Second Sight by Judith Orloff Read Free Book Online Page A

risk making a mistake.
    “That's okay. Just say the first thing that comes into your awareness. Don't worry about being right.”
    “I'm not sure,” I replied hesitantly, deciding to risk it. “I just see a house with pillars in front of it. Faded white or maybe beige.” While I didn't know if I was imagining the house or if it was real, my uncertainty was chipping away at my enthusiasm.
    “Stay with it,” she said, in the same neutral tone. “Pretend I'm not even here.”
    I desperately wanted a sign that I was on the right track, at least a little support or validation, yet none was forthcoming. I closed my eyes, about to give up, but what then came to mind was a memory I hadn't thought about for years. As a teenager, whenever life became difficult, I climbed to the top of the largest pine tree on our block. From the highest branches, I had a panoramic view of Westwood. Safely hidden from sight, I'd observe the city all the way from the high-rise Wilshire Boulevard condos in the east to the tall Bruin movie theater rower at the center of the village. Thus, when I wanted to be alone, to get away from everything, I often retreated to this protected place in my daydreams.
    As I remembered this special spot, my tension seemed to disappear and my body softened. Then, slowly, the images began to shift, one flowing effortlessly into the next. Within moments I was standing once more in front of what I was sure was Dr. Moss's home. I knew I was awake, yet unlike a daydream, the scene was startlingly realistic. The strangest part was that I was acutely aware of being at both her home and her office at the same time, equally present in each. It was as though two separate realities were being superimposed one upon the other, a notion that intellectually seemed impossible yet at some deep level felt almost second nature.
    As I moved closer to the entryway, I was astounded by the detail I was able to pick up. “I see a front door with a small window in it.” I focused on the façade of the house, and more images appeared, as if I were watching a slow-motion movie. With my eyes shut, the darkness provided a backdrop upon which each image was projected. But it was a very different experience from ordinary sight. A picture would appear upon the backdrop, frozen for a second or two as I viewed it. Then another would follow. I examined each of them closely, noticing subtle variations that in real life I would have missed. I was awe-struck by how rich these images were; they seemed to have a life of their own, like images in a brightly painted landscape or portrait.
    Soon my senses began to get overloaded: What I was seeing became almost too much to absorb. Abruptly, my logical mind took over and I started to analyze the images self-consciously rather than letting them flow, and the more I analyzed them, the fewer new impressions I got. Finally, they all faded and I fell silent, opening my eyes and glancing around the room. Dr. Moss asked me what had happened.
    “The house disappeared,” I conceded in frustration. I wanted to stop, to admit I wasn't capable of doing what she asked.
    “Don't worry,” she said, gently urging me to go on. “Take a moment to relax. Breathe deeply. Quiet your thoughts and then visualize yourself back at the house again, as if you're really there. Stay aware of any smells, sights, sounds, or images you pick up. But don't force them. Notice what they are and then let them go.”
    Once back in the silence, I found myself on a porch. “There are beautiful shrubs everywhere. The scent of jasmine is filling the air, and I can hear the sound of a lawn mower in the distance.”
    Dr. Moss motioned for me to go on. Now I could hardly contain myself. Finding that I could reenter the scene at will, smell fragrances, and observe the landscape, design, and architecture of a house I'd never seen was like discovering that I could fly. The limits of my capabilities seemed endless. For the first time I knew there