Sherlock would tell you that trusting your instincts is an elementary skill. I will tell you that he is right. How do I know (other than usually siding with wizards from London)? Because in the brief history of being me, there have been countless instances where impending dazzle or doom was predicted by that indescribable feeling near-about my gut (it is where information travels to after your brain has given up trying to make you listen). I have hence begun to trust and follow this clairvoyant traveler. But it isn’t always an easy trail.
For one, she (a politically correct instinct) can be awfully vague, especially if you don’t trust her. Last June, heading to the airport for a short trip prior to an eventual cross-country move, I experienced palpitations of the nature reserved for football managers staring at a scorecard zero at half time. The fluttering presented numerous grisly possibilities – passports left at home (checked), visas not appropriate (checked & yet, God have mercy), cocaine inserted in our luggage by an insidious man stepping off from a formulaic film reel (may his airport coffee be poisoned by piss, more than it is for everyone). Failing to find any reason for fear, I entered the departure area after pulling out two heavy suitcases and loading them on the trolley. The instinct, much to her chagrin, had been shoved aside. Following the customary check-in line crawl, it was only when our turn came at the counter that she (that smug villain inside my head) had a hearty laugh. One of the suitcases, instead of being full of necessary items for our new home in the desert city, was instead a suitcase packed to the hilt with winter clothes. It had fortuitously been set in the same room as the traveling suitcases before it was meant to sleep in the store room until further weather notice. In all the rush and frenzied flutter, I had not bothered to glance at the suitcases being loaded onto the car. During the journey to the airport when we could have turned around, lady instinct had failed to point me in the direction of the suitcases, as she is often want to do, telling me simply that something was wrong or about to be, but wanting me to trust and follow her to the answer. (In case you’re wondering about my sweaty life in a sweater, you can exhale easy knowing that it all turned out okay thanks to crazy co-ordination and possibly reckless driving that brought us the right suitcase in time). Phew!
In addition to being imprecise, the first instinct also has a taste for the macabre. While she might go into an overdrive when you tap in to check if that boy giving you the eyes is any good, she can also (and has done for me on more than one occasion) drop hints on accidents waiting to happen or already occurring. These are the kind we most like to ignore, for their violent content, overriding them with admonitions on feeling ‘so negative’. Of course she will once again not tell you enough to necessarily save you from it, but will have the last word with an “I told you so.”
However, there is one consistent element to her behavior – she sends the right signals when you’ve cleared the snow from the driveway., i.e., when you have miraculously (or Buddhistically, yes, that’s a word starting now & I call trademark on it) built connections with your inner whatever-you-want-to-call-it (mine is Mary Anne, because frankly, I don’t know her yet). In reality, she is always standing outside the house, waiting to be called in for some tea (which apparently lays open the doors to intuition through the pineal gland or what Descartes considered to be ‘the seat of the soul’).
Trouble with all of this is the same as with everything else in life – it is at the end all up to you, putting everyone, rather unfortunately for you, outside the circle of blame (you can invite people over to the circle of influence though). Once we understand the relevance of cultivating intuitiveness, it can be quite akin to gardening, with all the time required to tend to it, time spent away from a gardening app on your smartphone. This is among the greatest services we can do for ourselves, quieting down enough every day to listen to our voice (not voices – that should be reserved for the therapist sessions). Every so often it will then show up interesting bits that make us who we are and answer some, if not all, of life’s questions that come with multiple choice conundrums – Yes, No, Who’s to Say?