On this day of Thanksgiving, I thought I’d add a thankful story of inspiration. I know, you probably imagine something profound, well maybe.

The Nyack Homeless Project collects coats, hats, gloves, new socks and toiletries and boxed and canned foods for 8500 people in need, especially children in over 35 programs/places/shelters so they are warm and fed during cold winter months. nyackhp.org

But the story begins…  while collecting boxed and canned foods one year, volunteers inadvertently accepted two fresh turkey donations at a supermarket… may I emphasize FRESH TURKEYS! and no one knew.  The donated storage space was filling with bags of boxed/canned food and warm clothing. It was near the end of the Winter Drive when volunteers began to smell a strange odor. Not exactly strange- more like rancid, sickening, rotting. Hidden somewhere among hundreds of grocery bags waiting to be sorted for direct distribution,were two defrosted turkeys- souls already gone, by the way- smelling their way toward destiny.

The smell became so bad, no one wanted to enter the space. So we found our finest human scent -finder volunteer- we really should lend him to airports -who  wandered the rooms filled with piles of grocery bags disguising what food they held inside. It took him several hunts and smells until he discovered the suspicious turkeys deep in the mix. We gave them a thoughtful burial and then de-fumigated the space so we could have it donated again!

None of the food was contaminated, and all were delivered on time. So on this day of Thanks Giving…be thankful for who you are, what you’ve accomplished, how and who you love… and make a difference… payback is rich.




So although this didn’t happen ON Halloween… it is a fitting Halloween Story. And if you lived through it, you’d think so too.

It was a cold wintry night. Fierce winds were blowing, heavy snow was falling, visibility was near zero and the sky was fitfully black. All of my family filled with fright, were tucked in our warm beds trying to sleep. Every sound, every shaking window, settling of the house made us jump. There was an escaped murderer on the loose from jail and he was roaming our neighborhood. My father and mother slept with a baseball bat, their only weapon near the side of their bed.

Around midnight, while the wild winds were blowing snow in drifts against cars, covering roads, creating snow blindness our doorbell rang. With a collective gasp we sat up in our beds, frozen with fear. The doorbell rang again. There were no cell phones then, no way of rushing into a kitchen with the only phone in the house to call for help.

We could hear my father’s bed creak and his footsteps as he walked from his bedroom. Peeking from behind our bedroom doors we watched him move to the front door, bat in hand in the silence of the wintry night. What would this man do to us? Tie us up? Rape us? Beat us? Kill us? Unspoken violent thoughts rushed through our young minds as my mother stood shaking in the bedroom doorway.

We watched my father put one hand on the doorknob, the other wrapped around the baseball bat. Slowly with bat raised, he opened the door to the cold ready to attack if attacked. Silently we held our breath.

There on the snowy step stood a young boy, hardly dressed for winter. He was no one we recognized from the neighborhood or our school or anywhere. He looked up at my father and innocently asked him if he would like to buy some candy. At midnight? In the snow? With no car or car tracks up our street? My father checked out the area around him to see if someone else – an escaped murderer might lurking in the dark. No one was there.

My father asked him what was he doing out so late? Selling candy, he said. None of this made any sense. My father told him it was dangerous to be outside in the snow and right now, he added trying not to totally alarm the young boy still holding his box of candy. He told him to go home.

The young boy turned and left before my father could invite him inside, or call his parents. He simply disappeared in the blinding snow. With bat in hand, my father searched for him for a short while until he was too cold to stay outside any longer. There was no trace of footsteps or the boy.

He finally closed the door behind him and entered the warm house again. He could not answer any of our questions about the boy- or where he went or about his safety. Maybe his parents parked down the street and couldn’t drive up the hill near our house because of the snow. Maybe the whistling wind quickly blew snow to cover his footsteps. My father realized when he opened the front door to the boy, it wasn’t truly locked at all. He quickly locked it, checked the lock and returned to his bedroom with bat beside him.

Was the boy real … Or maybe just a visible reminder to us to lock our door against danger. The murderer was apprehended the next morning.





Since it is the end of summer… alas, I thought I’d tell this story….

