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What’s an Accidental Psychic?

February 14, 2011

An accidental psychic is what nearly everyone is.  Some folks know they are psychic and know how to make it work for them.  The rest are accidentally psychic, or intuitive as some call it.  Let me ask you this.  What use is being psychic if you can’t make it practical in your life?  Not much good, is it?  It doesn’t even make good parlor tricks if you can’t make it work for you when you want it to work.

Yeah, there are some who pretend they are psychic but they don’t really think they are.  They pretend it so that they can tell gullible people what the people want to hear.  The sad part of this is that the ones who are pretending really ARE psychic…and so are the people that go to them.  It’s just that they don’t know how to make it practical.  Fortunately for us, a number of lightworkers (people who work with energy for healing…people, events, the planet) have arrived on the scene and are doing considerable good in the areas of healing, teaching, encouraging people to explore their own potential.

As a very wise man once said to me, “You are what you think, not what you think you are.”  This means our thoughts control us.  But who controls our thoughts?  If we can attune our thoughts to the highest possible source, whatever we conceive that source to be, then we can start being the success in life that we were born to be.

"...the most glorious lights..." © Yasushi Tanikado |

Maybe I should start at the beginning.  Or what I remember as the beginning.  My father was a federal game warden for Wood Buffalo Park in the Northwest Territories (now called Nunavit) in Canada.  It was an isolated post, 52 miles away from the nearest town, and our only neighbours were buffalo, wolves, antelope, and squirrels.  I was five years old.  I had no one to play with, except my little black part-husky puppy which I named Ruffy.

My dad was often away in the Park, doing the things that game wardens do, which left Mom and me alone in the big house by ourselves.  We had a wood stove, a wood furnace, an outhouse in the summer (and a chemical toilet in the basement in the winter).  We had a Delco plant in the summer for electricity and Coleman gas lamps in the winter.  At 50 to 70 below 0 (Fahrenheit) in the winter, everything outside froze solid.  It may sound glamorous and rustic now, but to me it was just a lot of hard work.  Dad (or Mom when Dad was away) would chop wood for the fires, and I would throw them down into the basement, then stack them inside.  The adults would chop through a few feet of ice at the river in the winter to haul in water for drinking and cooking.  We would melt tubfuls of snow for a bath. 

Mom was busy all day long, cooking, cleaning…teaching me my lessons from the material sent by the Dept. of Education.  But mostly I was alone.  I had a tremendous imagination and invented playmates (or so I thought).  They were very real to me, and I loved them…all seven of them.  We would play ring-around-the-rosy and hide-and-seek.  It was great fun.  When I told Mom about my playmates, she was wise enough to not tell me I was crazy; she simply smiled, nodded her head, and murmured, “That’s nice, dear.”

One night close to Christmas, I was restless in my bed.  I had a gable window that looked out into the frosty sky and I watched the stars twinkling.  Then I heard the most beautiful singing…like an angel choir.  For some reason, I thought of my grandmother thousands of miles away, and I wished she was there.  As the singing continued, the sky lit up with the most glorious colours–like one of my toy kaleidoscopes.  I breathed it all in, enchanted by the display, watching and listening until I finally fell asleep.

The next morning, when I came downstairs I told my mom a little crossly, “You and Dad had the two-way radio up too loud last night.  I could hear the singing all night long.  Mom gave me a strange look.

“The radio has been broken for a couple of days, dear.  Dad’s bringing the parts to fix it when he comes back from town.”

I told her about the bright lights as well, but she just brushed them off as the Northern Lights.  I wasn’t convinced, but didn’t think too much about it then.

Dad got back in time for Christmas, but it was an unusually somber time.  It seemed hard to get the fun and laughter going that year, but I guessed it was because we were missing my grandparents and the abundant Christmases we had together.  Christmas Day came and went and Boxing Day was so cold it couldn’t snow and I couldn’t go out and play with some of my new toys.  Dad was tinkering with the radio, and finally we heard the tinny crackling static and a man’s voice talking to Dad

 “It’s fixed, Marge,” he called to Mom, and we both went over to listen.  What we heard made Mom and I both cry.  My beloved grandmother had passed away three days ago.  Mom consoled me, Dad consoled Mom, and I hugged both of them.  After a while, Mom said to Dad, “Three days ago…that’s when Gail had that experience I told you about.”

That was the first inkling that I was psychic.  Well, it would have been an inkling if I had any idea what being psychic was.  It was just something that I thought happened to everyone and I didn’t think too much of it.  After all, I was five.

In the next article, I will tell you about how I died and what I saw.  Watch for it 🙂

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