My neighborhood coffee shop is haunted by a psychic. On Saturdays, a woman with wild, curly red hair inhabits an almost private table close to a front window, latte in hand and sign in tow: “Psychic Readings: 15 minutes for $20” There is almost nothing innately appealing about the woman or the sign… and yet, every Saturday that I’ve seen her there, I’ve been overcome with the urge to have my fortune told. What is it that draws us to the easy way out on knowing our future? Is it like those instant weight loss programs that seem so inherently appealing, yet are empty promises? Why are we so quick to get to the end point? And yet, it still appeals to me, that knowledge of what my future might hold. Maybe it’s the idea that perhaps my choices in life could be confirmed as the “right” ones, or the thought that maybe, the psychic will tell me I’m on the “right” path… or, maybe, try to steer me in a different direction. Somehow, life is uncertain enough to a point that I’d like the independent confirmation that my choices are all right, that I’m heading in the right direction, and not totally screwing up my time on earth. The instant confirmation or denial of my life choices would be such an easy path… an instant, supposedly irrefutable answer to life’s mysteries. And yet… Every week, it attracts me, but I never quite get to walking up to the table, plunking down the money, and having the answers spelled out for me. Somehow, I think knowing the answers would suck out some of the fun of the journey. If life is already mapped out, what happens to our impulses to make diverging choices? So, I’ll sit and wonder, daydreaming on my own about what my future will be as the mystery of each day is spread out before me in the dawn.
hitting the high note
stories of a scrabble-playing, good-food-loving, liberal, dramatic coloratura soprano making her way through the world