I’ve been on boats and love the water, but never experienced sailing. When offered to go for a sail on a friend’s sailboat, I jumped at the chance. However, our first mate wasn’t the best sailor around.

I quickly settled  onto his little sailboat, eager to learn how to sail. Once the motor took us down river, he turned it off and we waited as I watched him adjust the sails to catch the wind. We waited and waited while we watched other sailboats doing figure eights and sailing on  winds up and down the waterway.

Behind us, there loomed an old anchored huge steel barge. Were we drifting closer? I tried to trust my sailor and ignore the barge. Are you sure we’re not drifting closer? Trust me, he reminded. Hmmm. I am psychic.

It was growing dark and other boats were disappearing down river. Finally my trusted sailor announced that if we didn’t get back to the marina in the next half hour, it would close and we wouldn’t be able to get to our car to leave.

The dark? The sailor? The river? The looming barge? No other way home?

He tried to start the motor. It wouldn’t start. The shadow of the barge seemed to grow closer and larger . He tried the motor again. It sounded like a bad lawnmower rather than our ticket home. There was gas. It was smoking. We weren’t moving,  Only drifting closer to  that huge steel barge.

He was sweating.  His arm was hurting. He kept trying and trying. The engine was really smoking now, but not turning over. In desperation he finally turned to me and said,

“If you have any ‘Woo Woo’ power, you should use it now.”

‘Woo Woo’ power? Mojo? That’s how he was defining my talents?

Who cares? Images of crashing into the barge, stuck in the middle of the deep muddy river, wanting to asleep in my warm bed propelled me into action.

I placed my healing hands alongside the motor and focused on sending as much energy as I could muster  into it.

“Try it,” I ordered.

Who’s  your metaphysical sailor now?

He tried the motor again. Nothing happened.

I put my ‘trusted’ hands around it once more.

He tried the motor.

It sputtered, then started and within minutes propelled us away from that big barge and took us home just in time, ‘Woo Woo’ my…




So quite a few years ago I was driving down I 95 in my car on a steamy hot summer day – steamy like 100 degrees steamy – when my radiator started smoking. I never had that problem before so I freaked. Who wouldn’t freak when you’re driving at least 20 mph over the speed limit and your front hood suddenly starts smoking. I mean smokin’!

I pulled over to the side of the road, opened the front hood and then wondered what was the best thing to do? Should I just let it cool down? Try to unscrew the radiator cap? Leave the cap on? Will it explode? Call for help? I t stood by the side of the road trying to signal someone to stop and help me know what to do while air conditioned cars with windows rolled up zipped by me at record speed. Take of the cap off? Leave the cap on? I was stifling hot and so was my car. I had no idea. And no one was helping.

However my cool guides had better plans.

Within minutes a beat up old pick up truck with some ragtag workers, their gardening tools in the truck bed, pulled up ahead of me. Hey, any port in a steamy storm at least 30 miles from home. It turns out they were from my same town, even though we were driving in a different State. They started to look under my car hood when a State Trooper pulled up behind me. Suddenly my new hometown friends ran up the embankment away from my car, yelling down to me, “Tell him we’re getting water.”   Odd, but then this whole setup was odd. That was just the beginning.

Right behind the State Trooper, a huge commercial spring water truck pulled in. And as the Trooper walked up to me, the truck driver with a huge water bottle on his shoulder headed toward us. Seeing the situation was well in hand, the Trooper excused himself and the water truck guy started to fill my radiator with spring water.

Once the Trooper drove away, the ragtag garden guys joined us – seems they must have been drinking or something – and they quickly rigged some concoction to fix my fan with a paper clip. The water truck guy found out where I was going and offered to follow me back to my town since he was going in that direction. Chances of that? Slim to none.

So with the jerry-rigged paper clip fix, my radiator filled with water, the garden guys leading the way and the water truck guy behind me, my makeshift caravan drove back on the highway and over the bridge to safety. Of course I was instructed to turn my heat on, so, I found myself in my very own sauna rolling my way safely back home. And the excellent conclusion was that once I got my car to a mechanic, the new part cost $5.00. Well done, cool guides, well done.




