ELLE magazine did a recent feature on a relatively well known New York psychic medium Lisa Kay – well worth reading for skeptics, cynics and the curious but not yet convinced.
The piece featured the story of a reporters journey from grieving to recovery, after the loss of her husband to blood cancer and the searching for spiritual significance thereafter.
Check out the full article at the link following the short excerpt below, including an interview with Dr. Julie Beischel, the lead scientist at the Windbridge Institute. (they are the leading researchers into after death communication, and medium readings in the country right now)
Cool stuff! (and well worth reading regardless of what you believe as well)
“He’s here,” she said. “He wants to talk now.” Then, as if she were talking to someone else: “I like to get paid first.” Then, addressing me, “Can you even do this now? Are you free?” Terrified and exhilarated, I said yes. This is how it began:
Lisa Kay: Who’s David? Who’s David? He has grown. He says, “He has grown.” Testing, trial control. He’s talking about goldfish. And marzipan. He doesn’t like it.
Lisa Chase: I have no idea what that means….
LK: Acknowledging James. He’s acknowledging someone named James. Are you writing this down? You should write this all down. Even if it doesn’t make sense now, it will later.
James, of course, was Peter’s brother. I was running around my house, looking for scraps of paper to write on. I found a bill from a local stationery store, forms sent home from Davey’s school, a confirmation for a flight to Atlanta. I was frantically scribbling on the backs of all of them, grateful I knew how to take shorthand notes from my years as a reporter, because she was talking so fast, her melodic voice—she once thought about pursuing a career as a singer—stopping and starting, darting from subject to subject.
LK: He’s talking about a ball. He says, ‘Find the signed ball in the bag and give it to David.’
While Peter was in the hospital, a good friend, knowing he loved the Yankees and particularly Joe Torre, their longtime manager, got Torre to sign a baseball—a talisman. But the day I brought it in, Peter shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “Put it away.” I didn’t know why it upset him, but I put the ball in his closet, in a canvas bag that I’d packed with his clothes and toiletries to bring to the hospital.