I saw today the headline and newsbyte of an article about how a psychic got it massively wrong regarding Amanda Berry's disappearance many years ago.
visited a psychic once. After much pleading, a friend finally succeeded in
dragging me to his mentalist's house in suburban Wilmington. When I walked in her home, I was confronted with a number of screaming children. Soon, a
diminutive, obese woman with bad hair came up to me. She was pleasant and handed me
her card. It had a lotus flower on it with the words "Kamala Shirley" in
red, cursive letters.
Shirley took me to her basement and sat me
down at a flimsy card table with illegible graffiti carved into its
vinyl covering. Taking a worn deck of regular playing cards, she began
asking me why I came to see her.
"Because my friend dragged me here," I said.
"Ah. Well, I hope you don't mind I use regular cards." As if I cared.
Presently, after much shuffling and random laying down of the battered cards, she told me I would meet a woman with long dark hair, get married and have many children.
I thanked her and went to sit in the car while my friend had his reading.
Today is the first day of spring here in Australia, or at least it is for many Aussies. Some Indigenous Australians celebrate a seasonal calendar that is organized according to the interaction of climate and the immediate environment.
For me, spring has always evoked an unusual blend of comfort and excitement. As a child, I saw the season as a herald of something new and intriguing, a time of undiscovered bike paths, spring calves and wildflowers, and more importantly, the end of the school year. It was as if the crocuses screamed an urgent and short-lived alarm, warning us all to live it up before we missed our chance.
Although my childhood is far, far behind me, my eagerness to enjoy spring is not.