by Jane Weiss
Dad was an incredibly handsome, black-haired, blue-eyed, gregarious man who became a well-known, prominent businessman during our school years. He was Chamber of Commerce president, school board officer, country club board member, and locally, a well-known champion golfer. Mother was a striking woman with auburn, naturally curly hair, full breasts, and narrow waist and hips. Having grown up on a farm, and generally being quiet and shy, she was uncomfortable with the country club crowd, but tolerated them out of deference to Dad’s natural fit with this social group.
Dad’s prominence as a businessman and civic leader conferred a certain social standing on our family in this sleepy little town, where anonymity was virtually impossible, and children’s behaviors were mysteriously reported to parents seemingly simultaneous with their occurrence! Given this scenario, there were clearly articulated expectations for Zahn children to live within narrow social parameters. In public, we were to be appropriately dressed with shoes polished—we were, after all, the shoe-man’s children. We were expected to achieve top school grades—even paid by my father (dimes for A’s, nickels for B’s)—and to never misbehave in class or speak disrespectfully to any adult.
Once out of grade school, we weren’t to be seen in the company of certain “elements” (notably, non-Caucasians), nor were we allowed to sit in cars with boys in front of the house or anywhere else for an “indecent” length of time. We were to do all our shopping in Fort Madison—not the surrounding towns of Burlington or Keokuk, to be good citizens, and support local businesses. We weren’t to frequent the public swimming pool—after all, we could swim as much as we wanted at the country club—and were expected to learn how to play a passable game of golf. In keeping with the times, it was obvious that my sisters and I were to remain virgins and in due time marry fine young men—though not before completing college. If we broke the rules, all financial support would be cut off.
So, fearing my father’s wrath if I didn’t live within the rules, I held high expectations for myself to: maintain nearly straight-A grades, be chosen cheerleader, sing with an award-winning choral group, actively participate in church choir, be a Junior Achiever, earn a role in all class plays, receive Citizen of the Month and National Honor Society recognition, and work at the local hospital as a radiology secretary weekdays after school and on Saturdays. I had been conditioned to be a Zahn. That was what a Zahn did and who a Zahn was. So how could I be anything else?
Fortunately, I never did anything that brought embarrassment or disgrace to my family. Even twenty years later, I still held myself to the standards and expectations of being a Zahn. Was I now headed down the slippery slope of disregarding all my social conditioning?
The Risk of Truth
Even as I took comfort in Brian’s opinion that my friendship with Jane was not that unusual, there remained a gnawing concern that wouldn’t go away. Was the intensity between Jane and me blossoming into more than friendship? I often felt like a teenager in her presence or upon hearing her voice. I didn’t remember when I’d last felt that way about anyone. What if it was love—the kind of love that occurs between men and women?
It was 1981, and though occasional news items (mostly negative) and some books about homosexuality had surfaced in mainstream culture, I knew next to nothing on the subject, and knew none of those kinds of people. In spring, reports began appearing about a strange pneumonia that had been diagnosed in five people in Los Angeles, and a couple dozen people on both coasts who had reportedly developed Kaposi’s sarcoma, a rare type of skin cancer. These diseases usually occurred in elderly or very ill patients, but in current news reports, those affected were generally young and healthy. By June’s end, two of those with pneumonia, and eight with Kaposi’s sarcoma, were dead. The one common factor among all affected individuals was that they were homosexual males.
People began to speculate whether this wasn’t God’s punishment for homosexuals, who ignored Biblical teachings and lived sinful, shameful lives. As numbers of news events grew about the “homosexual diseases,” talk escalated about homosexuality. But even prior to this new spotlight on the subject, I was already unconsciously homophobic and could not imagine applying the ugly label of homosexual to Jane’s and my beautiful relationship. So what was it? The news stories and negative conversation about homosexuality at that time only served to convince me more deeply that I wasn’t one of those. Surely this couldn’t be what was happening. Couldn’t I simply be experiencing an incredible gift of this beautiful friendship at this stage of life? My journal writing from Sunday, June 20, 1981 reads:
“The dawning of a relationship in adult years is often the turning point in opening new dimensions of the self… . The world expands and deepens, and something inside each person waiting to be born is given full assent… . The relationship initiates a process of creation and life where anything is possible, a friendship filled with mystery, a sense of the wonder of life, and a constant vibrancy.”
