asked me to tune in. This wasn't like Joan, who rarely sought psychic help. I knew it was important. Picturing her body's afterimage, I intuitively scanned it, the way a Geiger counter picks up radiation, to detect if anything was wrong. This is where my medical knowledge really comes in: Sweeping across from head to toe, I visualize each organ, individually crosschecking my responses to see if there's a glitch. If something isn't right it stands out, lighting up, its texture and consistency altered, a feeling similar to running your hand over silky fabric and coming to a tiny irregular knot. Focusing on Joan's blood, I sensed it was thin, some vital element missing. Since Joan's production schedule was so hectic, it was almost impossible for her to make time to see a doctor. But when I told her what I saw, she arranged an appointment. Though her health was otherwise fine, the doctor discovered that Joan had a severe case of anemia.