Judith, at fifty, feels that her life is irremediably stalled, and she is depressed. Although she has a secure job teaching English Literature at a university, she is the single mother of a son on the autistic spectrum who has been lurching through the school system, year by year. Buried under the surface of her life, is her longing to write, and her deep feelings for Brian, a man who taught her in a creative writing program, and with whom she has telepathic connection. When Judtih meets Rosetta Kempffer at a psychic fair, she doesn’t imagine that anything could change a life that seems so hopelessly stuck. Rosetta suggests Judith take a course from her in psychic healing, and although Judith is skeptical, she signs up, not expecting it to make a bit of difference. Yet, during the course, Judith learns not only techniques and awareness of healing, but also the truth of “things not seen with the bodily vision,” and the profound connection between teaching and healing.
“A Season Among Psychics by Elizabeth Greene, is a rollicking ride through the mystical realm. Original, wise, and wildly funny. A story to savour.”
—Helen Humphreys, author of The Reinvention of Love and The Evening Chorus
“A Season Among Psychics speaks of what cannot be easily spoken, but what is keenly felt in the mind and in the body. Intimate, endearing, and bold in its exploration of the consciousness mind and unconscious body, or love vision, Greene dares to ask the overwhelming question: who and what am I? Mystical and filled with the common magic of everyday, each moment in the book glows like a rare jewel. You’ll want to read this book many times: once for curiosity and story, twice for the courage to continue on our human journey, and a third time for the sheer joy of craft.”
—Kath MacLean, author of Kat Among the Tigers and Translating Air
When I was fifty and thought my life was over, I let my best friend, Claire, persuade me to attend a psychic fair. It was a bright blue January morning, forty below, the snow plowed into bobble-edged cliffs by the side of the road. Everything was frozen except for the plumes of exhaust from car engines, if they started. It was an insane time to go out. I could have made coffee and snuggled into the couch with a book, lavender shawl around my shoulders, black cats curled on the rug, fire burning in the fireplace. But Claire was my best friend, and I was ready by ten, dressed warmly, when she came for me in her sturdy aging Volvo, a leftover from her marriage.
Claire was maniacally punctual, and we were much too early. There was a sagging red ribbon across the entrance to the room where the fair was to be held. We sat in the hall on a discouraged vinyl couch and tried to pretend we weren’t already tired of waiting. We were sitting in the dark looking into a hall bright with light—promising forbidden knowledge.
“Look,” whispered Claire, “there’s one of them now.”
The woman looked like a middle-aged angel from the top of a prison Christmas tree—short, neat blonde hair, shading toward brass, with bangs that could have been cut from under a bowl, pristine white sweater, otherworldly light blue eyes. I introduced myself and Claire, with a confidence that was mostly assumed. Psychics seemed very glamorous to me. I thought of them as having the inner freedom of writers, artists, magicians, a freedom I had always longed for.
Luck is having what you want or being grateful for what you have.
I was twisted with discontent. Two years ago I’d been married to a colleague, had a tenured job, had a son, all things I’d wanted….
I’d never been married before so I couldn’t tell when a marriage needed more work to get through rough spots or if it was going bad.… I remembered reading a new advice columnist saying, “My marriage was no bed of roses.” But what marriage was? And who would want to sleep on a bed of roses with all those unexpected thorns?