Dating : The Power and Peril of Magical Thinking

I moved a few months ago from Montana, Big Sky country— to New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment. My newly-adopted state seems to be home to spiritual seekers of all types, and as a nonbeliever, I’m feeling a little over-whelmed. Even though, as a writer with strong powers of suggestion and a good imagination, my mind is full capable of following the trail of “what if…”

I can write an investigative piece on the rampant rise in suicide in the West, while listening to Youtube videos of my Twin Flame Tarot forecast for the month of June. I often check my horoscope for the day, week, or month, particularly when things in my life seem to be askew, but I have never bothered to have my natal chart done. I pride myself on moving through life with strong critical thinking skills. But when it comes to my love life, it seems I am only able to attract men with an unusually strong interest in the paranormal — things that go bump in the night or mysteriously change the outcome of the day.

My friend says, “maybe it’s the Universe’s way of encouraging you to be more open-minded.”

“I’m already open minded,” I tell her. But, I’ve recently considered updating my current screening questions on Match.com to include: 1) have you experienced alien abduction, 2) do you believe in time travel, and, 3) have you had a close, personal experience with any of the sixty or so representives of the Bigfoot family (Yeti, Sasquatch, etc.). In New Mexico, I may have to add a fourth, 4) do you believe that the current planetary chaos is being stabilized by three, quartz-lined shafts drilled deep into the earth, in three secret locations? I, for one, do not.

I’ve documented my many dating experiences with enthusiasts of the paranormal in an essay for Purple Clover, “My Magnetic Powers.”

But that essay, and the experiences that led to it, came before I headed a thousand miles south to the land of the Anasazi and Roswell.

In my six decades on this planet, I have learned to trust what I can see with my own eyes or hear from a trusted friend. Still, I know that in even the most ordinary life, certain events occur which defy explanation. As a nurse taking care of the dying, I’ve experienced unusual events too. Mostly, I’ve observed that powerful emotions, especially love, sometimes appear to make the impossible possible. I’ll recount one of my earliest experiences of “seeing” something I could not possibly see, and knowing it to be truth:

Two weeks before my nineteenth birthday, I am sleeping soundly in my crowded dorm room at the University Colorado. Night still clings to the upraised sandstone of the Flatirons, which loom protectively over the city. I’m in the bottom bunk, covered by the soft, patchwork quilt my Grandmother made me, while my roommate Kathleen snores softly above my head.

In my dreams, I am suddenly transported to a dim room with a strange, turquoise light. I can’t say whether the walls are painted this hue, or if it’s the color of the fleece blanket covering the lump in the bed. I hear a phone ringing…and ringing. Then I see, even in the low light, the figure of my first love. I sense that neither of us are really awake yet, but someone has to answer the phone…

Laying on his stomach, he flails his arm clumsily toward the nightstand. He grabs the receiver and holds it briefly to his ear; and then he sits up, swings his bare feet over the edge of the bed, and rests them on the arctic-cold floor. He turns on the small bedside lamp, which provides just enough light for me to see the next scene of this movie playing inside my head. The call is short. He hangs up the phone, rests his elbows on his naked knees, grabs his head with both hands and erupts in gut-wrenching sobs. Behind him, through the window behind the bed, I can see a flat, snow-covered landscape still shrouded in darkness.

We are both wide awake now…but the phone is still ringing…here in my dorm room. I swing my own bare feet over the edge of the bed, walk two steps across the linoleum tile, pick up the receiver and hold it to my ear. On the phone is my mother, calling me before six o’clock on a Saturday morning. Outside, dawn is just making its presence known.

“I have some terrible news,” my mother says gently. And she goes on to tell me that the brother of my first love has just been killed in a car accident — during the night. As the dawn chorus gets into full swing, I hang up the phone and begin to cry.

Not long after I moved to Colorado to begin my new life, my first love moved to Anchorage, where the time zone is two hours behind Mountain Standard Time. And, although I’ve never actually been north or west of the state of Colorado, I believe I’ve just had the unusual experience of witnessing my loves real-time reaction to the news of his brother’s death.

I also knew I was pregnant, and exactly who was swimming around inside me long before the visit to the OB. (That little boy now has a beard.) But this “remote-viewing” ability is rare and too hit-and-miss to for reliability. I’ve certainly never had the inclination to train myself to “see” in this way, preferring to stay in my own time zone.

Last year I attended an alternative health fair on the University of Montana campus one rainy spring day. There was a long line for chair massages, so I paid $15 for a psychic reading — everyone needs to make a living. A perfectly normal-appearing woman roughly my age grasped both of my hands in hers and got very quiet. She asked me nothing, and I revealed nothing.

