A Psychic Confesses

I do not read religious works. I do not discuss my spiritual life with any religious leader or spiritual guide. Heck! I do not even go to a traditional church. Ritual makes me shudder.

My mood strikes if someone tries to 'convert' or 'save' me. Nothing makes me angry faster than someone else's butt in my spiritual life.

Oh, I believe in the Creator. God, Goddess, Allah, Jehovah, the Creator has a thousand names. I use 'the Creator' because the title covers all the bases and is almost poetic.

I'm not knocking religion or going to church. These things are important and desperately needed in the world of sad today.

But some of us prefer to walk the lonely road.

My solitary behavior has made me a mystery to my family. While the Bible occur around the Christmas tree I'd rather be alone in my hills.

I told my family I avoid their gatherings because I

sense their emotions intricate and even rip some of their thoughts in the air.

You should have seen their nervous expressions of guilt feelings after discovering that I was inadvertently intercepted.

As the psychic in a large family is stressful, to say the least, but can also cause outbreaks of cackling laughter. From me, that is.

But my parents make fun of my less pleasant reason and accuse me of making excuses to go out, being with the family or 'sharing' (another shudder). Other family members pay no mind and hope I'm even crazier than first suspected.

So my mood vapors and increased levels of stress.

The simple reason for my spiritual life is a taboo subject is because I prefer to keep my spiritual life between the Creator and me.

Go directly to the source, I say. Or sources in this case.

I confessed my reason for my relatives to defend itself. Members more uptight my resentment openly not to include the rest of the family in the spiritual side of my life.

You can choose your friends. You can not choose your relatives. I know you're nodding. Maybe a little 'laugh while you think of your family? Hmmm?

The old Spanish mission in California near my house is a small standard room. The room consists of white stucco walls dusty with age, a clay floor grooves, and a huge wooden desk. High in the wall on the right is a small window. The bench sits in front of the door, which overlooks the garden mission.

During Easter'm alone in this room and sit on the bench. Listening to the silence in this quiet room thinking of a sacrifice made by a brave man long ago. I never fail to cry.

I think the world and its difficulties, and I pray the sacrifice was not made in vain. I apologize for those who exercised whips, hammer and nails. One can not help but feel guilty.

I then leave the room to walk in the quiet beauty of the garden mission. By doing this, I thank the man for his sacrifice. Not a long speech or a prayer ritual.

Just a sincere "thank you" from deep inside me.

Where is the mystery in simply say 'Thank you'?