Coming Out Of The Spiritual Closet With Jazz Hands Of Mercy

It's Quan Yin, bitchez!

It’s Quan Yin, bitchez!

I’ve written and rewritten this post so many times it’s redonk, and it’s still not where I want it to be, but  my 46th birthday is tomorrow, and it’s about damn time that I just spit it all out.

So here’s the gig. Since I was somewhere between two and three years old, I’ve: seen dead people, biofield/aura energy, and spirit beings, had premonitions and pre-cognitive dreams, and felt the presence of angels. I’ve doubted and agonized and tried to wish it all away. I’m a scientist-practitioner, fer Chrissakes. Ghosts are for crazy people and hysterics! The mind creates meaning out of ambiguous stimuli!  It sees what it wants!

Why share this now? Simple. The world is going to hell in a rickety, flaming, just pure nasty-assed shopping cart of fuckery, people. We’re systematically tearing the shit out of this poor planet’s resources and fighting endless wars over those same resources. Corporations are screwing us out of everything including the very existence of a middle class, and we’re too asleep or exhausted to notice or care, much less do anything about it. We are breathing and eating and drinking literal poison and wondering why so many people are unwell. Humanity is sorely in need of healing, repair, revision. We need the return of sacred, empathic, and intuitive ways of knowing. All this other stuff is just so much swingin’ dick competition, left-brained bullshit drama, and I’m sick of it.

So here I come, with my spiritual jazz hands, bursting out of what my witchy friends call the broom closet. Baby look – I’m even more idiosyncratic than y’all thought! But here’s an awesome thing about being solidly in my mid-40s: I am all out of fucks to give about what anyone thinks of my fluffy, idiosyncratic ass. It took several weeks to really sink in after first realizing this a few months ago – that I could decide to just stop compartmentalizing myself and hiding half of it away from everyone. All it required was letting go of fear.

I began working in hospice in 2006 and that’s where I saw my first dead person show up smack dab in the middle of a session at a patient’s beside.  Standing politely by the foot of the bed, he was very specific about why he was there, and relayed information quite pertinent to the patient’s situation. It happened again, and then again a few days later with a different patient, and then I couldn’t shut it off.  There is of, course a lot more to this period of my life, but that’s a story for another time.

In 2007 decided I needed to open up to other realities and approaches; I tried Angel Therapy Practitioner Training, Energy Psychology, Ericksonian Hypnotherapy and The Aspen Psychic Development Program.  I eventually became a Reiki master teacher, which frankly sounds redonculonk to me, so I just say that I practice Reiki.  I met so many lovely people along the way. Inspired, I did every gallery reading/practice session/playgroup I could squeeze into my schedule, and for a time even read Tarot cards and did intuitive readings at a metaphysical bookstore.

Just as things were starting to take off in 2011, I quit. Why? I got scared. I felt exposed, “outed” and way beyond my comfort zone, even though I only provided readings pseudonymously and making no mention of my other credentials. And it had gone really, really well.  I loved being able to freely share information with clients that I wouldn’t in a million years dream of saying in a therapy session; I felt uplifted and aligned not only with Spirit but with my very own soul. Just as word was getting out here in Denver, I stopped, shut it down. Too scary, because I was still living in fear. Happy as I’d ever been in my professional life, but terrified of people really seeing what I am.

A life lived in fear is a life half-lived. 2014 brought many challenges and changes in the professional realm as well as in regards to my health.  I quit a position I’d held for four years with no clear plan in mind and floundered in trying to figure out what made my life meaningful and nurtured my spirit.  I changed to a less emotionally taxing line of clinical work and threw myself back into university teaching. After a 6-month-long Dark Night of the Soul, I finally decided it was too painful to remain closeted any longer. I reasoned; if it’s good enough for Judith Orloff, Doreen Virtue, M. Scott Peck, and Clarissa Pinkola Estes, it’s good enough for me.

All the abovementioned folks are mental health professionals who at some point realized that there was far more to helping people than just talk therapy; there was the world of Spirit, of the connection to the divine, of the deep need for human beings to have a sense of connection, purpose, identity even beyond the mundane, to account for their anomalous experiences and to explore them in a safe, non-judgemental environment. To work towards deep knowledge of Self and the outer limits of consciousness while not forsaking others, while increasing their capacities for loving and being loved. To find one’s place in the stars.

And now I’m at a point in my life and career where I no longer care if anybody likes what I do or believe or say. I’ve made my bones, gotten my patch. I have nothing to prove anymore by hiding this part of myself, and in fact I feel I now have something to lose by continuing to hide it. I don’t run around touting myself as a medium or clairvoyant or Reiki master teacher, but I’m finally comfortable admitting that these things are every bit as much a part of my identity as being a psychologist, daughter, partner, devotee of Murder, She Wrote, part-time step-mom, auntie, sister, world-class belcher, and Midwesterner.

What I Do Now

What I do now is a stand alone process, held in sacred time and space, for the client to see for themselves, in the words of Clarissa Pinkola Estes what and how and why, according to their own soul’s sensibilities, for strength, knowing and healing. To create a more aerial view of people across the world, a way of looking at our commonalities that helps us see each other and that divine spark in all of us.

