Psychic tells skeptic to bathe in ‘sacred space’

By IRENE HASKINS
Published Thursday, March 6, 2008

Remember when Dionne Warwick asked "Do You Know the Way to San Jose" so often she finally got her own TV show with the Psychic Friends Network so they could not only give her directions, but help other lost, desperate viewers with their problems? For only $3.99 a minute, one of the network’s 2,000 "psychics" would talk to you as long as it took to solve your problem and clean out your bank account.

One of the most popular "clairvoyants" of that time was Miss Cleo, a good-natured, always-smiling Jamaican woman who stole your heart right along with your money. My theory about Miss Cleo and all the other so-called "fortunetellers" is if they’re so good at knowing the future, how come they never strike gold or win the lottery? Most of all, how come Miss Cleo didn’t look into her own future and foretell she was going to be declared a fake and taken off the air?

From the time I first learned that if I stepped on a crack it wouldn’t break my mother’s back, I’ve been a skeptic when it comes to the occult, channeling, soothsaying, astrology and their ilk. I won’t call it out-and-out hogwash, but I’ve always detected a teensy barnyard odor to it. As far as I’m concerned, Shirley MacLaine has had one life, and this is it. After perusing a whole page of ads for fortunetellers, psychics, tarot card readers, etc., in one of the supermarket sleaze sheets, I was reminded of the one and only time I went to see one.

At the urging of several believers, I agreed to see a soothsayer who was in town doing private readings for a select few individuals as a favor to a friend she was visiting. I was one of the chosen; however, when I was told the "favor" was going to cost $50 - "just half her regular price," we were told - I almost backed out. Fifty dollars was a lot to pay for a load of hogwash. Nevertheless, I felt I owed it to myself to find out what it was like. It might even be fun. I’d try to keep an open mind, maybe learn something.

Karma Sue greeted me at the door and led me to a bright, sunlit room filled with spacey music and incense. She told me to sit down opposite her and take off my shoes so we could sit toes to toes. This was to help her feel my vibrations. I slipped off my shoes and, to my embarrassment, noticed a hole in my hose where my big toe was poking through. Would this invalidate my vibes?

We played footsies in silence for a few seconds, then she told me to rest my hands in my lap, palms up, and began my reading. Karma Sue immediately sensed oranges and yellows around me. Hmmm, probably the fruit salad I had for lunch, some of which had dribbled on my blouse. Doesn’t take a mind reader to figure that out.

"You are connected to your intuitive body, but you don’t like it." She hit the mark there, but after all, how many people like their body, intuitive or otherwise?

Then we moved to the astrology part of the reading. Fidgeting a little, Karma Sue widened her eyes, then asked in a hushed voice: "Oh, my, do you know where your sun is?"

"Sure," I said. "He’s at work at Shelter Insurance. He sits at a computer all day."

"No, your sun is in Capricorn. That’s very suspicious."

"Ohhh … that sun."

Ignoring my ignorance, she continued. "You are entering a power year, one of only two you’ll have in your lifetime. You had your first when you were around 30." She explained that during a power year, wonderful things happen to you. Darn, I’d already blown one power year and didn’t even know it.

After telling me that my moon was in Scorpio on its way to Gemini - I couldn’t help humming mentally "Do You Know the Way to Gemini" - she started flipping through pages of a thick, well-worn astrology book, then concluded I should keep a journal for the next two weeks, writing down all past hurts and gripes so as to release pent-up emotions. Then, on or about May 27, before the moon wanes, I should take a bath in a dark room - my "sacred space," she called it - and light a black candle. Then I should burn the journal in the candle flame. My hurt feelings would drift away in the smoke. Yeah, and my sacred space will probably be scorched, too.

To wind up my reading, I dropped three stones on a little rug six times. The way they landed meant something, which I could get translated by looking up the number 17 in the Chinese book of I Ching. Oh puh-LEASE. I can’t even figure out a Chinese menu. My patience was approaching Taurus (the bull) on its way to Libra (the scales), and I told her I didn’t have the slightest idea what she was talking about.

Her conclusion: Because I was such an unbelieving, uncooperative subject, she should have charged me full price.

My conclusion: The only new things I learned were that I should take a bath on May 27 with a black candle and that my new pantyhose had a hole in the toe.

I stand by my skepticism. If all this psychic stuff is real and not a lot of hooey, how come Dionne Warwick is still looking for the way to San Jose?