(From Clark Moustakas, Turning Points)
Enough said!
And from June 25:
Shared with Jane tonight Moustakas’s writing about a developing relationship, and wanting to know all, everything, now! Had wondered how she would hear that. But I needn’t have given it a thought. She not only heard it, but it all fits for her as well.
Yet there’s a backing-off in Jane, too. She’s never had a relationship like ours, and she has fears. She started to articulate some of them—I couldn’t capture them here—will need to talk some more. I’ve never had a relationship like ours, either. I only know it’s good, right, meant to be, and that I’ve been led to her for a purpose. If there’s any backing-off on my part, it’s so as not to overwhelm Jane.
But no matter how much reassurance I sought or was given, being drawn—seemingly involuntarily—into Jane’s and my relationship remained disconcerting to me. I was willing to place it above most anything else, including work, family, and hobbies. Desperation grew to make sense of it all, yet I couldn’t imagine how that might happen. In my typical analytical approach, it seemed as if all means of understanding were exhausted. Then one day at work, as I shared with my friend Felicia questions about my preoccupation with Jane, she suggested, “Why don’t you see a psychic?”
Though I was at a place in life when I could at least entertain the idea of spiritual beings offering guidance from another plane, for many years in my religious upbringing the thought of hearing directly from a spiritual realm would have seemed preposterous.
According to family members, I was brought to church as soon as I was able to sit up in a high chair. My earliest memory goes back to first grade when Brenda, Penny, and I walked eight or ten blocks to the west-end Methodist Church in Fort Madison every Sunday. In summer, we walked to church daily for three weeks of Bible study. There, we dutifully memorized scripture and recited it back to earn stars on our attendance records. I took all of this teaching quite seriously, and excelled, as I was used to doing in academic studies.
In junior high, I became a regular at Sunday night youth fellowship, and by high school, I sang alto in the choir every Sunday. I was absorbing a great deal about faith, belief, and the basis of these within Methodist theology and doctrine. I couldn’t have imagined asking a psychic to run interference for me at this point.
I didn’t really appreciate all I’d learned until becoming involved in conversations with freshmen classmates at the women’s Catholic college I attended. I was disturbed that I couldn’t reconcile beliefs and doctrine that differed so significantly from faith to faith. If all religions emanated from one God, how did interpretations become so varied? Seeing the contradictions that existed for only two Christian denominations—Catholic and Protestant—I imagined such inconsistencies must be greatly magnified when considering all religions of the world. In my twenty-year-old wisdom, I couldn’t continue to hold beliefs that seemed to have been thought up by individuals with enough ability to write books about them and sufficient charisma to create followings
.
By late college years and through graduate school, I turned from organized religion to philosophy, metaphysics, and spiritual reading of all types. I studied reincarnation in world thought, eastern philosophy, transcendentalism, and bits of Buddhism. I took a graduate course entitled Anthropology of Religion, which analyzed the history, social structure, scientific, and spiritual understandings of multiple cultures at the time they were birthing the major world religions. While I was fascinated with the variety of ways to view and think about humankind’s purpose on earth, I became even less inclined to settle into any single belief system.
Very simply, I trusted that God was good, loving, and resided within all beings—not vengeful, punishing, and existing only in the ethers. I came to believe humans were essentially good, were not born with mortal sin, and that evil acts were the result of man’s separation from his core, from God. I became fascinated with the idea that groups of souls often reincarnate in the same time period and in geographic or relational proximity, for purposes of mutual learning, soul agreements, or karmic issue resolution. And that souls not yet reincarnated in physical form could indeed provide spiritual guidance to others in physical form.
