Peeking Out From Under My Rock

Last month I really pushed myself to write. Every day I wrote. I also encountered any number of stress filled situations. If I started counting them I’d run out of fingers and start up my arm. But, I didn’t lose my cool…not much, anyway. I realized that I was pushing my buttons with the writing. I realized that as I pushed forward on something that I really wanted to do all the psychological issues that had been lying dormant waiting for the ideal opportunity to rise up and clamor for notice and recognition would realize that the time was right. Typically, it takes a lot for me to attend to my own psychological issues. Looking at it another way my higher self, in directing traffic, decided it was time for rush hour.

When the month was over I ran out of gas. I haven’t been blogging very much. It isn’t that I haven’t been writing. There are any number of entries that I made that as I looked at the finished product I decided to put them into my journal instead. It’s not really that they were any different from any other blog I’d done before the month of NaNoWriMo. Same mundane stuff. Nothing really significant. Just regular stuff. But, I didn’t feel that it belonged here. I didn’t get rid of the entries entirely, I just put it into my journal instead. Private. Buried. Not to see the light of day again. That’s how I am with my journals.

Maybe I just need to go with the flow here. I’m still probably reeling from November. Generally a stress filled time is what the holidays are for me. You’re supposed to be happy. You’re supposed to be full of excitement and being depressed is not allowed. I guess.

One of the guides just said to me, “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

The other day I was sitting quietly at work after lunch. I wasn’t reading anything. I’d taken off my glasses and closed my eyes for a couple of seconds. I was sitting at my desk, where I always sit for lunch. Suddenly, from out of the psychic mists came to me a person. A woman. But, she wasn’t real in the sense that she had been a person once upon a time, now passed on and with the Folk in Spirit I talk to. No, she was one of my characters. She was a person who would be in a book I would someday write.

I shuddered with awe. Tears came to my eyes. It was magic. It was a writer’s high and I wasn’t even writing. This was somebody I could get to know and eventually she would tell me her story and I would write it down. It was a pretty incredible experience. I said to her, “You’ll come back to me? We can talk? I can see what you look like?” She said, “Yes. I will come again.” And, that was it. I had to get back to work.

This is what it’s like being psychic.