So: you can book a consultation. That’s what I’m into nowadays. This is the deal where I tune in to your energy and tell you what I’m seeing. No, it’s not like on The Witches of Eastwick or Charmed or Jersey Shore or whatever.  Or Poltergeist. Oh, no fuck that Poltergeist shit. It’s basically a conversation where we invite only the highest energies to speak and drown out my potty mouth.

Anyway. Energy is non-local, meaning I don’t have to be anywhere near a client to have a brief conversation, either telephonically or via email (maybe Skype later assuming its unrelated to Skynet what?). This kind of thing shouldn’t replace going to see other types of professionals for a definable mental or physical condition, duh.

It’s meant to be brief. I don’t want to hear from clients more than once every so often; too much threatens to encourages peeps to not trust their own judgements and intuitions, which I am very much against. Unlike psychotherapy, intuitive consultation involves a far more open paradigm of what causes change. The timeline is therefore open; there’s no pressure to resolve a longstanding issue or problem in a fixed number of consultations. The general goals of intuitive consultation are as follows:

1.  to increase understanding of oneself, one’s history, one’s relationships with others, or of the world aka Where You’ve Been

2. to promote a feeling of peace, clarity and calling aka Where You’re Going

3. to foster a sense of interconnectivity and empathy for all sentient beings, by recognizing that animating force shared by all of us, but which is far greater than us and contains everything we need in order to heal ourselves

4. to promote right action – healing the world

5. to increase the higher energies and God/dess’ presence in the world by inspiring one to be his or her best self

6. to bring you right down to the bone of who you are

7. to serve as a clarion to call back your Spirit

8. to help bring balance to The Force – are you paying attention?

9. to respectfully remind us that all life passes by

That’s pretty much it. You can still seek out psychic folk who will tell you all about your lottery numbers or what horse will win the Preakness, or who do will promise to cure your bunions using rainbow farts and unicorn crystals. That’s fine, but that’s not what I do. I’m an intuitive who happens to be a shrink. My stance is similar to what I do in my other life; first, harm none. You have the added benefit of hearing my astute verbiage, forged in the rarefied fires of 800 years of graduate school education; that’s the “lagniappe” or something extra part. Well, that and my usual profanity stuff.

I’ll figure out the rates/fees stuff later. Go in peace, my friends. I am who I’ve always been, only more so.


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2015: The Year of the Ding + Some Confessions

The Hypnotic Eye - Trailers From Hell

Hello, cats and kittehs!

I’ve been seeing lots of New Year’s resolutions across the inturdwebz in the last couple weeks, and while I think it’s awesome to make life goals, this whole resolution thing kind of robs us of living in the moment.

Why not wake up each day and decide to live in a mindful, dedicated way?

The whole January 1st resolution deal strikes me as predictable and perhaps overly self-critical.  I’ve certainly made a few in the past, mostly involving comically underused gym memberships, bellydancing class fiascos, and somewhat grandiose plans involving painting a gigantic hypnotic eyeball on the garage door. Failures, all.

You know what works for me? The little things. Those unglamorous (fie!) moment-by-moment decisions that lead to positive changes. And making a commitment.

A resolution is a solution, an answer, a determination in the sense of verdict. A commitment is more of a dedication, dedication, duty, or responsibility type of thing. They sound a lot alike, but this time of year makes their difference quite apparent.

A resolution is a one-shot deal, a kind of event. A commitment is more of a process, something to which you dedicate yourself, and therefore lends itself to a more ongoing sort of duration.

In a few weeks’ time, those folks out there who have made a vurryexciting and vurry social-media’d resolution to hang out at 24hr Fitness, gripping those elliptical levers like grim death, will likely fail, whereas those folks who’ve committed themselves to doing one or two small things each day to improve their physical fitnesss are far more likely to still be at it.

Confession #1: I used to be a Shape magazine junkie. Oh my Lort yes. I would eagerly scan each month’s edition, looking for the “Before & After Success Story” who most closely resembled my perennially Before sitch. And you know what? Those fuckers didn’t have a single magic elixir among them. Assholes. What they did have: the very unsexy daily committment to healthier eating, more activity, lots less negative self-talk. Boom. And I hated them for it.

Confession #2: In 2008 I posted a metric assload of utter BS regarding my many and rather superficial plans for the year. Result? I managed to keep my vehicle running, and that’s about it.

Confession #3: I’m a recovering list-maker. Making lists allows me this really addictive illusion of control over my life, that when I cross or check something off, that I’ve really accomplished something meaningful, when in fact what I’ve done is: check something off a list, albeit with a frisson of shivery excitement. Wheeeee!

Confession #4: Every year since 2010 when I made a deep commitment to my higher self to not only use my intution but to pay some goddamned attention to it, I cheat a little when it comes to envisioning the year ahead.  And when I’ve remembered to do it, it pays off.

Stay tuned for the next exciting episode, where I assplain to you what the helly helle I’m talking about.  In the meantime, keep rockin out, keep it real, just keep livin’ in the style of Matthew McConaugheyeyuuuy. If you so choose.