After a minute, not longer, she looked up and said, “I see you as a child. You are not terribly happy. You are lonely. And then, everything changes. I see dozens of horses, running free, and you are happier than you have ever been. Tell me about that. Does it mean anything?”

And I do.

I was the youngest of five children of a single mother, and it was exactly as she described. I was not terribly happy. I was not just lonely, but alone. My mother worked full-time, and my older siblings had little interest in taking responsibility for me. And, understandably, they were all still reeling from the sudden departure of our father.

I read a lot, was cared for my neighboring families, and dreamed about horses. In the sixth grade, coincidentally a time when so many young girls are horse-crazy, everything changed: I met a new friend whose family owned a riding stable. Soon, I was spending all of my free time there, surrounded by horses, good friends, and the numerous interesting people who came to ride. I found a place, a home, inclusion — and everything became better.

I do believe there are certain people who possess special senses, and some of them have learned to tap into these senses. But, I believe these people are human beings like you and me, with no special connection to the Divine or to any God-like representatives from advanced civilizations in the outer solar system.

During my long stretch of packing, cleaning, moving, and settling into my New Mexican home, I relied on Netflix as background entertainment. I’d read the books, written by Diana Gabaldon, and was excited to watch “Outlander.” I thought the series was well done. And, really, who wouldn’t want to be distracted from mountains of bubble-wrap and packing tape by spending five minutes as a voyeur watching Jamie Fraser and Claire (Beecham) Fraser make love in the Scottish countryside? But, as much as I enjoyed this experience, it did not make me believe in time travel. I’m quite sure that the only outcome from hurling my body at a standing stone would be serious injury to my nose and orbital bones, and a strong likelihood of a grade 2 concussion.

My rational stance doesn’t mean that I haven’t had strangely detailed dreams of living in another time. Haven’t we all? I’ve always had an uncanny ability to learn to recognize, harvest, and preserve wild plants — and, like Clair Beecham, I’m a healer and a nurse. But these abilities, combined with my occasional prophetic dreams, do not mean that I was once a wise woman, a healer, or a witch in another life — or that I’m one in this life. To draw that conclusion would be to move into the territory of magical thinking.

The term “magical thinking” describes the belief that certain unrelated actions or events have a causal relationship, without plausible explanation.

Alex Lickerman MD has written about magical thinking, “Perhaps…a more nuanced definition of magical thinking would be believing in things more strongly than either evidence or experience justifies.”

It’s true that all human beings view reality through their own subjective experiences, and this is impossible to escape. It often boils down to what we want to believe is true, and sometimes, what we feel “should” be true.

Dr. Lickerman suggests that the best we can do is to employ a “constant, well-balanced degree of healthy skepticism about everything.” But, then, we’re no fun at a dinner party, in a crowd of believers, on a variety of Match.com dates in the Land of Enchantment.

But here’s something I do believe: a paradigm shift in one’s mind can lead to experiencing life, and those around us, differently — and this is not magical thinking. It’s evolution. It’s becoming woke. And if evolving and becoming woke allow us to see ourselves and others in a different light, one that leads to healing, so be it. It’s a conscious reality. It’s acting with intention. It’s a powerful form of mindfulness. It’s not magical thinking.

I think about the power of magical thinking in political myths, such as the child prostitution ring being run out of the basement of a DC pizza parlor that has no basement, the many myths perpetrated by the current administration, and the terrible conspiracy theories perpetuated by detestable talk show hosts of every stripe. As a society, we are severely lacking in critical thinking ability.

And I fight against magical thinking in my own life. I don’t go on second dates with anyone who professes a powerful belief in the occult, or who sends me pictures of clouds miraculously shaped like angels. Call me a cynic, if you will.

But then, one day, a friend shows me a credible photo of a UFO shot from a campground in one of New Mexico’s nearby National Monuments. I can almost buy it — until I ask him, “why is it that you seem to see so many UFOs?”

And he answers, matter-of-factly, “well, they don’t show themselves to just anybody. They can communicate and sense telepathically, and they only show themselves to those who are ready. Those who believe.” And this, my dear, new friend, is magical thinking. It implies that my friend is doing something, or possesses some quality, which allows him to bring about this occurrence. It’s magical thinking. And I don’t buy it.

References:

Alex Lickerman M.D. https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/happiness-in-world/200911/magical-thinking

https://www.goodtherapy.org/blog/psychpedia/magical-thinking

American Psychological Association. APA concise dictionary of psychology. Washington, DC: American Psychological Association, 2009. Print.