Free Second Sight by Judith Orloff Page A

and lights going on and off. Just as the mind can affect our bodies, so too can it affect our environment. It was Barry's opinion that, for the most part, people are haunted, not houses. His theory was supported by the fact that when this family moved out of their home, the phenomena followed them. They, however—and others in similar situations—tend to be unwilling to accept the problem as a psychokinetic product of their own minds. If they did, they would be forced to take responsibility, to make the necessary steps to change. Most people who experience such disturbances, not surprisingly, would rather remain victims.
    The experiences in this house, and others like it, were invaluable. They forced me to sift through and identify the true authenticity in circumstances that I would normally write off as sensationalized. Most convincing was the information I psychically perceived. I didn't know if the energy I picked up in Culver City was a ghost, but I was sure it was real—there was a presence there. Even so, as Barry suggested, it might have simply been an extension of the family's angst. Imagine what anxiety would be like if it were magnified a thousandfold and took on an external life of its own. This is what I was sensing. Still, as a psychic, I was in virgin territory, feeling my way. Visually I never saw much as I worked with Barry, but I was beginning to discern presences. Step by step, I was being primed to accept that many different kinds of beings exist—spirits included, a reality I came to embrace fully later on. For the time being, I wanted to keep an open mind, to view new situations without prejudging, to leave room for all possibilities.
    This didn't mean that I was going to walk around with blinders on or ignore common sense. It's just that previously my psychic abilities had been discounted by well-meaning parents, teachers, and friends who were unwilling to accept what they couldn't understand. This had really hurt me. I was now determined not to repeat the same mistakes. I'd become so sensitive to people not listening to me while growing up, that I now made a special attempt to listen to others. There was nothing wrong with healthy skepticism, but I also sought to maintain a healthy sense of awe, and the humility to remember that there was much I did not know.
    Complete silence. I could easily have been in a space capsule orbiting a million miles away from earth. If I listened hard enough, I could almost hear the faint sound of blood pulsing through my body. I was glad I'd brought my sweater. The maintenance people had once again turned the air conditioning on way too high. It was getting chilly in here; I had goose bumps on my legs.
    Every Tuesday at four o'clock I would lock myself in the sensory-deprivation chamber and develop my Kirlian photographs. I've always had a touch of claustrophobia, so simply getting myself in there was a major accomplishment. The handle on the outside of the door, a big circular steel wheel that looked as if it belonged on a meat locker, had to be slammed shut with such force I was afraid it would never open up again. When the rubber lining inside the door hit the surrounding metallic frame, there was a horrible sucking sound. It felt frighteningly final. What if I were locked in there forever? Over time, I got used to it; the magic available within the place far outweighed my feats.
    Thelma had assigned me a plant experiment in which I would use Kirlian photography to monitor the seasonal changes of five specific plants over a period of a year. I had been attracted to plants as long as I could remember, and I surrounded myself with them at home. My boardwalk apartment in Venice was a one-room jungle with flowerpots everywhere; plants were hanging from ceiling hooks, draped over the bathtub's rim, and took up every inch of floor and window space. I did more than talk to and touch them; I communed with them, actually felt their spirits. Nobody taught me how. I just