I wasn’t put off by Felicia’s comment that I go see a psychic. Fortunately, she had laid groundwork for that earlier. On a Monday morning three or four years prior, I had shared with Felicia our family doings over the weekend and asked, “So, how about you? Did you do anything fun or interesting?”
“I sure did. I went to see a transpersonal psychologist for a reading.”
“What in heaven’s name is a transpersonal psychologist? And what’s a reading?”
Excited by my interest, she eagerly launched into a description of the whole process. She explained that the individual she saw had an ability to enter a deep state of consciousness. In that state, he could access a source of wisdom that for most of us lies outside of our awareness. This wisdom purportedly comes from a source referred to as “the guides,” or loving spirit beings. She elaborated further. Everyone supposedly has spirit guides who oversee and protect those of us on earth. Some religions acknowledge these spirits as guardian angels. There are people who can directly access the guides for information and advice, and they are called by various names, such as psychics, intuitives, sensitives, or transpersonal psychologists. These individuals can serve as go-betweens for those who haven’t yet refined their own capabilities, so information from their guides can still be accessed. Felicia said this was why she asked this transpersonal psychologist to do a reading for her.
“You should do it sometime,” Felicia advised. “It’s really fascinating.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. But, by the way, what’s that guy’s name?”
“Ron Scolastico. He has a Ph.D. in humanistic psychology and human communications. He was a professor at the University of Iowa, until recently. Now he does this work full time in Iowa City and around the country.”
Inwardly, in addition to the discomfort verbalized to Felicia, I was also intrigued by the possibility that one might be able to get advice from a spiritual realm. Felicia’s reading from Dr. Scolastico was in language so loving and caring, it most resembled a blessing. Thus, some of my initial fear was assuaged in this first vicarious exposure to the process. Yet I needed more time to think about how, if ever, I might engage in it and I didn’t want pressure to move in that direction prematurely.
In the years following Felicia’s and my conversation that day, I occasionally reconsidered seeking psychic help when going through difficult situations in my marriage, family, or work. Though I never followed through, it was tempting to think there might be higher-level spiritual guidance that was easily available. But I was leery something might surface that I wasn’t ready to deal with. The risk of that occurring always overshadowed the perceived benefit to be gained—always, that is, until questions about Jane began driving me to distraction. At that point, I heard Felicia’s question, “Why don’t you see a psychic?” in a whole new light.
The fear of not understanding or knowing what Jane’s and my relationship was about was far greater than the threat of any “truth” I might hear from a spiritual plane. As soon as she posed the question, I knew in my mind that this was the situation about which I would seek any information, no matter how frightening it might be. If this was a healthy relationship, I just needed to figure out how to make it less compelling. If it were unhealthy, that would bring other decisions I couldn’t even contemplate. But I had to know.
I explained to Jane, as nonchalantly as possible, that I had decided to see a psychic. To my amazement, however, she seemed eager to do so as well. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have been surprised, as I had witnessed her headlong plunge from Christian fundamentalism into New Age teachings. Her response, when I suggested she read The Sleeping Prophet, a book on reincarnation by Edgar Cayce, was a reflective or intuitive, “Here I go.” Finishing Cayce led to her reading all of Jane Robert’s Seth books, and then to Messages from Michael on parallel lives, simultaneous lives, and oversouls. I couldn’t even make my way through those. But she seemed ready to personally experience spiritual information sent from other levels, and appeared to have little hesitation about having a reading. We discussed questions we might ask Dr. Scolastico about our husbands, children, siblings, friends, and so on, and then both acknowledged that we would ask about each other and our relationship. I wondered if she was as disturbed about us as I was, but was scared to ask her the question directly. If this were just my issue, it would be awful if she knew it.
