Does anyone remember Psychic Sylvia Browne? She would appear on the Montel Williams Show from time to time to give her predictions for the upcoming year or to use her “psychic ability” to tell a family what happened to their loved ones.
As a kid, sitting my great grandma Henrietta’s floor and watching Montel, I thought good ‘ol Sylvia at least looked like a psychic, even if I wasn’t buying what she was selling. Even as an impressionable young kid, I had enough sense to find her entertaining and an authority on absolutely nothing. Google her track record sometime. She wasn’t very good at her so-called job.
I didn’t have an opinion on psychics one way or another until I was in college. I became friends with a girl who lived on my floor that we still call “Sapphire” because she loves the gemstone and always has something sapphire – real or fake – on her person. She gives, quite possibly, the best advice out of everyone I know.
In college, a group of us were having lunch in the now demolished UC when our friend Ashley started telling us about some trouble her sister was having with her new home. She and her husband, along with their young son, had moved in about six months earlier and been miserable ever since. The house itself was great. It was a bit of a fixer upper, exactly what they were looking for, in a great neighborhood. It had a big lot to be located in the heart of the downtown area of their city, and they were having a ball remodeling.
Except strange things kept happening. Doors would slam. A strong smell of cologne would waft through the house. Their child became clingy, afraid to sleep in his room because of “that man.” Her sister said she felt “off” when she was home, like something was sucking the energy out of her. Ashley was perplexed and beginning to worry about her sister. She was also admittedly a little intrigued by her sister’s seemingly haunted house.
Sapphire had been quiet throughout the whole story. As Ashley wrapped up, Sapphire asked “Does your sister have a painting of a horse near the stairs?” Ashley hadn’t visited the new home yet, but knew her sister had a painting of a horse. At Sapphire’s prompting, she texted her sister and asked about the painting. Her sister sent back a photo a few minutes later of the painting hanging by the stairs.
From there, Sapphire begin to tell us detail after detail about Ashley’s sister’s home, a place she had never been, in a city she had never visited. She started with the layout, then told about the home’s history. At some point, Ashley called her sister and put her on speaker. I skipped Stats, so wrapped up in what was happening that I didn’t want to leave.
Sapphire told Ashley’s sister of a man who had been murdered there years earlier, not in her home, but in a home that had stood on the lot before the one she was living in now had been constructed. The home had been burned down after his murder. The “man” her son kept talking about was the same one who had been murdered. He was angry that his life and his home had been taken and didn’t want anyone to live happily on his land. He intended to make them miserable.
Ashley’s sister hung up the phone and began to research the property, going further back than what they had from the real estate records when they bought the home. Sure enough, a murder and fire had taken place more than seventy years ago on their lot. At Sapphire’s advice, they had someone come in and bless the home – think holy water sprinkling and everything – and as far as I know, still live there quite happily, no angry man to be had.
Sapphire made me believe in psychics. She doesn’t like to be labeled as a psychic, however. She doesn’t do readings, and she has made it very clear that she isn’t a “magic 8 ball.” She kept her “gift”to herself until that lunch outing, simply because she doesn’t see it as a big deal and doesn’t want people asking her to tell them every little detail about their futures. She merely felt an urge to help Ashley’s sister, and trusted us enough at that point to share with us.
While we respect Sapphire and don’t pepper her with questions, she occasionally supplies us with a little tidbit of information. Once, in mid-conversation over the phone, she interrupted me and asked what I was doing in December. It was August, so I made a smart comment about “probably celebrating Christmas.” She told me she saw a calendar with December on it and that the “flood gates” were going to open for me. Used to her little warnings and insights, I shrugged my shoulders and got us back on topic.
In December that year, I had a job offer out of the blue, the opportunity to move from Nashville to Knoxville, received both an unexpected raise and a substantial bonus at my then current job, and had not one but two old boyfriends come out of the woodwork, asking to date again. Flood gates indeed.
Sapphire once told me over email that I was going to meet a “blue-eyed guy with a dog in the middle of a field.” Sure… Because I spend so much time in fields. Months later, I met a blue-eyed boy with a dog in the middle of a field. Nothing became of it aside from a bit of flirty conversation, but chalk up another one for Sapphire. I had forgotten all about her heads up until I was driving home that evening.
Would you believe we are only now getting to the actual point of today’s post?
Years ago, I had a vivid dream that has stuck with me throughout the years. I never remember my dreams. I remember bits and pieces of them, if anything. An ex-boyfriend walking along the road by my house. Sitting on porch steps with a band I can’t actually identify now. Going back in time with my mom. Weird snippets that make no sense.
It was the spring of 2008, a few months before I moved to Tennessee. I still lived at home. I fell asleep reading my history textbook. I dreamed, in great detail, of a guy walking into my bedroom. He was tall and handsome in a non-conventional sort of way. He had messy brown hair and blue eyes and I knew him. I just – knew him. I had never seen this guy before – and I haven’t seen him since – but I knew him.
That was the extent of my dream. He walked into my room, stood at the foot of my bed, and just smiled. That was it. Eventually, as I woke up, he faded away into whatever place dreams go when you wake from them. But, I have never forgotten that image.
I hadn’t talked to Sapphire in a few weeks. Her father has been ill and she lost an uncle recently. I emailed her a week or so ago to ask her how she was and a back and forth exchange of emails to catch one another up on life followed. At the end of an email about her nephew’s latest toddler phase, she added:
Oh, hey! Who is the dreamy tall guy with the messy brown hair? I think he has blue eyes? I know you said you aren’t dating anyone seriously at the moment, but I keep getting an image of you and this guy.
Because she is her, I told her about my dream. I’ll leave it at that, but if I end up marrying a tall guy with messy brown hair and blue eyes, she will be the blonde (well, maybe – her hair color changes a lot…) bridesmaid, standing beside me with a giant smirk on her face because she was right.
Trust me when I say she isn’t always right.
And trust me, too, when I say I’m not going to be going out in search of a brown haired, blue-eyed tall guy. After all, I have a date with an average height blonde tonight.
Do you believe in psychics? Have you ever had a dream you can’t shake? This sort of stuff fascinates me – let’s talk about it in the comments!