Note: This is the introduction piece to my I-Search project, which several have requested that I post. I have also posted an edited version of the conclusion piece, as submitted for my final project grade. Thanks to all of you who have expressed an interest in my writing and who chose to follow along with my progress this semester.
As a child growing up in rural Ohio during the 1960’s, I suffered with an unusual affliction that caused the skin on my feet and ankles to swell and split apart. My mother, a troubled young woman with three children and five step-children, found a second job as a caretaker for an ailing, yet delightful old woman named Zola to help pay for the seemingly never-ending medical expenses. The two lonely women quickly became friends, relying upon one another for advice and comfort. As it became increasingly difficult for me to walk, Zola told my mother about a healer who was known to communicate with an Indian spirit to help people with health issues. Although the prospect scared my mother, she reluctantly agreed to a meeting to see if the strange woman could recommend something that would help.
My mother and I arrived at the healer’s home on a humid, hazy country morning. I had not slept well the prior evening, wondering how I would react when I got there. Would I be frightened? Would I laugh? The whole idea of a ghost being able to help me with my feet seemed pretty silly to me. Surely if I were a ghost, I reasoned, I would have better things to do than think about someone’s feet. I got out of the car, eyes scanning the secluded property to see if I could snatch a glimpse of a feathered headdress moving through the mist-shrouded trees. I felt something brush across my arm and jumped, falling backwards and yelping loudly. The healer stood before me, amusement lighting up her muddy brown eyes as she withdrew her hand from my arm and plucked a dangling cigarette from her lips. After introducing herself, she pointed to a small clearing with several rickety lawn chairs and asked my mother to wait there. Dropping the spent cigarette and adjusting the elastic top of her peasant blouse, the healer took my arm and helped me across the yard and into the house.
Once we were seated in her small, stuffy sunroom, she assured me that she knew of an ancient homeopathic remedy to soothe my wounds. She then asked if I would like to hear about my future. What ten-year-old wouldn’t say yes to that? Forgetting all about my feet for the moment, and not at all sure about what was going to happen next, I tried to ignore the fetid, musty smell of the chair cushions as she leaned forward and took my hands into hers. Her eyes rolled back into her head, lids fluttering rapidly. Speaking in a raspy whisper, she said that the Indian was speaking to her. Time stood still as she told me of many things, including my marriage at eighteen years old, my three children, and my becoming a sea captain and dying, at sea, when I was thirty-three. Coming out of her trance-like state, she swore me to secrecy about what had just occurred. I said little as my mother drove away from the small house, watching the woman through the car’s side mirror as she stared after us. None of her predictions came to pass: I have no children, avoided a trip to the altar when I was eighteen, and have lived well beyond my anticipated life expectancy. Ah well, at least the remedy she suggested for my feet worked beautifully. I am grateful for that, and for the life-long passion she ignited within me about the possibility of knowing the future.
My mother converted to Pentecostalism the following year. Shortly thereafter, she became convinced that there was something evil about Zola and her Wiccan beliefs in healing and prophecy. She quit both the job and their friendship. Ironically, she had chosen a religion that focuses heavily upon healing through the laying on of hands, and whose dogma espouses biblical prophecies as absolute truths, rather than as parables upon which to pattern life’s moral choices. Pentecostals also practice speaking-in-tongues and the related “gift of prophecy,” in which God grants to a select few the ability to interpret the spontaneous gibberish, and to occasionally divine future events. My mother insisted that my siblings and I join the church, attending services several time a week. The music was great — the cacophony of voices, tambourines, piano and organ would reach to the heavens in a deafening pitch. Inevitably, someone would break through the din by shouting out unintelligible grunts and syllables, which caused the crowd to go silent as they waited to see whom God would select to translate the message.
During the next few years, my mother became increasingly fanatical in her beliefs, enrolling us in Christian school and driving a wedge between normal society and us. My stepfather, realizing that she had replaced him with the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, left her to take up with her former best friend, whom she had also declared a sinner. As I grew older, my mother’s hypocrisy became increasingly apparent to me. I graduated at sixteen, immediately leaving Ohio and moving more than two thousand miles away to escape the insular, cult-like atmosphere of my mother’s world. I shunned the Pentecostal religion because I found its dogma to be frighteningly narrow-minded and judgmental towards anyone who did not share its beliefs. Still, this upbringing further whetted my curiosity about the possibility of accurately predicting the future. Was it really possible and, if so, from where does this knowledge come?
Doubting that Indian spirit guides held the monopoly on fortune telling, I began earnestly seeking many avenues of experience in the realm of the unknown. I learned to read tarot cards, slowly developing my skill in divining the “likely” future of those for whom I was reading. I explored runes, divination pendulums, and “Spirit-writing”, which is similar to freewriting in that one sits at a computer and types whatever comes into his/her head, non-stop, for at least ten minutes. I devoured books on the prophecies of Nostradamus; explored the intriguing life and works of Edgar Cayce; and spent countless hours attending churches that incorporate both prophecy and communication with the dead into their weekly services. Some of the messages I have received about my past and my future have been chillingly accurate, leaving me both fascinated about the source of this knowledge, and skeptical of those who might choose to use it to manipulate others through guilt, fear or awe.
I have often wondered if people are obsessed with knowing the future because they think that prophecies contain the answer to the meaning of, or purpose for, their lives. Perhaps they look to the future because they do not want to deal with their lives in the present. If life is a process of learning, and learning is often a hard process, then do people look to the future simply as a distraction from the work involved with life? Similarly, many people move through their lives in a mist of indecision, often choosing to stagnate in situations until circumstances force a change. If people found a way to know what the future holds for their lives, they would effectively remove the risks involved in making decisions. Unfortunately, this would also eliminate the opportunity to develop and demonstrate courage.
I believe that knowledge allows us to release fear. Following that line of thinking, people are often afraid of the unknown. What a relief it would be to know what the future holds. No anxiety… no worries… simply accepting the inevitable and shifting into auto-drive as we move through life. While that may seem initially appealing, wouldn’t it quickly become boring to always know in advance what was going to happen? The reality is that every decision is an act of blind faith, with potential outcomes either pleasing, or devastating, or somewhere in between. No wonder so many people want to know what their future holds. Wouldn’t it be great to know in advance if you were going to get that new job? Or, find true happiness in the eyes of that stranger staring at you from across the room?
From where does future knowledge come? Does it come from those who have passed on before us? Does it come from God (or Goddess), or the Greater Good, or the Collective Subconscious? Are some people “chosen” to have the gift of prophecy, or is it an innate ability shared by all mankind, but simply more fully developed in some than in others? So many questions, and there is likely no definitive way to answer them. Still, they say that life is about the journey rather than the destination. I suspect that this project will prove that to be correct, if nothing else.