I went to a psychic

Signs from the universe

Before I went to the psychic, I Googled him.
Which is funny, because if you tell someone you’re seeing a psychic, the first thing they ask is: Do you think he Googled you?

I get the suspicion. But if I was that worried about being taken advantage of, I probably wouldn’t be standing barefoot in a stranger’s living room trying to talk to the spirit world.

Seeing a psychic wasn’t something I ever pictured myself doing — not because I didn’t believe, but because I believed too much.
I wasn’t afraid it would be fake; I was afraid it would be real and that he’d say something awful I couldn’t ever unknow.

But lately I’d started to think the opposite.
Less What if he tells me something bad?, and more What if he tells me something good?
So I booked in.

What I wanted, of course, was a sentence that began, In August, you’ll get a phone call… and ended, …Netflix is adapting your book, and they want you in the writers’ room.

Instead, he told me to meditate.
(Honestly, everyone tells me to meditate — the psychic, the universe, my husband. I get it.)

We went outside to ‘ground into the earth,’ while a delivery van idled across the road. The psychic picked up — but never used — a deck of tarot cards, and asked me to channel a spirit and free-write. I gave it a go; nothing profound came out.

I felt like a total twit — and also, was completely on board.
What came through wasn’t clear, or strong, or obviously helpful.
But it didn’t feel like nothing either.
Just… unexpected, in a way that stuck.

unrelated — from my book The Girl Who Cried Bird

What’s interesting to me is how I would’ve written this five years ago. Back then, I would’ve played it for laughs. Me as the straight man, everyone else as the punchline.

That’s how it often starts with humour writing — you get to be the clever one in a room full of eccentrics (or idiots). It feels sharp and safe and a little smug.

But eventually — usually after offending your husband one too many times — you realise the joke should probably land on you.

You start wanting to honour other people’s sincerity —not because it’s ironic, but because you actually like it.

There’s something very cool about watching someone live close to their calling.
Even if you don’t fully understand it.

A few days after my session, I realised there’s actually a whole category of guidance, in life and writing, that sounds suspiciously like nothing.
‘Keep going.’ ‘Be patient.’ ‘Meditate.’
It’s the advice equivalent of a shrug: mild and vague and deeply unsatisfying.

But maybe it only sounds like nothing because it doesn’t make sense until after you’ve done it.

All this to say, I’ve meditated—Twice.
(I mean, not to brag.)

Bye for now,

Katherine

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