As an intuitive, people often ask me, “What’s it like, then?”

Being a spirit healer and empowerer brings me many rewarding, goosebumpy and moving moments. But as in most jobs, there are also downsides. One of the challenges is when people expect that as an intuitive, I know absolutely everything about everybody all the time. This is not true. Even us psychics have our blonde moments. This was one of mine . . .
It was a dark and snowy night. New Year’s Eve to be precise. A special events company had hired me for the third year in a row to do mini-psychic readings in Whistler at their First Night. Diane, a psychic client of mine who lived in the resort kindly offered me accommodation for the night.
“Our house is right off Easy Street, Corral Place,” Diane told me over the phone. “A green house, middle of the cul-de-sac. If you get here after midnight, Chris and I will probably be asleep but I’ll leave the door unlocked. You can sleep in the den. Go left at the top of the stairs. I’ll leave some bedding on the fold-out for you.”
“Thanks, Diane.” I said, grateful. Finding a hotel on New Year’s Eve in Whistler might have been impossible. “If I don’t see you, Happy New Year.”
On that cold night, I sat in a small tent in the center of Whistler Village alongside a huge propane heater which in the sub-zero temperatures was supposed to prevent me from turning blue with hypothermia. A steady stream of bulbous cortex-jacketed tourists crammed themselves inside the tiny tent and stood precariously close to the flaming heater while waiting patiently for their free five-minute reading with yours truly.
After three stints of forty minute sessions and seeing my own plumes of breath as I offered predictions, I was a little tired. At midnight when my last client left, I was oh-so ready to retreat to Diane’s house and fall into bed. But as I emerged out of the tent, a good friend hailed me and invited me to join her in a post New Year’s drink. Shaking with cold, I opted for hot chocolate.
An hour and a half later, warmed up but even drowsier, I climbed into my car and drove the two miles to Corall Road. The roads were lit but the snowy drifts obscured the house numbers. I parked in front of the house and dragged my overnight bag out of the car, stumbling down the snowy path to the back door. The porch light was on. The door opened. Thank God. All was well.
I tiptoed up the stairs. Underneath the door in front of me, a yellow slit of light till shone. There was a low murmur of voices. Diane and her husband must still be awake. I turned to the left and found the glass door to the den. When I opened it, I was dismayed to see that no bedding had been laid out. Diane must have forgotten. Oh well.
The bed didn’t look like a fold-out or too comfortable but I decided to get out of my psychic outfit and use my coat for a blanket. I was just about to remove my top when there was a gentle knock at the door.
A forty-something man stood there.
“Hello,” I beamed, and frantically tried to remember Diane’s husband’s name.
“Hello.” He gave me a quizzical look. “Who are you?”
“Oh.” I smiled. Diane must have neglected to tell him I would be staying the night. “It’s okay. I’m a friend of Diane’s. She said I could crash here tonight.”
“Diane?” He shook his head. “Who’s Diane?”
“Uh, your wife?”
“My wife’s name is Sarah.”
“I think you’re in the wrong house.”
Oh no! “But . . .”
“I think you mean Diane and her husband Chris? They live across the street.” He indicated with his head. “That big green house.”
I peered out of the den window and looked across the lighted cul-de-sac. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”
Now, probably wouldn’t be the best time to tell him that I was a professional psychic. “The door was unlocked . . ..” I murmured, feebly.
“Just glad you’re not a burglar,” he said quietly and moved away.
And I’m glad that you don’t have a ferocious Rottweiler or that we are not in a place where you might have shot me first and asked questions later,” I thought.
After I repacked my bag, and crept back along the short corridor, I saw that their bedroom door was slightly ajar. Sarah was lying in bed appearing angelic in her white nightie. We simply smiled at each other. Embarrassed, I tiptoed back down the stairs, across the street . . . and into the right house. There in Diane’s home, at the top of the stairs was the den, complete with fold-out, clean, warm bedding and a welcome note.
The next morning, over coffee, muffins and laughter, Diane, Chris and I agreed that if I was going to wander into stranger’s houses at midnight, Whistler was probably the safest place to do it. And perhaps being (kind of) blonde, in my non-psychic moment, made me a little less threatening.
But it is comforting for me to acknowledge that even though I am supposed to know everything, I don’t. I’m really oh-so-human and just like everyone else with intuition─and we all have it─ I make mistakes.