I don’t know about you, but I’m not a big fan of bats. Something about them is probably intriguing, but not to me , not in my house- you get my drift?

Anyway, I’m not sure how it got inside, but while I was sitting on the couch one night, I finally noticed something that looked like a frog on my rug. What was a frog doing in my place and on my living room rug? Of course my ferocious felines in the room didn’t even notice it… until…it spread its wings and took flight. It was a bat! A black winged bat, and it was flying around all the rooms like a low flying drone. Terrified!

I managed to get the cats in a bedroom and closed the door, not knowing if the bat was rabid. Then I realized I was alone with a bat that could be rabid. Not a smart move. It continued to frantically fly around. I didn’t know what to do. The cats were crying and so was I. If I left that wouldn’t solve my problem. It was late at night so I couldn’t call anyone. I wasn’t about to sit at my computer and Google ‘how to get rid of a bat in your house’. I kept watching where it was so I wouldn’t be close to there.

Finally I did what any terrified resourceful psychic would do. I tried to telepathically communicate with it. I know you’re thinking, bats in my ‘brain’, but here’s how the rest of the evening went: I opened the back door onto the porch and waited until it flew into the living room where I was standing. My heart, of course was in my throat and my backup plan was to run out the door if was going to attack me.

So I started sending it a message- ‘Go to the door.’ I kept repeating the words as if my life depended on it. Actually in that moment I thought it did. I envisioned bat teeth piercing my skin and then rabies shots or whatever. I kept sending the message.

Within minutes the bat flew to the corner living room window right next to the open door and settled there. Great. How was I supposed to know that bats are literal? I took a breath, glad to still be breathing and telepathically sent a new message – ‘Go OUT the door’. I kept repeating the message in my mind, hoping the bat would get it. It did get the first one? Nothing. We were at a standoff. At least it wasn’t flying toward me. Small victories.

I waited. Then the bat opened its wings, left the window and flew once around the living room. I of course ducked into the kitchen, but not before I saw it fly out the open door. I ran to the door and locked it. Like the bat was going to open an unlocked door. I didn’t want to know if it was flying around the porch in the dark. I  let the cats out of the bedroom- they obviously didn’t understand bat language and had no clue why they were in lockdown, but I was too tired to even try to communicate, so I kept all the lights on and went to sleep, knowing there was psychic bat out there that was just as happy to be free.




Here’s how I bought one of my cars.

My old car was…. well, old, very old. I wanted to buy a new car this time and not someone else’s discarded motor headache. I knew exactly which car I wanted, so after getting grilled by friends on how to talk down car salesmen, I decided to bite the bullet and go for it.

I pulled up to the dealership, got out of my old car, and instantly forgot everything my friends told me by the time I opened the showroom door. I walked past a few salesmen gathered together and headed toward ‘my car’ in the showroom. One of the salesmen smiled and said, “You look like an artist.” Not knowing if that was an inside slight or a ploy to score money, I kept walking. Any salesman in his right bargaining mind should know that artists never have money. Artists know that. So I did what any artist would do, I ignored him and examined the model I came to see. After asking another salesman to test drive it with me, I told him I’d think about it and started for the door.

As I crossed the showroom refrains from my friends repeated like bad mantras in my head – “If they suggest a price. Talk them down.” “Stand firm on your offer.” I couldn’t remember the rest as I passed the same gathering of salesmen near the front door. Don’t these guys ever work?

“Aren’t you going to buy your car today?” the same salesman asked.

Offended by his aggressiveness, and not wanting to go through the ritual my friends ingrained in my head, I kept moving. He kept talking.

“What kind of art do you create?” he asked. Did I say I was an artist? My head was buzzed. This guy wasn’t giving up.

“I’m a writer,” I politely answered as I put my hand on the door.

“What do you write?” Was this guy hungry for a sale or just bored and persistent? There was a pregnant pause between us.

Trying not to sound too rude, lest I come back to buy my car, “Psychic books.” I said in a low voice and braced myself for laughter or a rude comment.

More silence.

