Introduction to Ebook - Mystics in the City

Dictionary.com defines a mystic as:

"A person who claims to attain, or believes in the possibility of attaining, insight into mysteries transcending ordinary human knowledge."

So all you have to do is believe in the possibility - and you can call yourself a mystic.

It's okay to talk about it these days. You can speak of mystical things and not be mocked.

Of course, you don’t have to live in the city to be a mystic, but the toughness of city life can be like sandpaper that helps you shine brightly.

I've had the pleasure of interviewing 23 people. Some are from the city and others visit; it doesn’t matter. I asked them all the same five questions:

1) What do you think happens after the transition? Or what do you hope happens?

2) Have you felt a friend’s presence since their passing? A sign, a coincidence, a dream, a feeling, a communication of some kind?

3) When a friend passes on, what have people said to you, or done for you, that made you feel better?

4) How have you comforted others? What have you said or done?

5) Any questions you'd like answered or mysteries you'd like solved?

Their responses include profound experiences, deep insights, humor, advice, and research. Each person's narrative is unique, and yet there are connecting threads.

In 1987 I was newly working at The New York Daily News and my mother passed on. I kept thinking about her.

When I was a little girl, she used to read me stories from the Raggedy Ann books. Later on in life, knowing how much I loved those classic tales, she tracked down a few out-of-print books (pre-Internet days) and gave them to me for my birthday. Raggedy Ann was a playful connection for us.

Every time I went over to her Gramercy Park apartment that she loved so much, I would take the Raggedy Ann doll - when Mom wasn’t looking - and rearrange her in a different position on the windowsill.

After her funeral, I came home and wanted to boast about how my generous colleagues at the News gave an enormous bouquet of flowers - bigger than anyone else had given - but I realized I could no longer pick up the phone to tell her. I washed my face and cried into the towel.

A few months later, I began to write a news story about the Soviet Union and United States working together on a cultural event. The people of each country were reaching out to each other and getting along. That's exactly the kind of story she would love and I started to think she was guiding me with it. Her mission in life was to "connect the people of the world" regardless of what their governments might be doing.

The piece came together so easily. Every time I would start to think, "I'm imagining all this; she's not really helping me," then something else would happen to restore my faith.

For example, I asked my editor how many words it should be and he said, "Around 444." I was shocked because that number has a personal significance. To me it means that all is well and I'm being guided. (Many times I awake from a profound dream and the clock says 4:44am. Or when walking down the street, I'll get struck with a positive thought, followed by seeing that number. It's uncanny.) It's also a very strange word count for an editor to give you. So I stopped doubting Mom’s presence at this point.

On the day the story came out, I arrived at the office and the photo editor told me that for some unknown reason, none of the pictures the assigned photographer took at the event came out right. He was shaking his head in disbelief because there was no explanation for it. He said he threw in a non-related photograph above my article instead, just to fill the space.

I grabbed a paper to see what he meant, and was stunned by what I saw: a picture of Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy waving at me!

As I took a deep breath and tried to maintain my composure in the newsroom, I couldn’t help but wonder: How did she get that picture in there? Or was it all just some weird coincidence? Where has she gone and how is she having so much fun? What exactly goes on behind that veil? And so my search began.