My sister Penny had once mentioned that she might like to see a psychic to ask about her husband, Gene, who remained missing in Vietnam, but she wasn’t sure back then how to go about finding someone reputable in Marshalltown, Iowa. When I called to tell her Jane and I were going to Iowa City to see a psychic and asked if she’d like to come with us, she jumped at the opportunity. Three weeks later, Jane and I headed off on a five-hour road trip to Marshalltown, where we’d stay overnight at Penny’s before driving another two hours to Iowa City with Penny the next morning.
What is Truth?
On a hot, steamy July morning, I awoke with great anticipation, ready for the first leg of our Iowa car trip. Brian had packed a lunch for Jane and me, with sandwiches, fruit, chips, and soda, just as he did when our family made trips to Iowa to visit relatives. I was about to spend two and one-half days with Jane, including hours alone with her in the car, where we could at least partially quench our insatiable thirst for conversation with each other.
Jane, too, was excited about such a concentrated time for talking—so much so that she had written out a list of topics she wanted to be sure we covered during the trip. We became so engrossed in one another’s conversation that I missed the interstate turnoff to Marshalltown—the only significant turn in a trip I had probably made fifty times before!
We arrived at Penny’s in the late afternoon, only slightly behind our intended schedule. She had prepared my favorite childhood meal: roast beef, mashed potatoes, home-canned creamed corn, and green beans with mushroom soup and onion rings on top. My other older sister, Brenda, and her husband joined us for dinner, and we all mused about what this experience with a psychic would be like for Penny, Jane, and me. Able to speculate, but not to come to any conclusions, we decided the best preparation would be to get a good night’s sleep prior to our required 7:00 a.m. departure for Iowa City the next day. Penny indicated that Jane and I would share a double bed in the guestroom.
When it was time to retire for the night, I brushed my teeth in the bathroom and changed into a pale-yellow gown and peignoir—the only decent sleeping attire I owned at that time. When I entered the bedroom, Jane was lying in bed on her side, with her head propped up by one arm, busily reading her list of questions for the psychic. As she glanced up, I was awestruck by how radiant and lovely she looked. A warm feeling surged through my body at the thought of being so close to her.
Jane drew in her breath and said q
uietly, “You look absolutely beautiful.”
I hadn’t yet gathered my wits to say anything. I blushed with embarrassment, noting silently that it had been many years since I’d heard a compliment of that nature. “So do you—and radiant, too.”
We talked briefly before agreeing to lights out, and I climbed into bed beside her. Turning on her side, facing me and raising up on one elbow, she reached over and hugged me briefly cheek to cheek.
“It’s been a wonderful day, and we have a big one coming up tomorrow,” Jane reminded me. “Good night.”
“Yes, it has. And we do. And good night to you, too,” were the only words I could find.
I could barely remember the last time I shared a bed with a woman—it was probably twenty plus years earlier when I was in college, spending the weekend at a friend’s house. Families were larger then, and homes smaller, so it was commonplace for girls to share bedrooms. For the last fourteen years I’d slept with Brian and, if I became chilled during the night, I cuddled up next to him for warmth. Horrified that in my sleep, I might do the same with Jane, I turned toward the wall with my back to her and lay as close to the edge of the bed as possible. Since it would have been quite embarrassing, however, to fall out of bed, I took mental note to only turn one direction, away from the edge, when needing to change positions.
I lay silently, relishing the glow I felt at being next to Jane and listening to her breathing. The space between us felt nearly electric, and I was careful to avoid moving any closer toward her side. I felt all tingly and excited, and couldn’t imagine how I’d ever sleep. But I lay very still, not wanting to disturb her. Next, I mentally reviewed my list of questions for the psychic the next morning. Finally, I resolved that the excitement I was feeling must be related to finding answers to the heavy questions I’d been carrying the last several weeks. With this thought, I was content to simply lie awake, cherishing the closeness of Jane and waiting for her breathing to shift into the deepening pattern of sleep.