The Real Magic of Psychics

So few interactions give us unbridled permission to imagine

Six months ago at Café Gratitude in Venice, California — while deliberating between an “I Am Immortal” latte and an “I Am Stellar” blue smoothie — a thought popped into my head and I blurted it out.

“I’m going to stop wasting money on psychics.”

Across the table sat my friend and fellow psychotherapist Sara, with whom I often compared notes on therapists, healers, bodyworkers, psychics, and spiritual teachers. “Totally,” said Sara. “I really can’t hear another prophecy about the man who’s coming and the perfect family I’m going to have with him. I mean, I’m 60 for god’s sake. I’m going psychic-free for a year.”

A year? Suddenly I felt depressed. And trumped by Sara. Rising to her level of liberation would mean committing to being stuck with my feelings, and the indigestible unknown — 12 months without a download of glittering hope.

Of all the healing artists, psychics are the trickiest for me, simultaneously letting me imagine a brilliant future while triggering doubt about its likelihood. And then, of course, there are the false predictions.

The last psychic I’d seen kept telling me that my father back in England was about to die and to quickly tie up any loose ends in our…