Cover image for Psychic diaries : connecting with who you are, why you're here, and what lies beyond
Title:
Psychic diaries : connecting with who you are, why you're here, and what lies beyond
Author:
Moskowitz-Mateu, Lysa.
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
New York : Harper Entertainment, [2003]

©2003
Physical Description:
xvi, 326 pages : illustrations ; 24 cm
Language:
English
Personal Subject:
ISBN:
9780060559663
Format :
Book

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BF1283.M66 A3 2003 Adult Non-Fiction Non-Fiction Area
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Summary

Summary

"She's dead." I am jumpy. Sweating. Scrambling for thoughts. My body is shaking. I move closer to the TV to get a good look at her face. "Yes. She is definitely dead." What would you do if the person you loved most in the world kissed you good-bye one morning and then never came home? When someone we love suddenly dies, none of that other "stuff" matters. It doesn't matter that our house is a mess or work is hectic or the deal fell through or "they" didn't call. Death awakens us. It sweeps us off our feet, knocks us to the ground, and reminds us of what's truly important. But Psychic Diaries is not about death. It's about life -- about learning how to say good-bye to one form of life and hello to another, about connecting with the dead to bring inspiration and insight to the living, about moving forward when everything inside of us wants to stop, about pushing past self-imposed limits and finding out what we're made of when life tests us to the core. When we're kids, we listen to our inner voice without hesitation. But as we get older, that voice gets quieter and quieter until it seemingly disappears. Our journey is about reclaiming that voice, about listening to what it has to say and allowing it to be heard. We all want to live a life that matters, one at which we can look back and say, "I'm really proud of myself. I lived, I loved, and I left something of value behind." Psychic Diaries takes you on an amazing journey to answer questions you never thought could be answered, revealing astonishing insights and important life lessons from the spirits, the people for whom they came, and the extraordinary medium in the middle.


