Free Second Sight by Judith Orloff Page B

started doing it on my own, a private habit that felt completely natural. Not surprisingly, I relished this chance to work with plants more closely. From my abundance of plants at home, I carefully chose a few to use for the project: a creeping Charley, a geranium, a ficus, an African violet, and a wandering Jew. I got to know each of these plants so well that I began to think of them as friends.
    The first time I saw a Kirlian photograph of a plant, I was touched by its fragile beauty. It was even more beautiful than the human corona, which, in a black-and-white photo, shoots off the edge of a fingertip like the flame of a magnificent white fire. A Kirlian photograph of a single leaf reveals the details of its entire inner structure, each vein outlined by a border of tiny gray bubbles with a white speck in the middle, similar to the nucleus of a cell. When shot in color, these bubbles light up like a string of brilliant Christmas lights stretched out over the branches of a tree. The image is two-dimensional but appears to be in constant motion, contracting and expanding as though taking a breath. Filtering off the outer edges of the leaf is a radiant, purplish blue discharge, the intensity varying according to species and season.
    The theory behind Kirlian photography is that it records a subtle energy field that surrounds all forms of life as well as inanimate objects, energy not detectable by ordinary means. This field extends as far as a few feet or more beyond the body and is as much a part of us as our arms or our legs. Some psychics can see it or feel it but most people can't.
    The notion of energy fields sparked my interest and put into words something I had intuited for a long time. It explained why, as a child, within seconds of meeting someone I knew whether or not I liked them. This “knowing” wasn't about how nice a person was acting or what they looked like. Rather, it was a clear impression in my gut. At times I could almost sense invisible tendrils reaching out to me from a person that conveyed information about them. It would happen before we'd even exchanged a word. Some people just felt good; others didn't. I did not think to question myself until it bothered my mother when I made what she called “snap judgments” about her friends. She felt I wasn't giving them a chance, but I couldn't help it: What I felt was perfectly obvious to me. And later on, my initial impressions were often shown to be accurate.
    At the lab, wanting to prove myself to Thelma, I set to work determined that the plant project be perfect. The photographic technique I used was simple. Once inside the chamber, I would place a single leaf directly on top of a one-foot-square photographic plate and press a button. That was all there was to it. Once the picture was developed, it was done. I would take about ten separate photos of the front and back of each leaf, compare the results, then mount them in a notebook. My recordkeeping was meticulous. I never missed a week. At two o'clock on Tuesdays, I would carefully collect fresh leaves from my plants at home, seal them in envelopes, and bring them to UCLA. I would then organize them according to day and month, with each species having its own separate section. Kirlian photographs in color are breathtaking, but they were far too expensive for the lab's budget, so my plant notebook was primarily done in black and white.
    Doting on my plants, I felt like a mother watching her children grow, noticing every little thing. The days passed. I saw shifts. The leaves seemed to be bonded in some way, responding in unison to seasonal changes. During fall and winter, the energy fields around the leaves began to shrink, as though they were pulling into themselves. By April, a few tentacles of light would gradually extend beyond the body of each leaf, stretching out like the arms of someone who was awakening from a deep sleep. June produced the most dramatic changes when, suddenly, each leaf would bust