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Oh Mah Gah, I’m Back Again

Undershirts! Undershirts! Undershirts!

Undershirts! Undershirts! Undershirts!

I haven’t been on this thing in a minute. Mostly because the few times I’ve gotten on here and opened a page, the intro lyrics to the old Highlander TV show would play in my head, in their entirety.  This would then lead to a lot of nostalgia for the 1990s, but not, I repeat NOT for the high-waisted pants so popular then. Oh my Lort, no.

My life has changed considerably since the heyday of AskDrDing. For starters, I moved from Houston back to Denver, and changed my career path after toiling away in various institutional-type settings, opening up a small private practice and returning to teaching. I broke it off with the Beyoncé.  I had a sprinkler system installed in the backyard.  I lost a bunch of weight in 2011 but then, yay, found part of it in 2012 when my Achilles got all bitchazz on me. Learned they still make Big League Chew.

In 2012 I bought the vehicle of my dreams, a janky, to’ up 2004 Land Rover Discovery. I attempted and failed at 2 more NaNoWriMos. Traveled a bunch.  My beloved Pooparella became ill with cancer and died in 2013. I stopped writing in the 3rd person. Reconnected with many dear friends from the olden times. Learned to cook things other than Tater Tot casserole. By which I mean salads. Shacked up with a wonderful new fella, who I have yet to nickname.

Rediscovered* my spirituality.  Bought new furniture.  Started doing Tarot card readings again. Made a fuckton of apple butter. Endured the deaths of three people close to me.  Mourned intensely. Resumed having visions and dreams. Made new friends. Learned that I’d been wearing the wrong bra size for 20 years.  Realized I no longer feel the need to hide or qualify my belief  in the transcendence as well as the immanence of the soul. Became addicted to True Detective and Words With Friends. Bought a steam vacuum and used that fucker.

It’s a rich tapestry, people. I’ve started putting together some YouTube videos. I’ve got other projects in the works as well.

No more butlers. Or careless talk of pushpins. Or bids for world domination.

It’s all about healing the world, baby. Immanentizing the eschaton.

Things there will still be: drag queens, glitter, profanity, sarcasm, toots, incisive commentary on the nature of human existence and whatnot.

Stay up, players. Send me your questions. Ding out.

*Yas. I got some splaining to do here.

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And just for fun:

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Posted in Housekeeping, Spirit | Tagged | 6 Comments

Blockade Runner, Not Like Rhett Butler

Bonus: I also bring you the wreckage of what was once Eddie van Halen.


So here I lounge, with a busted up Achilles tendon, bilateral plantar fasciitis and a resurgent case of bursitis in my hip.  What this means is that by law I must now watch 17 episodes of the following television programs, based on my Suddenly Acquired Right To Bitch Nonstop About My Goddamn Lumbago*.  I can also eat unlimited amounts of Werthers Originals, wear a sweater when it’s like 96F outside, and throw some cats atcho haid.


Murder, She Wrote

The Golden Girls

Mystery! on PBS

The Love Boat/Fantasy Island double header (counts as one show, I took a poll)


Nah, seriously you guys.  I have writer’s block.  Write me some convoluted letters so I can tell you what to do.  FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES.


*I don’t have this.  Yet.

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Stay Gold, Ponyboy

Wow that’s a lotta denim crotches and winsomeness right there, running wild on the streets of Tulsa in “the Sixties” a time which apparently included some proto-mullets.

I’d like to take this time to answer any questions you have about either the movie or the book “The Outsiders”.  We can focus mostly on denim, hair grease, and why so much fuckin’ unrelenting bad, terrible shit had to happen to poor little Johnny (played by a superlatively greasy and adorably teeny-tiny Ralph Macchio), and also we can debate why Matt Dillon was allowed to act ever again, especially in the artsy-fartsy Rumblefish, which was actually filmed in black & white so that, you know: undershirts.

Rumblefish consists of a pouting badboy in a mullet, a fake Zen 80s dancey knife-fight gangbanger older brother, and: Undershirts! Undershirts! Undershirts!

At some point we’re going to delve a bit further into why all of the required “teen fiction” I was made to read when I was but a callow adolescent lass was dark, overly dramatic, and belabored, featured mostly uptight white dudes trying to not sell chocolate or fail out of prep school or get their asses pulped by the Socs, and was full of the taunting.

Oh, the taunting!

The lesson in all this is: don’t be at a Catholic boys’ school in the first place if you can help it. Well, that and don’t wear sportscoats. Ever.




Posted in Intellectual disenfranchisement, Memories, Reflections, Retro 80s | Leave a comment

High Res Tatooine, Y’all!

So no shit, there I was, on this girl geek culture website called The Mary Sue, when lo and behiney, I found this groovy post about this dude’s Star Wars mural that is also a hidden picture puzzle.

If you’re into such things, you should check out Ulises Farinas’ website and unleash hell upon your retinas.  Makes me wish I had one of those gigantic Mission Control-style monitors so I could better pick out what I think may be a homeless Shrek.

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Posted in Good Stuff, Vomit-Spewing Aliens | Tagged , | 2 Comments