Slick Young Psychic and Grieving Parents
I tuned to a morning news and information program and caught an interview with a grieving mother whose severely handicapped child had just died. It was just too early in the day to hear tearful insights on the meaning of loss, so being the sensitive soul I am, I reached for the remote to change the channel for something more cheerful. Wait. Who’s that? I recognized him immediately. It was the slick young psychic who speaks with the dead. He was there to surprise the woman.
The only things, and I mean the only things, the dead people ever communicate to this psychic are minor variations of: “I’m all right.” “I’m here with Aunt Sadie.” “I love you.” “I see you.” Once these four items of information are expressed, there is one more: “His/Her energy is pulling back now.” My sisters and I often mimic his “readings.” Is there an “S” name. Is it my father? Yes, that must be it. It’s your father. He says, he’s all right. Or our mother would report “I’m here with Grandma,” or our much loved pugs would tell us “We’re being taken care of by your mom and dad,” generating paroxysms of laughter that leaves us gasping for breathe.
I know something about dead people. They don't come back to have conversations. I was orphaned at 8 years old. My sisters and I, now in our 50s, still speculate on how different our lives would have been if our parents had lived, or if they’re still around somewhere, anywhere. As a former flower child trying to hang onto an open mind, I had often watched this psychic’s late night program. He is boyishly handsome, very entertaining and clearly worth every dime his audience shells out, except he is clearly not communicating with scores of dead departed souls. He’s all show biz.
The grieving mother on the news and information program wasn’t laughing, though. She believed. And why not? This was not an entertainment program; this was morning news and she was being interviewed by a television newscaster. The slick young psychic explained with great seriousness that he was inviting her to his exclusive seminar in Las Vegas later this month in hope that her son’s energy would appear. Las Vegas? Why couldn’t the son’s energy arrive right then and there?
The grieving woman was overcome with gratitude. “I believe,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks, “I love you so much.” She was interrupted by the newscaster holding up a book. The psychic had just written a guide available for purchase on Amazon.com to teach everyone how to speak with the dead themselves if they couldn’t afford his very pricey seminars. How thoughtful.
Did the television journalist newscaster question this claim of speaking to dead people? No. Was this news? Information? Exploitation? Clever marketing? Self-aggrandizement? Show business? All of the above? I still don’t know. I’m still reeling.
What I learned from this spectacle is that it is so easy to follow those among us who aren’t what they seem but are smart enough to convince us otherwise. It’s why we admire actors and actresses, but they’ve got an excuse. That’s what they’re supposed to do. Unfortunately, it also explains Jayson Blair, the search for weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, why Monica Lewinsky has her own television program and Bill Bennett shoving $8 million down a slot machine without bothering to tell his wife. I’m going to have to stop writing now because my dead mother’s energy is coming through.
The only things, and I mean the only things, the dead people ever communicate to this psychic are minor variations of: “I’m all right.” “I’m here with Aunt Sadie.” “I love you.” “I see you.” Once these four items of information are expressed, there is one more: “His/Her energy is pulling back now.” My sisters and I often mimic his “readings.” Is there an “S” name. Is it my father? Yes, that must be it. It’s your father. He says, he’s all right. Or our mother would report “I’m here with Grandma,” or our much loved pugs would tell us “We’re being taken care of by your mom and dad,” generating paroxysms of laughter that leaves us gasping for breathe.
I know something about dead people. They don't come back to have conversations. I was orphaned at 8 years old. My sisters and I, now in our 50s, still speculate on how different our lives would have been if our parents had lived, or if they’re still around somewhere, anywhere. As a former flower child trying to hang onto an open mind, I had often watched this psychic’s late night program. He is boyishly handsome, very entertaining and clearly worth every dime his audience shells out, except he is clearly not communicating with scores of dead departed souls. He’s all show biz.
The grieving mother on the news and information program wasn’t laughing, though. She believed. And why not? This was not an entertainment program; this was morning news and she was being interviewed by a television newscaster. The slick young psychic explained with great seriousness that he was inviting her to his exclusive seminar in Las Vegas later this month in hope that her son’s energy would appear. Las Vegas? Why couldn’t the son’s energy arrive right then and there?
The grieving woman was overcome with gratitude. “I believe,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks, “I love you so much.” She was interrupted by the newscaster holding up a book. The psychic had just written a guide available for purchase on Amazon.com to teach everyone how to speak with the dead themselves if they couldn’t afford his very pricey seminars. How thoughtful.
Did the television journalist newscaster question this claim of speaking to dead people? No. Was this news? Information? Exploitation? Clever marketing? Self-aggrandizement? Show business? All of the above? I still don’t know. I’m still reeling.
What I learned from this spectacle is that it is so easy to follow those among us who aren’t what they seem but are smart enough to convince us otherwise. It’s why we admire actors and actresses, but they’ve got an excuse. That’s what they’re supposed to do. Unfortunately, it also explains Jayson Blair, the search for weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, why Monica Lewinsky has her own television program and Bill Bennett shoving $8 million down a slot machine without bothering to tell his wife. I’m going to have to stop writing now because my dead mother’s energy is coming through.
posted by Ambimom at 7:14 PM
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