“Are you a professional Psychic?” he loudly asked. I could see the other men looking to be anywhere but there.

“Yes,” I whispered. Did this man have no shame? He was a salesman I reminded myself. As this was quite a few years ago when the mere mention of the word ‘psychic’ called for expected harassment and humor from people, I pushed the door open hoping to be rid of this.

“Come with me,” he said holding the door closed. Was he going to hold me up for ridicule to all the salesmen in the wide showroom? While my brain was thinking of a smart reply, I followed him.

He hurried me to his desk away from the others and told me he was the dealership manager. He needed psychic help. He had to make an important personal decision in the coming weeks. Where was this going? Did he want a free Reading? Here and Now? Before I could open my mouth he told me that If I could give him a Reading in the next few days, he would get me the car I wanted at cost. He wasn’t kidding.

I read for him in my office. Two weeks later he switched to another dealership and called me. Not only did I get my car at cost, I bought it at a financially advantageous time according to his inside information. As I drove away from the dealership in my new car with sunroof, mud flaps, and an excellent speaker system, I realized just being an artistic Psychic had its perks.




So, I talk to dead people and other non-physical beings. I also offer information to help solve physical and emotional problems for every day physical living. I can sense when relationships will or won’t work. I rely on inner wisdom and celebrate Valentine’s Day as my favorite holiday. I’m not a magician. I’m not a witch. I’m just, as some old man just told me… a seer.

A few Sundays ago I went indoor swimming in a large pool with a hot tub, sauna and steam room- just the antidote to a cold winter evening. Forgetting to take off my three rings – a treasured Hopi band, a Mexican band, and my mother’s slender gold wedding band before leaving the locker room, I placed them in my flip flops before entering the pool and forgot about them. The pool area was busy with others who had the same idea. Until late that evening. After the pool was closed. I found my fingers were naked.

Deep inside me, I knew my rings would be found, but like any healthy human, my brain began to script many scenarios: Of course someone took them. They were swept unknowingly into the weekend trash. They fell into the pool or hot tub never to be found again. My gut wasn’t having it, but my body wasn’t happy.

I woke with a start at 6 AM. The pool opened at 5. My brain wanted to sleep. My gut wasn’t having it. So I pacified it by calling the place. Of course the lifeguard on duty could not locate any one of my rings. They were there. All three of them. ‘They’re gone,’ my brain whispered. The psychic in me had to find out for herself.

I promptly arrived at the pool fifteen minutes later and searched. One ring was easily found near the hot tub. Nothing else. My inner Geiger counter started ticking. That thin gold band could be so invisible on white tile floors and worse, could hardly be seen in deep chlorinated water. My gut wasn’t giving up. Slowly I stepped over cold tiles. Once and again. And again. Luckily no one was in the pool. I would find my rings. My brain was hungrily trying to convince me I was fooling myself. Let go. Earthly possessions. I was tired. I wanted to go back to sleep. And did I mention I had an important meeting later that day?

I continued along the tiles and there before me where I stepped before was the thin, worn gold band, the aged symbol of a nineteen year old that eloped against her parents’ wishes with my father. I placed the band alongside the Hopi ring on my finger. Keep going. One more ring left.

It was nowhere. I knew where I was when I took off those rings. Nowhere. How could that be? It was the largest and most colorful, but it was also, save for the silver, the color of the pool. I wasn’t giving up. The bored lifeguard had no clues. My brain was really sleepy now, but something told me as I walked the length of the pool for the last time to stop. And look down. There, balanced in the side drain where no one would look, where a burst of water from a passing swimmer, or a hose spray cleaning the tile floor above it was my ring, poised to dip into the deep water. I leaned over and retrieved it, happy to go home with my rings on my finger and rest a little before my meeting.

But, the story doesn’t end here. That would be too simple. A day later I heard from a San Franscisco friend vacationing in Hawaii that she just bought a pinkie ring that she immediately lost. And found near her bathtub. A special person let me know a day later that he just lost a favored ring that could not be replaced as it was bought in NorthWest Canada. Found! They say things come in three’s, although I never found out who ‘they’ are… hopefully ‘they’ are right.