Excerpts

Excerpts

Psychic Diaries Connecting with Who You Are, Why You're Here, and What Lies Beyond Growing Up Normal The first time I saw a dead body I was seven years old. It was sprawled out on the beach, like a whale, in Acapulco, Mexico. A group of people had gathered around this immense object that had washed ashore. I wiggled my way to the center of the crowd and there he was -- a naked man -- lying on his stomach -- three hundred pounds of solid flesh. My dad quickly yanked me away. It was an automatic reaction, an irrational fear of what might happen if I came too close, as if the man might suddenly wake up, as if that would be a bad thing. I managed to break free from my father to get close enough to touch this man's flesh. It felt like rubber. Then, I heard it: the sound one hears when confronted with death -- a scream so loud, so piercing, more like a sick animal than a human voice. It showed me this man wasn't just a spectacle. He was a father, a husband, a brother, a son. His entire family came running toward the shore, shrieking with pain, cursing at the sky, falling into one another's arms, collapsing with grief. I became paralyzed. I watched as his mother slapped his hands, yelling, demanding him to wake up! When he didn't, she cursed God, cursed the voyeurs of her pain, and then she did the most awful thing I have ever seen -- she ripped off her shirt and went charging into the ocean shouting, "Take me, God! Take me now! Take me, you bastard!" People didn't seem shocked when she ripped off her shirt, or when she ran toward the ocean, but when she called God a bastard, that shocked the hell out of them. Not me. I didn't recoil from this woman's uncontrollable display of grief. I ran with her. She looked at me, tears rolling down her cheeks, shaking her head at the unfairness of it all. I must have done something because the only thing I remember is her smile -- this slow smile that crept up the edges of her lips and spread outward. A smile filled with tenderness and pain. "Your son won't leave you. He'll always be around." I said these words without opening my mouth. She nodded and smiled as her husband wrapped a towel around her. Her eyes never left mine. Not as she hugged her family. Not as paramedics carted her son away. We stared at each other -- two souls who meet for only a moment and connect on a level that comes when we are fully present for another human being. At age seven, I knew how to do this really well -- to be there for someone without having to stop their pain or put a lid on what they were feeling. As I got older and more protective, I became less comfortable with being and more comfortable with doing. Then, when someone was in pain, I had to fix it. So, at the ripe old age of nine, I made my new post in life official. I became the Dear Abby of my third grade class. Every Friday, a group of girls would write down their problems and put them in my cubby at school. Over the weekend, I would ponder how to help Diane get over a crush on our teacher, or how to help Kerry deal with her parents. At age ten, I fell in love for the first time with a boy named Jimmy Delmonte. His dark hair, almond eyes, and rugged body were enough to make me want to quit third grade and run off with him forever. Every Wednesday, he'd come to my house and we'd sneak down to my basement where, between eating oatmeal cookies and drinking chocolate milk, we'd tell each other scary stories and stare into each other's eyes. On my birthday, Jimmy presented me with a heart pendant, told me he loved me, and promised we'd be together forever. Forever lasted approximately sixty-four days. "I need to be free to explore my options," I told him. "It's not about you, Jimmy. I've gotta get focused on what I want to do with my life." I was a serious kid with serious goals. I told my dad: "When I'm older, I'm going to live in California on the beach, drive a Porsche 911, marry a man with brown hair, have a little boy, and leave a mark on the world bigger than Freud." I knew about Sigmund Freud because my mom took me to enlightenment courses where people cried over stuff that happened to them when they were young. The first seminar was called EST. It took place in a big room in New York City. I was thirteen. All I knew was they didn't let you leave the room to pee. This bothered me because I had to pee a lot. Not every five minutes a lot, but being restricted felt like torture. We also couldn't snack between meals. Not a piece of gum. Not a soda. Not a sucking candy. Only water. Nothing else. Oh, and once you committed to staying for the weekend, you couldn't leave. They didn't lock you in or anything, but you know how uncomfortable it feels when you get up in the middle of a lecture to leave? Well, add to that having the instructor shout what a loser and coward you are if you go. "What are the benefits of doing this course?" I ask my mom. "Happiness," she tells me. "Inner peace." "You took the course, right, Mom?" "You know I did." "Does it only work on some people?" "Don't be a smart ass." "I'm serious. Are you a portrait of happiness and peace?" "Happiness is a process, not a permanent state." "How do you know?" "Because I've never permanently experienced happiness. It comes and goes. The key is to make sure it comes more than it goes." So there it was: The beginning of a belief system that claimed happiness was something outside of me; it came and went, just like the mailman, just like nice weather. Happiness was something to be found not created. It existed when everything was exactly the way I wanted it to be. It would take fifteen years before a wise sage by the name of David Adams, age five, would answer a question that would forever change my life. We'd be sitting together, waiting for his mom to pick him up from the karate school my future husband, Satori, and I would own. I would turn to him and ask, "David, what is the meaning of life?" He would look at me, shaking his little blond head with disgust, as if I'd just asked a question to which the answer is painfully obvious. "To be happy," he'd say, raising his eyebrows. Of course, finding that answer far too simplistic, I would repeat the question. "No, really, David, tell me. What is the meaning of life?" He'd smack his tiny hand against his forehead, completely flabbergasted that we adults just didn't get it, and he'd repeat, slowly, as if comprehension were my problem. "The meaning of life is to BE happy. Just BE happy now, ya get it?" I did get it, for glimpses at a time: When I was riding the train to New York City eating Chicken McNuggets and reading the latest Betty and Veronica comic book. When I entered acting class on Saturday morning and the students cheered because I was there. When my brother and I put Jell-O in our hair and made funky hairstyles, laughing hysterically in the mirror. Happiness. When it would come, I would try to hang on to it. Psychic Diaries Connecting with Who You Are, Why You're Here, and What Lies Beyond . Copyright © by Lysa Mateu. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Psychic Diaries: Connecting with Who You Are, Why You're Here, and What Lies Beyond by Lysa Mateu All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.